It was a talent, that. One Meredith had never mastered. And Cora seemed happy to discover that this talent had more honest applications than whoring.

A few reedy strains of music wafted over the din. As she made her way to the bar, Meredith spied Darryl in the corner, sawing away at his fiddle with more enthusiasm than skill.

Music, friendship, merriment, drink, flirtation—the Three Hounds was a nightly party of late. The community spirit pleased Meredith greatly, as did the influx of coin. The only thing missing from the scene was Rhys.

True to his words after church three weeks ago, Rhys had indeed been wooing her. In his own gruff, rough-hewn way. Though by night he camped out at the cottage site, he came down to the inn for dinner every evening, always bringing her some small treasure from the moor. Wildflowers were hard to come by in September, but somehow he’d conjured up a few. Other days he’d brought a sleek raven’s feather, or a polished stone from the stream. Once, during the turning of earth for cob, he’d found an odd little bronze clasp that looked worn by centuries. From the Romans’ time, they’d decided as they hunched over it in the light, turning it this way and that. If not earlier.

And then one night he’d come in late, well after dark, plainly exhausted from a long day of labor. He’d grasped her by the shoulders and pressed a warm, firm kiss to her forehead.

“Sorry,” he’d said. “That’s all I have today.”

That kiss had been her favorite gift of all.

And oh, how it made her yearn for more. But for all that his hard work and sweet gestures were chipping away at her own reluctance, she’d yet to make a dent in his. No matter how she tempted him, directly or indirectly, after his dinner he always left and retreated to the high moor. It disappointed her, and not only because she’d much rather have him sleeping in her bed. Rhys was missing out on all this nightly camaraderie. He would never truly become a part of the village and be accepted by the locals if he didn’t mingle with them outside of work. Give them a chance to take his measure, not just his coin.

Was he even giving her that chance? Even in their private conversations, Meredith realized, he always encouraged her to do most of the talking. It was only just becoming clear to her that for all she knew about him, Rhys was a difficult man to truly know. What was it he’d said?

Like a damned boulder.

She’d yet to find his cracks.

“How are you faring?” she asked Cora as she reached the bar. “Why don’t you go have a cup of tea in the kitchen? I’ll do the serving for a bit.”

“Are you sure?” Cora blew a stray hair from her face. “Shall I make enough for you, too?”

Meredith shook her head. “No, but my father might like a spot of tea brought up to his room. And a slice of buttered toast, perhaps.”

“I’ll be glad to, Mrs. Maddox.”

Someone opened the door, and a cool burst of wind swept through. Meredith thought, not for the first time that evening, about Rhys sleeping out alone on the barren moor. Was he cold? Was he hungry? Was he safe? She couldn’t help but worry about him.

“Oh, Lord,” Cora muttered. “It’s him.”

A cheer rose up from the assembly. Meredith glimpsed Gideon by the entrance as the crowd parted around him. True to his word, he hadn’t interfered with the construction plans—he’d even helped on occasion, hauling wagonloads of lumber and straw, along with increased amounts of ale and foodstuffs to keep the workers fed. But Meredith suspected his increased presence in the neighborhood was mostly selfish in motivation. Gideon wanted to keep a watchful eye on his smuggled goods and his enemy.

Tonight, however, he appeared to be here to have fun. Wearing a devil-may-care grin, he worked the crowd with his usual charm.

“Don’t you like Mr. Myles?” she asked Cora.

“Doesn’t matter what I think of him. I can tell he doesn’t like me.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Struts around, orders me about.”

“You, girl,” Gideon called from across the room. “Look lively and pour me a brandy.”

“See?” Cora whispered. “And the way he stares at me …”

“They all stare at you.”

“Not like he does. I think he knows what I was. You know, before.”

Meredith bit her lip, wishing she’d never said anything to Gideon about Cora’s past. “Trust me,” she soothed, “it’s not that he doesn’t like you. He likes you too much, that’s all. You have the poor man turned arse over ears, and he’s scrabbling to pretend he’s still in control.”

Gideon approached the bar, eyeing Cora with a lustful gaze.

“What brings you in tonight?” Meredith asked.

“For one cause and another, I feel like celebrating.” His eyes never left the barmaid. “Thought I ordered a brandy.”

“I’ll pour it for you,” Meredith interjected. “Cora was just going off for her break.”

“Oh, was she now?” His jaw slid back and forth, as though he were chewing on a decision. “In that case …”

He turned, went to the largest table in the center of the room, and upended it with a spectacular crash. Meredith gasped, and Cora gave a little shriek. The men who’d been huddled on stools around it all leapt to their feet. Of course, this being Gideon, they didn’t argue back. But no one in the tavern—Meredith included—knew what the devil he meant to do.

Gideon shoved the now-vertical table to the far edge of the room, kicking the vacated stools to the sides as he went. Then he strode back to the bar. His boots echoed off the flagstones with each swaggering step. Meredith had known the man from childhood, but she’d never seen such determination in his eyes, nor such raw, open yearning.

“If Miss Dunn isn’t tending the bar”—in an explosion of agile strength, he vaulted the countertop and slid over to their side, landing between Meredith and Cora—“then she’s free to dance.” He swept her into his arms.

“Oh, la.” Cora’s cheeks blazed red.

Well, Meredith thought to herself. Wasn’t it romance the girl had been wanting?

“Tewkes!” Gideon called, his eyes never leaving Cora’s face.

In the corner, Darryl startled. “Aye, Mr. Myles?”

“That fiddle you’re holding. Play it.”

And play it he did, lurching into a wild reel of dubious melody.

“Now, then. Let’s see if you can keep step.” With a wide grin of encouragement, Gideon danced Cora right out from behind the bar and into the space he’d cleared at the center of the room.

The men crowding the perimeter roared their approval, hiding their envy with varying degrees of success. Meredith knew they were probably all wondering why they hadn’t come up with the idea themselves. Because they weren’t Gideon, of course. And even if they had thought of it, none of them were so ingenious, so crafty, or so devilishly arrogant as to try.

Gideon and Cora hadn’t made but a few sweeping twirls of the room, however, before the men’s collective intelligence drew a new conclusion. Cora might be taken as a partner, but there was one other woman in the room.

Several pairs of ale-merry eyes turned on Meredith at once.

“Oh, no,” she laughed as Skinner came toward her, his huge mitts outstretched. “No, I don’t dance.”

But Gideon’s outlandish display had emboldened them all. Despite her protests, Meredith found herself swept out from behind the bar and spun from partner to partner as Darryl’s frantic fiddling went on. The faster they turned her, the more gaily she laughed. In the center, Cora looked similarly flushed and breathless with enjoyment. Those who weren’t dancing clapped and stomped. Meredith began to fear the uproar would bring down the roof.

But then, Darryl’s fiddling died a quick, mournful death, and a fresh gust of night wind froze them all in place.

Rhys stood in the tavern door. Meredith briefly wondered if the man was capable of making anything other than a dramatic entrance. Was it his sheer size, or the intensity he exuded? It certainly wasn’t her imagination. Everyone in the room was transfixed.

Meredith rejoiced. His timing couldn’t have been better. Rhys could join the party, socialize with villagers, and perhaps even smooth things over with Gideon. Thanks to Cora, the smuggler was in good spirits tonight.

“Good evening, my lord.” Though everyone else in the room remained frozen, Meredith put out her hand and crooked her finger in invitation. “Come dance with me?”

“Another time perhaps.”

He staggered in from the night, wearing a strange expression on his face. His complexion was unnaturally pale. He looked just like the living phantom of Darryl’s stories.

With one hand pressed to the back of his head, he reeled to a halt. His glassy eyes shifted from Meredith to Cora and back. “Are either of you ladies handy with a needle?”

“Why?” Meredith asked.

“I’ve something that needs stitching up.” He pulled his hand from his head. In it, he grasped a wad of torn fabric, soaked through with blood.

At the sight, Cora shrieked. Gideon slipped a protective arm about her waist.

Rhys just stared at the bloodied rag for a moment, blinking.

Meredith started toward him. She knew that expression. Any tavernkeeper would.

He was going down, hard.

And before she could reach him, he did. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor, landing with a thud that rattled the candlesticks.

Chapter Thirteen

When Rhys came to for the second time that evening, he found himself slumped over a chair. The chair was backward. His legs straddled the seat, and his bare chest rested against the back. Another moment, and he’d recognized his surroundings as the kitchen of the Three Hounds. He looked down to see two of the eponymous animals curled at his feet.

He blinked, and they became four.

“Ah.”

The dogs’ ears twitched at his low cry of pain. All eight of them.

Someone was digging a needle into his scalp. His eyes told him it couldn’t be Meredith, because two of her were currently adding peat to the fire.

The heat from the blaze swam before his eyes and warmed his bones, but the smoke made him gag. Rhys swallowed hard. The last thing he wanted was to retch in front of her.

“Oh, Rhys. Thank God you’re awake,” she said, noticing his next wince of pain. She took a cup from the table and waved it under his nose. “Local gin? Cures all ills.”

At the smell, his stomach clenched. He declined with a careful shake of his head. “Just a drop of water, if you would.”

She offered him a battered tin cup, and he managed to take it in one shaking hand and lift it to his lips. “Sorry I interrupted the party.”

Meredith pulled up a stool and sat next to him. “You gave us a fright. What happened?”

“Thought I saw a light up at the ruins. I went up to investigate.”

“Alone? Unarmed?”

He nodded and took another sip.

“And … what did you find?”

Was it a trick of his bashed-in brain, or did he discern a strange note in her voice? As though she already had in mind the answer to her question.

A jab to his scalp sent the thought right out of his head.

“Just one more, my lord.” Cora’s voice, thin with concentration. “Hold very still, if you please.”

Rhys gritted his teeth against the pain. He’d known enough pain in his life that it was sort of like crossing paths with an old acquaintance in the road. The hurt came, he acknowledged it with a jerk of his head, and then they parted ways. “Found nothing but shadows, and caught a rock to the head for my trouble.”

“Did you see who did it?”

He laughed a little. Only a little, because laughing hurt like the devil. “Can a man see the wind? Could I grab hold of the mist? A gust of wind must have knocked a stone free. Those old walls are crumbling more with every gale.”