Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
“But I like the work here,” she protested. “I’m proud of what I’ve done with this place, and I’ve plans to do more still.”
“You could do far more as the lady of the manor.”
“Rhys … you’re being so naïve.”
His eyebrows rose. “Me, accused of naïveté. I must say, I never thought that day would come. I’ve a mind to engrave the date on a plaque.”
“You’ve forgotten what life’s like out here. Right now it’s a pleasant summer’s morn, but you must recall how winter gets. It’s harsh, lonely, desolate. You can’t actually want to live here again. And we’ve learned to survive without a lord. Just go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why the devil not?” Meredith certainly would, if she were Rhys.
“Circumstances would only pull me back. It’s fate.”
With a low groan, she propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands.
“You don’t believe me,” he said, leaning forward. “I know. But when a man treads the border between this world and the next as often as I have, he starts to see the hand of fate everywhere. Sometimes in bright flashes, other times subtler shades. It’s like discovering a whole new color, one most people just can’t see. But I see it.” He pulled her hands from her face. “When you look at me, your eyes shine with it. I’m telling you, this is meant to be.”
Her heart fluttered. “And what makes you so sure of that?”
“This.” He gestured at the breakfast laid out on the table between them. A few rolls, small earthenware crocks of butter and preserves. Two mugs of coffee and a dish of fresh cream. The plates were scattered randomly; crumbs dotted the checked tablecloth. The scene hardly looked like an omen of fate to her, but then—she thought she grasped his meaning. The warm light shone on them both with familiar intent, leaving them nowhere to hide their imperfections from each other. She hadn’t even pinned her hair properly this morning. To any casual observer, they would look like a couple having their thousandth breakfast together, instead of their first.
His warm gaze caught hers. “It just feels right, doesn’t it?”
It did. It did. It was the rightest thing she’d ever felt, and utterly terrifying.
“Don’t fight it,” he said. “Marry me.”
Don’t fight it? But he wasn’t fighting fair. He’d been gone for fourteen years, and now he strolled in one morning making promises to fulfill all his responsibilities and never leave again? Asking her and the village to abandon their hard-won security and place their futures right back in Ashworth hands? He offered a dream, but he’d force her to give up her safe reality to grasp it.
She just couldn’t take that chance. Not on the basis of one almost-kiss and some invisible glimmer of “fate.”
She forced herself to say the words. “No, Rhys. I can’t marry you.”
His eyes flared, and his hand balled into a fist. For a moment, he almost looked angry. Strange, after he’d remained so cool and collected before the riled-up villagers. Here was a flash of the Rhys she remembered from all those years ago: wild, angry, untamed. Irresistible.
Just a few seconds later, he’d suppressed that hot flare of emotion. His jaw relaxed, and he smoothed the tablecloth with his palm.
Of all the reasons why he needed to leave Buckleigh-in-the-Moor, this was the most compelling. She couldn’t bear to see this place beat the spirit out of him forever.
“Well.” She stood on weakened legs. “You’ll have a long day ahead of you.”
“That I will, Mrs. Maddox.” He looked resigned as he rose from the table. “That I will.”
“Shall I have Darryl saddle your horse?”
“No, no. I’ll let him rest today.”
She frowned with confusion. “So … you mean to stay another night, then?”
“I mean to stay permanently.”
Flustered thoroughly now, she sat back down. “Did you not hear me, my lord? I’m sorry if I was unclear, but …” God, did she even have the strength to refuse him twice? Once had been difficult enough.
He smiled and headed for the door. “Don’t worry, Merry Lane, I heard you. I know you said you can’t marry me. But I also know you will. Just not quite yet.”
After Rhys disappeared upstairs, Meredith kept herself busy. It wasn’t difficult. There was always work to be done, and this morning, the more mindless the task, the better. She’d only just cleared the breakfast table when Mrs. Ware came in to start the day’s cookery. There were tablecloths to iron and pewter mugs to scrub. Tomorrow afternoon the mail coach came through, and depending on the weather and condition of the roads, sometimes the driver stopped at the Three Hounds to rest the horses and allow passengers to take refreshment.
Before the noontime rush, she took a moment to rest. She picked up one of the newspapers Gideon had brought in the night before and opened it, smoothing the creased paper against the bar counter. Ostensibly the papers were for the inn’s guests, but Meredith was the only one who read them. She read them all, every page. All those years of the war, she’d scoured them for any mention of Rhys. In the weeks following a battle, she would sometimes find an account of his regiment’s bravery or a list of casualties that mercifully did not include his name. Today, it felt as though she should snap open the paper and find the headline RHYS ST. MAUR RETURNED TO DEVONSHIRE. Perhaps if she saw the words in print, she’d start to believe it was true. Though she doubted even the reporters of The Times could find a logical explanation for that scene over breakfast this morning. Perhaps the headline ought to read: IMPOVERISHED LANDLADY REFUSES LORD’S OFFER OF MARRIAGE.