even still here. Contrary to all her arguments and the application of common sense, he’d forged ahead with this cottage plan. Every night she’d thrown him flirtatious glances in the bar. Surely he’d come to his senses and leave any morning, she reasoned. She wanted one night with him first.
Last night had been the final indignity. He’d come in from another day of hard work up on the moors. Damp from the pump, but still glowing with the day’s exertion. Wildly attractive. He’d sat down at his usual table, eaten his usual three plates of food whilst enduring the suspicious glares and muttered curses of the villagers. Then he’d approached her at the bar to apprise her of the day’s progress.
“Finished fitting together the plinth today,” he’d said. “Now that the foundation’s done, I’ll start preparing the earth for cob. I’ll need to hire ponies from you tomorrow to haul up a load of straw. If all goes well, tomorrow I’ll be able to start the first rise.” He’d yawned the grizzled, lazy-yet-lethal yawn of a lion. “I think I’ll turn in early tonight, unless you need me.”
Oh, she needed him, all right. She’d wanted to lean over the bar and kiss that sleepy mouth, right in front of the whole room. The sweet, bloody fool was building a house of stone and earth with his own two hands. For her father. How could she not want to kiss him? How could she not want to do far more than that?
Instead, she’d whispered shamelessly, “Shall I come to your room after I lock up?”
And though he’d sucked in his breath, and his eyes had fair blazed with desire, he’d bid her a polite good evening and retreated upstairs. Alone.
Something had to be wrong down there. Red-blooded men—and Rhys was a fine specimen of a red-blooded man in his virile prime—just didn’t walk away from invitations that obvious.
Gradually, the room warmed with weak, yellow light. She blinked, bringing the picture before her into focus.
His huge frame overflowed the bed—the same bed that would have felt lonely and half-empty if she’d slept in it alone. He slept on his side, linens bunched about his legs and waist. From the glimpse of bare chest and leg, she could tell he was likely nude. But drat it, it was impossible to see what she needed to see from this vantage.
She rose from the room’s single chair and crept toward the bed, hoping to get a closer look. Then she froze in place as he emitted a harsh, guttural sound. It was the sound of a man dealing a blow. Or taking one.
He thrashed suddenly, tangling in the bedsheets as his elbow jabbed the pillow. “No,” she heard him moan. Then more forcefully, “No.”
She stood there, immobile, not knowing what to do. Should she wake him? Did she dare? If he were reliving some fight or battle in his dreams, he might lash out at her in confusion. Perhaps she should just leave him. No one ever suffered long-term effects from a nightmare. If he woke on his own and saw her there, he might feel violated or ashamed.
His breathing came fast and shallow now. He ceased wrestling the pillow and flipped onto his back, his fists clenched at his sides. They were the size of millstones. His teeth were gritted, the tendons strained and bulging along his neck. A low, inhuman growl rumbled from his throat and forced its way through his teeth.
Meredith’s heart ached. She didn’t know what form of agony he was enduring in that dream, but she knew she couldn’t stand by and watch him suffer a moment longer. In her girlhood, she’d been witness to his pain and never done a thing about it. There’d been nothing she could have done, then. How exactly did a reedy waif of a servant’s daughter protest the lord’s maltreatment of his own son?
But she wasn’t a girl any longer, and she could do something to ease Rhys’s suffering now.
She crept to the bedside and crouched by his sleeping form. “Hush,” she said quietly. “Hush. You’re safe, Rhys. All is well.”
She
Last night had been the final indignity. He’d come in from another day of hard work up on the moors. Damp from the pump, but still glowing with the day’s exertion. Wildly attractive. He’d sat down at his usual table, eaten his usual three plates of food whilst enduring the suspicious glares and muttered curses of the villagers. Then he’d approached her at the bar to apprise her of the day’s progress.
“Finished fitting together the plinth today,” he’d said. “Now that the foundation’s done, I’ll start preparing the earth for cob. I’ll need to hire ponies from you tomorrow to haul up a load of straw. If all goes well, tomorrow I’ll be able to start the first rise.” He’d yawned the grizzled, lazy-yet-lethal yawn of a lion. “I think I’ll turn in early tonight, unless you need me.”
Oh, she needed him, all right. She’d wanted to lean over the bar and kiss that sleepy mouth, right in front of the whole room. The sweet, bloody fool was building a house of stone and earth with his own two hands. For her father. How could she not want to kiss him? How could she not want to do far more than that?
Instead, she’d whispered shamelessly, “Shall I come to your room after I lock up?”
And though he’d sucked in his breath, and his eyes had fair blazed with desire, he’d bid her a polite good evening and retreated upstairs. Alone.
Something had to be wrong down there. Red-blooded men—and Rhys was a fine specimen of a red-blooded man in his virile prime—just didn’t walk away from invitations that obvious.
Gradually, the room warmed with weak, yellow light. She blinked, bringing the picture before her into focus.
His huge frame overflowed the bed—the same bed that would have felt lonely and half-empty if she’d slept in it alone. He slept on his side, linens bunched about his legs and waist. From the glimpse of bare chest and leg, she could tell he was likely nude. But drat it, it was impossible to see what she needed to see from this vantage.
She rose from the room’s single chair and crept toward the bed, hoping to get a closer look. Then she froze in place as he emitted a harsh, guttural sound. It was the sound of a man dealing a blow. Or taking one.
He thrashed suddenly, tangling in the bedsheets as his elbow jabbed the pillow. “No,” she heard him moan. Then more forcefully, “No.”
She stood there, immobile, not knowing what to do. Should she wake him? Did she dare? If he were reliving some fight or battle in his dreams, he might lash out at her in confusion. Perhaps she should just leave him. No one ever suffered long-term effects from a nightmare. If he woke on his own and saw her there, he might feel violated or ashamed.
His breathing came fast and shallow now. He ceased wrestling the pillow and flipped onto his back, his fists clenched at his sides. They were the size of millstones. His teeth were gritted, the tendons strained and bulging along his neck. A low, inhuman growl rumbled from his throat and forced its way through his teeth.
Meredith’s heart ached. She didn’t know what form of agony he was enduring in that dream, but she knew she couldn’t stand by and watch him suffer a moment longer. In her girlhood, she’d been witness to his pain and never done a thing about it. There’d been nothing she could have done, then. How exactly did a reedy waif of a servant’s daughter protest the lord’s maltreatment of his own son?
But she wasn’t a girl any longer, and she could do something to ease Rhys’s suffering now.
She crept to the bedside and crouched by his sleeping form. “Hush,” she said quietly. “Hush. You’re safe, Rhys. All is well.”
She
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