Read Online Twice Tempted by a Rogue by Tessa Dare - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tessa Dare
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the midday sun, Rhys hefted a chunk of lichen-crusted moorstone from its bed of gorse. A bead of sweat trickled down his bare back as he carried the rock up the sloping grade, then tossed it to the ground with a grunt, nudging it into place with his boot.
“Do you think it’s big enough?” he asked, wiping his brow and squinting at the ground. The stones formed almost three sides of a rectangle now. A few more hours’ work, and he’d have a completed outline for the foundation. “Maybe I ought to make it wider.”
“It’s already near as big as the inn,” George Lane said. “Thought this was meant to be a cottage.”
“It is.” The finest damn cottage ever built .
And once Meredith saw it, she’d know he was serious about being here to stay. About marrying her. Not that he could claim to be surprised by her initial reluctance. As a suitor, he had little to recommend him aside from a bit of money in the bank. He surely wouldn’t convince her on the basis of his fine looks and pretty manners. But once she saw the proof of his commitment to rebuilding the Hall and the village, she’d change her mind. She was a clever woman, and she understood when a situation would work out to her benefit. She’d married Old Maddox, after all, and Rhys would never believe that had been a love match.
“Where do you plan to put the door?” Lane asked, limping his way around the nearly finished rectangle.
“Over there.” Rhys jerked his head as he hefted another stone. “Facing northeast.”
“Away from the ruins, then? Well, I don’t blame you for keeping that sight at your back.”
“Away from the wind,” Rhys countered.
The old man’s eyebrows rose. “As you say.”
Rhys chucked his stone in line with the others. He knew superstitions ran deep as granite here on Dartmoor, but surely George Lane didn’t believe any of Darryl Tewkes’s absurd ghost stories? “I mean it,” he said, wiping his brow. “That flat there”—he pointed to a level area nearby—“is the most logical place for new stables. The stable master’s cottage ought to face it, don’t you think? And I’m guessing you’d rather be upwind.”
“Stables?” Leaning on his crutch, Lane slid the soft felt cap from his head and twisted it between his old, scarred hands. “You mean to rebuild the stables?”
“I mean to rebuild it all,” Rhys told him evenly. “Starting with the stables. I’m a member of a club, you see. It’s called the Stud Club. Membership includes breeding rights to a stallion called Osiris.”
“Osiris.” The old man’s hands began to shake. “The Osiris, the great thoroughbred champion?”
“So you’ve heard of him.”
“Heard of him?” Lane laughed. “In his prime, the sporting papers were filled with nothing but talk of that stallion. I heard he’d been sold to a lord, though, some time back.” He scratched the back of his neck. “What was his name …?”
“Harcliffe. Leo Chatwick, the Marquess of Harcliffe. He’s dead now.”
“Oh. Did you know him?”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend, then.”
Rhys shrugged. “We weren’t close. Be sorry for him, not me.” He walked some distance away and propped his boot on another chunk of stone, rocking it back and forth to work it loose from the soil. This one was rather square, he noted, and not too firmly stuck—he’d wager it belonged to the old house. Must have tumbled this way after the fire.
He decided to leave it be.
He moved on to another rock instead and gave it a swift kick, jarring it loose. “Anyway, as fate would have it, I now control a one-fifth share in that stallion, and I plan to breed a few mares to him next year. I’ll be needing stables. And a stable master.”
“Do you …” Lane paused and sniffed. “Do you mean me?”
“Are there any other candidates around?” Rhys made a show of turning his neck, surveying the barren landscape.
Releasing a slow, wheezing breath, George Lane
“Do you think it’s big enough?” he asked, wiping his brow and squinting at the ground. The stones formed almost three sides of a rectangle now. A few more hours’ work, and he’d have a completed outline for the foundation. “Maybe I ought to make it wider.”
“It’s already near as big as the inn,” George Lane said. “Thought this was meant to be a cottage.”
“It is.” The finest damn cottage ever built .
And once Meredith saw it, she’d know he was serious about being here to stay. About marrying her. Not that he could claim to be surprised by her initial reluctance. As a suitor, he had little to recommend him aside from a bit of money in the bank. He surely wouldn’t convince her on the basis of his fine looks and pretty manners. But once she saw the proof of his commitment to rebuilding the Hall and the village, she’d change her mind. She was a clever woman, and she understood when a situation would work out to her benefit. She’d married Old Maddox, after all, and Rhys would never believe that had been a love match.
“Where do you plan to put the door?” Lane asked, limping his way around the nearly finished rectangle.
“Over there.” Rhys jerked his head as he hefted another stone. “Facing northeast.”
“Away from the ruins, then? Well, I don’t blame you for keeping that sight at your back.”
“Away from the wind,” Rhys countered.
The old man’s eyebrows rose. “As you say.”
Rhys chucked his stone in line with the others. He knew superstitions ran deep as granite here on Dartmoor, but surely George Lane didn’t believe any of Darryl Tewkes’s absurd ghost stories? “I mean it,” he said, wiping his brow. “That flat there”—he pointed to a level area nearby—“is the most logical place for new stables. The stable master’s cottage ought to face it, don’t you think? And I’m guessing you’d rather be upwind.”
“Stables?” Leaning on his crutch, Lane slid the soft felt cap from his head and twisted it between his old, scarred hands. “You mean to rebuild the stables?”
“I mean to rebuild it all,” Rhys told him evenly. “Starting with the stables. I’m a member of a club, you see. It’s called the Stud Club. Membership includes breeding rights to a stallion called Osiris.”
“Osiris.” The old man’s hands began to shake. “The Osiris, the great thoroughbred champion?”
“So you’ve heard of him.”
“Heard of him?” Lane laughed. “In his prime, the sporting papers were filled with nothing but talk of that stallion. I heard he’d been sold to a lord, though, some time back.” He scratched the back of his neck. “What was his name …?”
“Harcliffe. Leo Chatwick, the Marquess of Harcliffe. He’s dead now.”
“Oh. Did you know him?”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend, then.”
Rhys shrugged. “We weren’t close. Be sorry for him, not me.” He walked some distance away and propped his boot on another chunk of stone, rocking it back and forth to work it loose from the soil. This one was rather square, he noted, and not too firmly stuck—he’d wager it belonged to the old house. Must have tumbled this way after the fire.
He decided to leave it be.
He moved on to another rock instead and gave it a swift kick, jarring it loose. “Anyway, as fate would have it, I now control a one-fifth share in that stallion, and I plan to breed a few mares to him next year. I’ll be needing stables. And a stable master.”
“Do you …” Lane paused and sniffed. “Do you mean me?”
“Are there any other candidates around?” Rhys made a show of turning his neck, surveying the barren landscape.
Releasing a slow, wheezing breath, George Lane
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