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)
Naturally, she’d refused him. As well she should. And she’d mustered the generosity to knock on his door and grant him a sort of absolution, but she hadn’t been brave enough to look him in the face as she gave it. Still, he couldn’t resist stealing a touch.
God, her skin was pure joy to touch. Fresh and smooth, like the underside of a leaf.
One glance in the washstand mirror this morning had revealed his lunacy. He was a hideous, cut-up wreck of a man. What could a woman like her possibly want with a fellow like him? Except money, perhaps. Not that she was the type to accept coin for her favors, but he didn’t want her thinking he was the type to pay for them. He didn’t use women that way anymore.
No, she deserved an apology. He wasn’t especially good at making amends, but he’d do what he could. Greet her with a civil good morning, thank her for her hospitality, and pay her triple what he owed. And then he’d ride straight out of the village and never trouble her again.
The gelding picked its way along the narrow, well-trod path. It wasn’t the most direct route back to the village, but it was the safest, as evidenced by the cross-shaped stone markers placed by monks centuries ago. A man who wandered off the safe path risked stumbling into a bog and becoming trapped in waist-deep peat and muck. As a child, Rhys had known the lay of these slopes better than he’d known his ciphers, but he didn’t trust his memory enough to risk miring his horse today.
It was full morning by the time he descended into the small valley that cradled Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. Sunlight chased the mist into dark hollows and nooks. Considering the harshness of the surrounding terrain, this truly was a well-favored spot. A brisk stream had carved this gorge over millennia, and aside from the ready water source, the valley offered some protection from the brutal Dartmoor winds. The village even claimed a few dozen trees to its name, and they grew reasonably straight—an unusual occurrence on the windswept moors.
As he reunited with the main road and entered the village proper, however, Rhys noticed what he hadn’t been able to see last night. Very little had changed in this village. Too little had changed, as a matter of fact. There were no new buildings. Neglected cottages had fallen into disrepair. Just as Meredith had told him, the village had not prospered in the Ashworths’ absence. A thorn of guilt pricked him deep inside.
He turned toward the inn. Like most buildings in town, its foundations were stone, but its walls were fashioned from cob, a cured mixture of earth and straw. Slate shingles gave it a sounder roof than the usual thatch. With a gleaming coat of fresh limewash and green-painted shutters, the inn was by far the best-kept structure in the town, and the largest. Even at this early hour, the courtyard buzzed with activity. It was clear to Rhys that the Three Hounds was not only the physical center of the village, but its social and commercial center as well. And little Merry Lane now managed it all. Remarkable.
In the courtyard, he dismounted and walked his gelding toward the stables. A hunched figure rushed to meet him, hobbling with the aid of a wooden crutch.
“Lord Ashworth! By God, it is you. Merry told me you’d come back, but I could hardly believe her.” The old man leaned on his crutch and tipped his hat, revealing a flash of silver hair beneath.
“Mr. Lane,” Rhys said, catching his breath. “It’s … it’s good to see you.”
Only it wasn’t. It was hell to see George Lane as he was now—bent, aged, crippled and scarred. In Rhys’s memory, he’d remained a man in his prime of life, an expert horseman gifted with an even temper and a steady hand. The Nethermoor stables had been Rhys’s refuge in his youth, and Lane had always been kind to him. When fire broke out in the stables that night, it was George Lane who dragged Rhys’s barely conscious form from the blaze. Once Rhys was safe, the stable master worked valiantly to save the horses. He succeeded in a few cases, but failed in most. During his last rescue attempt, a burning rafter had fallen on his leg.
Rhys had been sent to relations in Yorkshire immediately following the fire, and in the years since he’d never so much as written to inquire after his old friend’s condition. Probably because he’d suspected, rightly, that his friend’s condition would be just this. He was maimed for life.
That little thorn of guilt was swiftly growing tendrils and vines, twining his innards in a stranglehold.
“I’ll take the horse in.” Smiling, the old man balanced his crutch under one arm and reached for the reins with the other. “You go on in and have breakfast.”