“Are you certain there wasn’t someone there? Someone purposely trying to harm you?”

“And who would that be?”

“I don’t know,” she said, avoiding his gaze. Her lips quirked. “A ghost, perhaps? The moorfolk have their suspicions, you know.”

“Yes, and Gideon Myles has a passionate wish to see me dead. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”

Meredith circled behind him. “You do have a nice hand with stitching,” she told Cora.

With a hint of pride in her voice, Cora replied, “My mum was a seamstress.”

“The bleeding’s stopped. Well done. Cora, you may go close up the tavern.”

“Yes, Mrs. Maddox.”

Once Cora had left, Rhys heard the trickle of water. Then he felt a cool cloth pressed to his aching pate. Her fingers teased through the hair at his brow, creating ripples of sweet pleasure to counteract the pain.

“Why do you keep your hair cut so short?” she asked. “You used to wear it long.”

“Started shearing it close in the army. Because of the lice. Now I’m just used to it.”

“Oh.” Her fingers stilled. “Well, it made Cora’s work easier tonight. No amount of stitching could save your shirt, though. Went straight into the fire.” She removed the damp cloth and applied a fresh one. “When did this happen? Gideon came in tonight just a short while before you did, and he was in an unusually good mood. That is, until you stumbled through that door. He seems to have disappeared now.”

“I don’t know how long I was unconscious. Could have been seconds, could have been hours. But I doubt Myles had anything to do with it. If he’d been responsible for this”—he raised his hand and gingerly explored the wound—“something tells me he would have made more effort to finish the job. And I didn’t see anyone. It was just an accident.”

“I thought you don’t believe in accidents.”

Before he could argue, liquid fire tore across his scalp.

He yelped with pain. “What the devil was that?”

“Local gin. I told you, it cures all ills.”

“Jesus. You might have given me warning at least.”

She made a sound in her throat. “Oh, I’ll give you a warning, Rhys St. Maur. Wind, fog, ghost, or man … it matters not. You shouldn’t be sleeping out on the moor alone. It’s not safe.”

Rhys rested his chin on the back of the chair as the pain receded and the room came into sharper focus. He liked having her fuss over him, loved the concern in her voice. “I’d say you don’t need to worry about me. But I rather enjoy it that you do.”

“Of course I worry.” She swabbed his neck and shoulders clean, then went to the washbasin and began to rinse her hands. “Just the same as I’d worry about Darryl or Cora or Father, or …”

“Really? Just the same as you’d worry about them?” He turned to face her and noticed that her hands were shaking as she washed. “Or do you worry about me differently?”

The soap slid from her grasp and landed in the basin with a splash. “Rhys …”

After a month of coming to understand Meredith Maddox, he knew better than to press the issue just now. He rose from his chair, slid a towel from its hook, and dried her hands himself. “You’re trembling,” he said. “Come sit close to the fire. Let me look after you for a bit.”

“You’re not fit to stand.”

“I’m not fit for much of anything.” He gave her his best stab at a cavalier grin. “Hasn’t stopped me yet.”

After seeing her seated by the fire, he took up the still-steaming kettle. “I see Cora’s made tea.” He poured her a cup.

She took the cup from his hand and lifted it to her lips. “I’d prefer the gin.”

“I know you would. And I’d prefer you didn’t drink quite so much of it.”

Her eyes flashed at him over the teacup’s rim.

“What?” he asked. “You’re concerned for me. I’m not allowed to worry about you?”

She swallowed her mouthful of tea. “You should stay here tonight. With me.”

God. He didn’t think any part of his body could throb more forcefully than his wounded pate. But he was proven wrong.

With a rough sigh, he drew up a stool and sat across from her. “What are we to each other?”

She blinked at him. “You want to discuss the state of our relationship?”

He nodded.

“What sort of man enters this sort of conversation willingly?”

“A man who’s tired of sleeping out on the moor alone.” And not because he was worried about falling rocks or ghosts or Gideon Myles, but because he wanted her. He wanted her more than he’d wanted anything in his life, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay away.

“We’re friends, Rhys. And I think I’ve made it clear that we could be … closer friends, whenever you wish.”

“Closer friends,” he repeated thoughtfully, reaching out to catch a loose strand of her hair. “How close?”

She set aside her tea, then inched forward on her chair. His heart began to pound, just from her nearness.

“Very close,” she whispered, leaning in. Her lips brushed his. “Body to body.” Another kiss. “Skin to skin.”

He couldn’t stop himself. He slid both hands to her waist and pulled her into his lap. She straddled his hips, locking her arms around his neck. Their mouths came together, open and willing and ready to meld into one.

And even though his eyes were closed, for a moment Rhys felt like his double vision had returned—because her hands were everywhere. There had to be more than two of them. He felt her grasping at his shoulders, cupping his face, clutching his neck. Not to be outdone, he cinched his arms around her and pulled her flush against his bare chest, anchoring her there with his forearms while his hands slid up to her hair.

Ah, her hair. So abundant, so soft. He thrust his hands in that thick, dark mane, sifting the strands through his fingers, and then grasping big handfuls close to her scalp and twisting, just a little, to repay her for that trick with the gin.

She moaned around his tongue. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she rocked her hips.

And now it was his turn to moan.

She made a slow circle with her pelvis, grinding against his arousal. Much as he hated relinquishing his grip on her hair, he slid his hands to her hips and grabbed tight, dragging her over his hard length again. He needed this, he needed more of it … He just needed, so damn much. To feel good, for a change. To make her feel good, too.

He had a fresh head wound, and she’d been working hard from dawn to dusk and beyond—but all he could think of was getting under her skirt and working her all night long.

She writhed against him as they kissed, her motions increasingly frantic. He guided her hips with his hands, pressing her closer, increasing the friction, setting a firm, brisk rhythm.

Close friends, had she said? Well, Rhys was getting all kinds of close. And judging by the little mewling sounds she made in the back of her throat, so was she. Now it was just a race to the finish, and by God he wanted her to win. He wanted to give her pleasure even more desperately than he craved his own release. And he craved his own release more than he wanted air.

With a sudden gasp, she pulled back. “We can’t, not here,” she panted. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He sat stunned, open-mouthed, his lungs seizing and his loins painfully bereft of contact.

“Come along.” She tugged at him.

After a moment, he released a curse and a sigh. Ten seconds ago, if she’d shoved aside her petticoats and hiked up her skirts, he would have buried himself in her warm, wet body without a moment’s hesitation. But a few seconds of separation and the renewed pounding in his head, combined with the prospect of that long flight of stairs … There were just enough obstacles to his bounding lust that his tortoise-like intelligence managed to catch up. “It isn’t enough.”

“I know,” she said. “I know. Too many clothes between us. Let’s go upstairs.” She kissed his neck.

His hands went to her shoulders. “No,” he repeated, pushing her back. “It still won’t be enough. Body to body, skin to skin. It’s not enough. I don’t want … friendship without clothing. I need a marriage.”

She traced the line of his jaw. “Why must you always be thinking of the future? Just think of tonight.”

Damn his eyes, how ironic. For so many years he’d never considered the future. Not once. In fact, he’d spent a great deal of effort and spilled a great deal of blood—his and others’—trying to ensure there wouldn’t be a future, not for him. And now … now he had plans and desires, and a half-built cottage up on that slope. A future. He couldn’t simply give that up, collapse it all to one fleeting night of pleasure with no promise of more.

“I am thinking of tonight.” His voice was a low rasp. “I am thinking—in shameless detail—of taking you upstairs, stripping you bare, and doing unspeakable things to you all night long. Touching you everywhere. Tasting you everywhere. And I know, as sure as I know my own name, it still won’t be enough. I will want you again tomorrow, and then the day after that, and again and again and again. That’s why I need those vows. I need to hear you say you’re mine forever before I have you at all. Because I know I will never, ever get enough.”

She stared at him. A whole parade of emotions marched through those silvery eyes. Surprise, desire, vulnerability, disappointment … something he fancied might be genuine affection.

“How can you say such things to a woman and not take her directly to bed?” she asked. “It’s cruel, I tell you. Cruel.”

“It’s a cruel, cruel world,” he teased. In a serious tone, he added, “It’s not only about bedding you, I hope you know. I want to take care of you. I can’t bear to see you working so hard.” He cast a glance around the humble kitchen. “Once we’re married, I’ll rescue you from all this.”

“But I don’t want to be rescued from all this. This is my life. I enjoy working here, just as you’ve enjoyed building that house.” Her hand went to his wounded head. “If anyone needs rescuing, it’s you. You’re in danger here, the longer you stay.”

“I keep telling you—”

“You keep telling me you’re indestructible. And I’m telling you, I just scraped your unconscious body off the floor.” Her hands laced behind his neck. “Don’t go back to the moor alone. Stay with me tonight.”

“I can’t.” He stood, setting her on her feet as he did. “I should be going.”

He couldn’t imagine staying under this roof without bedding her. And this night was not going to be their first night. Just as well. With his throbbing head, he wouldn’t have been in top lovemaking form.

“It’s all right out there,” he assured her. “Just two more weeks, two more rises—and the walls will be done. The paring and timbers … another week, maybe. Then all it will need is some thatch and a few coats of limewash. Well, and window glass, doors, shutters. And furnishings. I’ll be making some trips to Plymouth over the next few weeks, to place orders.”

Calming, she made a slow circle of the room. “There are things I’ll be needing for the new guest rooms, too.” She smoothed her hair with her hands. “When you go, may I send a list with you?”

“I suppose.”

She began ticking items off on her fingers. “Old Mr. Farrell will make me the furniture, but I’ll be needing mattresses. And washbasins, chamber pots, fabric for bedding and curtains …”