Read Twice Tempted by a Rogue for Free Online

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.”
    Rhys reluctantly handed him the reins. He wished Lane would allow him to do the labor of unsaddling and grooming the horse, but he wouldn’t insist. He’d known many soldiers crippled in battle, and he’d learned to never second-guess their abilities.
    Besides, George Lane couldn’t be too hampered by his injuries. He still kept an immaculate horse barn, from what Rhys could see as he followed him to the stable door.
    “No need to come in,” Lane called to him, holding him off with an outstretched hand. “You know I’ll take excellent care of him.”
    “I know,” Rhys said, wondering why the man didn’t seem to want him in his stables. Well, it could have something to do with the fact that his last stables had burned to the ground. If he were George Lane, Rhys wouldn’t trust himself in there either, come to think of it.
    He propped his shoulder against the wide post of the doorway and spoke into the darkened interior. “It’s a large barn you’ve got here. Your daughter told me it’s mostly pack ponies you keep.”
    “That’s right,” Lane replied. “I started breeding them a decade ago, from a few wild ponies I brought in off the moor. They’re well-trained now, and hardy. We rent them out as they’re needed, to local farmers and such.”
    Rhys shook his head. What a waste of the man’s skill. “I wonder that you don’t keep posting horses.” To expedite travel, private and public coaches changed horses frequently. If the Three Hounds offered posting horses for hire and exchange, the inn could draw a great deal more business.
    “I’d like to,” the man answered, “but I’ve no suitable breeding stock. Hard to gather that kind of coin, especially in a village where folk pay their debts with eggs more often than shillings.”
    “I can imagine.” Rhys startled as something prodded the back of his knee. He wheeled to find a pair of long-eared hounds nosing at his boots. “Go on,” he told them, feinting a kick. “I’ve no scraps for you.”
    Though oddly, he could have sworn he smelled fresh-baked bread.
    “They’re just being friendly,” a feminine voice said. “It’s me they’re after.”
    Meredith stood before him, both arms wrapped around a large woven basket. A bounty of yeast rolls peeked out from beneath a printed muslin cloth. Rhys’s stomach churned with awakened hunger.
    Damn, his whole body was churning with awakened hunger.
    “You’re still here,” she said. “Thought perhaps you’d left.”
    “I did. And then I came back.”
    “I don’t know how this inn got its name,” she said, watching the dogs nip the tassel of his boot. “Maddox only ever kept two hounds. When he was drunk, he used to tell smart-mouthed travelers the third hound was in the pie.” She spared him a fleeting glance before calling past him into