The men didn’t move.

“Out!” she shouted, jabbing a finger at the door. “Now!”

As they shuffled toward the exit, jostling and grumbling amongst themselves, an anxious-looking Darryl called over the din. “It’s only temporary, gents! Don’t count out the Three Hounds. We’ll have this place fixed up in no time, me and Mrs. Maddox, and we’ll be serving pints again before you know it.”

“Don’t make promises, Darryl,” Meredith said. “Go see to the horse barn. Surely there’s a stall that needs mucking out, if you’re in the mood to shovel excrement.”

“Now, Mrs. Maddox.” Darryl moved toward her, apparently choosing not to take offense. “I know the place looks bad, but we’ll have it back to form in no time. And it will all work out for the best in the end. It’s like you said. Men come and go, but this road is always here. And so’s the inn. We always have the Three Hounds. It’s our home.”

“Thank you, Darryl.” The youth’s words were well-meant, she supposed, but they didn’t offer her much consolation. This inn didn’t feel like home, not anymore. “Now, if you don’t mind … I really would like a moment to myself.”

“Of course, Mrs. Maddox. We’ll sort out the glassware this afternoon.”

Meredith stared after him, wondering if she needed to talk with Darryl about minding his place. The young man was growing a touch presumptive.

Once he’d left and she was alone, Meredith sat in one of the few remaining sturdy chairs. She looked around at the building she’d worked so hard to improve, taken so much pride in running with efficiency and style. She’d always said her heart was in this inn. And perhaps it had been, once. But it wasn’t anymore. Her heart was with Rhys, and he was gone. She stacked her arms on the table before her and bent her head.

Barely a minute had passed before strong hands landed on her shoulders, massaging gently. “There, there, Merry. It’ll be all right.”

“Oh, Father.” She wiped her eyes with her wrist as her father rounded the table and slid into the chair opposite. She hated to tell him this, but postponing the inevitable wouldn’t help. “He’s gone. Rhys left.”

“I know.”

“I’m so sorry. I know you must be disappointed.”

“Me? Don’t worry about me, child.” He wrapped her hands in his own scarred, arthritic grip. “Rhys will be back. You’ll see.”

“You truly believe that?”

“I’m not the only one. They’re already starting another betting pool in the courtyard. Skinner’s taking wagers as to when Lord Ashworth will return.”

“Band of fools,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Bloody ingrates. After the way this village treated him, why would he ever want to come back?”

“For you, Merry. Everyone knows he’ll come back for you.” His eyes warmed and crinkled at the edges. “And my money’s on tomorrow.”

Chapter Twenty-six

“Oh, God,” Cora said. “What’s happened?” Rhys braced himself as the carriage began to move. Slowly at first. Then it picked up speed, rattling unimpeded down the slope they’d just climbed. “We’ve come unhitched from the team. Must have been the jolt just now.”

“Lord,” she said. “We’re all going to die.”

“Eventually.” Rhys stood, as much as he was able, and braced his hands on the hardtop carriage roof. Leveraging his strength, he kicked at the carriage door, blasting the latch to pieces. “But not today.”

“What are you doing?” Cora asked.

Rhys offered her his hand and a one-word explanation. “Jump.”

Her mouth dropped open as she looked toward the now-open door and the accelerating landscape rolling past. “Are you mad?”

Rhys took a brief glance out the carriage’s rear window. Just as he’d feared, the coach was speeding straight for the coastline—and those dramatic cliffs.

“It’s jump now or plummet later,” he insisted. When she still didn’t move, he motioned to Bellamy. “Get her out of here!”

“Right.” Bellamy shook off his surprise and leapt into action, grabbing Cora by the wrist and tugging her toward the open door. He stood behind the girl, wrapping one arm about her midsection and bracing the other on the rooftop.

Rhys would have jumped with Cora himself, but he could barely fit through the door on his own, much less with a girl in his arms. He hoped Bellamy didn’t cock it up. “Put your legs into it,” he said. “You have to clear the wheels.”

Bellamy nodded grimly. “On three, Cora. One … Two …”

Cora cringed. “Can’t we do it on five?”

The carriage jounced against some obstacle, and she screamed as the whole business teetered on two wheels.

The moment the coach crashed back to all four, Rhys made the decision. No more hesitating. Planting his boot on Bellamy’s backside, Rhys flexed his thigh and shoved with all his strength. “Three.”

Oddly satisfying. He’d been wanting to give Julian Bellamy a swift kick in the arse.

The two disappeared from the carriage, and when the entire conveyance didn’t snap an axle or overturn, Rhys assumed that meant they’d cleared the wheels. Time for him to follow.

But just as he made his way to the open door, the speeding coach hit a rock. Or perhaps it jumped the side of the road. No way to tell, but the thing went airborne for a stomach-launching second. Then it landed with a splintering crunch of wood, careening to one side.

Rhys was thrown away from the door, against the far side of the carriage. His head hit the window with a violent crack. The world oscillated between light and dark for a moment as he danced on the brink of consciousness.

When his wits returned to him, all he knew was that the carriage wasn’t rolling anymore. But neither had it come to a halt. The wrecked cab bounced and tumbled from one obstacle to the next, skipping down the rocky turf as it obeyed the pull of gravity. Progressing steadily toward that cliff.

Rhys could go with it. He could.

He lay stunned and breathless, a jumble of limbs on the floor. His head was pounding with pain. It would be so easy to just stay there. Allow the wreckage to carry him over the cliff and dash him on the rocks below. End it all, today.

He kept waiting for that voice to speak up, echo off the walls of his skull. Get up. Stand, you miserable wretch. Rise and take more.

It didn’t come. Unlike every other time he’d courted death, this time the dark cellar of his mind was eerily quiet. He didn’t hear his father goading and taunting him, forcing him back to life. The old bastard had finally been silenced.

Instead, he heard her. He heard Meredith. His beautiful, strong, sweet Meredith. Her words were the sounds echoing in his ears. I love you, Rhys. Stay. Don’t go.

What a bloody miracle. He didn’t want to leave this earth today. He wanted to stay, and do better.

Which meant he had to get out of this deathtrap. Now, if not sooner.

A wild jounce of the hobbled carriage conveniently tossed him toward the door. The next bump would have thrown him straight back, but Rhys grabbed the edge of the door opening and gripped it with all his strength.

Another jarring blow and loud crunch of wood—some wheel or axle giving way. The resulting tilt sent the coach into a wild, spiraling skid. It also sent the door slamming shut on his fingers. Rhys growled with pain.

But somehow, despite the imminent destruction of the coach, he got his legs under him, shouldered the door open, spared one brief glance at the ground to judge his distance …

And jumped.

A moment too late.

It was a beautiful day to die.

The sun shone overhead, warm and comforting. A fresh, salty breeze wafted over his skin. For a moment, all Rhys could hear was the music of distant seagulls and the gentle rhythm of waves. Then came the deafening crash, as the carriage exploded on the jagged boulders below.

He winced, clinging desperately to the rocky overhang. Two handfuls of crumbling basalt were all that kept him from following the same vertical path to his own doom. Twisting his neck, he looked down and caught a glimpse of the carriage. Or rather, the driftwood and flotsam that had once been a carriage.

Rhys kicked his feet in exploration, scouting for some surface he could push off from. His booted toes scraped the cliff’s sheer face, but he couldn’t get enough leverage. If only his fingers hadn’t been slammed in that door a few seconds earlier. Then he might have found more strength in his hands—enough to hang on, pull up, swing a leg over the edge. As it was, he could barely keep himself from tumbling into the sea.

His vision grayed at the edges, rippling in the center like the surface of a pool. Damn it all. Wasn’t this just the way his life went? He’d finally stopped wanting to die. And on the very same day, a stupid carriage accident would manage to kill him.

God, he loved Meredith. He loved her so much. Now he’d never have a chance to say it. He could only hope that she somehow knew. It was entirely possible she did know, even though he’d never said the words. She was a clever woman.

He shut his eyes and turned his concentration inward, bargaining with his weakened, aching fingers. Hold on now, he told them, and you can stroke her later. To distract himself from the dizzying height, he let his mind wander over all the parts of her body he most wanted to touch. Which was every part of her, truly. From her abundant dark hair to her neatly turned toes. And his lust for her body was nothing compared to the admiration he had for her strength of spirit, her generous heart.

As the strength ebbed from his arms, he began to shake. He turned his concentration inward, focusing on that steady beat of his heart. The heart that loved her so very much. He wasn’t dead yet. Not so long as that heart kept beating.

Thump. Thump. A worrying pause. Thump.

Something landed on his arm, and he jerked reflexively, losing another fingerhold.

“Jesus, Ashworth. I’m trying to help.”

Bellamy. It was Bellamy, come to help. Oddly enough, Rhys didn’t feel especially rescued.

“Take my hand,” Bellamy said, waving the suggested appendage in Rhys’s face.

“Like hell I will,” Rhys managed to growl. “I’m heavier than you. Unless you have a solid foothold to brace yourself against, you won’t lift me up. I’ll just pull you over.”

“A valid point.” Bellamy lowered himself onto his belly and peered down past Rhys’s dangling feet.

“Don’t suppose there’s a convenient outcropping a foot or two beneath me?” Rhys ventured.

“No. The only thing beneath you is certain death.” Bellamy shot to his feet and began digging his boots into the soil. “Back to the first plan. There’s a ridge here. I’ll brace my boots. You take my hand.”

“It won’t work.”

“It’ll have to work. Do you have some better idea?”

Rhys had to admit he didn’t. “All right, then. On three.”

“After that trick in the carriage?” Bellamy shook his head. “I don’t trust you with counting. Just give me your hand.”

His right hand had the more secure grip, so Rhys shifted his weight as far as he could to that side. Then he gingerly stretched up his left.

The instant he did so, two things happened. Bellamy’s grip locked around his left wrist. And Rhys’s right hand began losing ground. Grit crumbled under his fingernails as his splayed fingers slid down and down. Both men swore in unison. If Rhys lost that grip, he’d be dangling by one hand, a dead weight at the end of Bellamy’s arms. Bellamy wouldn’t be able to hold him for long, much less pull him up.

Rhys clawed wildly for a new grip. Nothing. His fingers only slid closer and closer to the edge.

Stomp.

Rhys roared with pain as Bellamy stepped on his right hand, pinning it to the ground with his boot. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. “Holy Christ.”