Page 14 of Sweet Hellion

Rhys. How dare people talk about him like that? From the moment they had met, he had been a paragon of chivalry, even to the point of defending her honor. She would never forget the sight of him tossing Lord Munro through her door. When the man had ended up sprawled in the street, Emma had wanted to cry. In that moment, she no longer felt alone. How long would that feeling last? How long would he stay? He’d said she needed a husband. Would he stay until she married? That would be never.

Emma reached home and paused outside the back door. She couldn’t let Rhys know what Mrs. Babcock had said. Emma forced her shoulders to loosen, then opened the door and stepped inside. Rhys’s whistling wafted to her from the front of the shop. Her heart constricted. If only she could come home every day to find Rhys Macleod whistling while he worked. But good men wanted good women. Tears pressed against the backs of her eyes. She willed the tears away and forced her feet toward the kitchen.

She began preparing the currant pudding and the stew planned for supper. Soon, the kitchen filled with the delicious smells of pudding, baking bread, and onions and meat with potatoes. She opened the oven door and the comforting warm air wafted over her. The rolls had risen nicely and had begun to brown.

“What smells so good?” a male voice said behind her.

Emma slammed the oven door and whirled. Rhys stood in the doorway, dressed in his green, belted kilt, a handsome, virile monster of a man.

She placed a hand over her racing heart. “You gave me a fright.”

He flashed a sheepish smile. “You cannot blame a man for following such wonderful smells. By God, lass, if the bread tastes as good as it smells, I will follow you anywhere.”

Heat crept up her cheeks. “I am a fair cook.”

“Then we will get along well. I will wash up for supper.”

Emma nodded, unable to speak. He turned and she couldn’t tear her eyes from the sway of his kilt against his muscled calves. He turned and disappeared down the hallway. She released the breath she hadn’t realized she held. What was this spell he seemed to cast over her? She’d met handsome men before. The vicar was quite handsome. Her stomach turned with the memory. The vicar’s beauty would always be marred by his dark soul. She shook off the thought and continued the preparation of the meal.

Minutes later, bootfalls approached and Rhys entered the kitchen.

“Wine?”

She glanced over her shoulder. He nodded at the bottle on the table.

“A wee bit,” she said.

Emma hurried to set the table, then placed the newspaper she’d purchased on the table beside Rhys’s plate. He’d worked hard. He would enjoy reading the paper. The title “Man Forgets His Name” caught her eye. Intrigued, she squinted at the tiny lettering and scanned the article.

“What has caught your attention?”

She glanced up to see Rhys peering down at her from an arm’s length away. The evening shadows played over his face, emphasizing his scar. Most often, scars marred the beauty of those who bore them, but with Rhys, the purple line only served to strengthen the dangerous mystery about the man. She knew so little about him. Only what she’d heard in the market that day when she’d learned he lived at Blackstone Abbey, plus the lies Lord Munro had told.

“Miss Bamfield?” he prompted.

“Just a strange story.” She smoothed the newspaper. “A man has forgotten his name.”

Rhys stepped forward. Suddenly aware of his nearness, she hurried to the stove and lifted the lid on the stew. Steam rose in a cloud. A shadow fell across the stove in the instant before he stepped up beside her and drew in a deep breath.

“I have never smelled anything better.”

Emma smiled up at him. “I hope you like it.”

“I will.”

He turned away and, from the corner of her eye, she watched him lower himself into the chair at the table. He picked up the paper.

“Perhaps, ‘tis better that way,” he murmured.

Emma started to ask what he meant, then understood. “You will clear your name.” She recalled what Lord Munro had said about his father disinheriting him. “Who is your father?”

His head snapped up. “Why do you ask?”

Tension knotted in her shoulders, again. “I… Lord Munro said your father had disinherited you.”

“Munro is a fool.”

That didn’t answer her question, but she nodded. “Why hasn’t he been arrested for his crimes?”