Page 3 of Sweet Hellion

Chapter Two

Rhys squinted in the mirror as he carefully maneuvered a razor around the scar running from his cheekbone down the length of his jaw. The purple skin faded more by the day. Eventually, time would render it silver and far less noticeable, but nothing would fade the scars on his soul.

He returned the razor to its leather pouch, wiped his face, then went to the window of his small abbey room. Even the dawn held a touch of blood. The fatigue of the sleepless night settled over his shoulders. He’d not slept through a night since Almeida.

At least Blackstone Abbey provided a peaceful place to wander, and its owner and fellow soldier, Lord Ewan Frasier, a brother to night terrors, as well. Or, he had been before meeting his bonny wife, Kyla. The pinks of dawn began to fade into pale blues, signaling time to begin the day’s work.

He cast a glance over the white sheep dotting the fields. The upper fence needed mending. Working with sheep soothed him, as did spending his days working the earth. He understood the creatures. On his estate, he’d often worked alongside his men on the fields or in the blacksmith and wheelwright shops. He found the scent of earth and wool along with the ring of a hammer to be grounding.

He closed his eyes and drew energy from the warmth of the sun on his face. In the months he’d been here, Blackstone Abbey had begun to feel like home. Almost. Nothing could replace his own estate…the one that vicious rumors had ripped from his grasp.

Rhys released a breath. He wasn’t done. He would fight for his inheritance after he finished his obligations in Inverness. He’d spent nearly every last coin he possessed to see his men’s families looked after, as best they could be looked after with no man to care for and protect them. Samuel. Fionn. Patrick. A dozen others whose faces haunted his nightmares. Now, only one man remained, Tory Bamfield. The one man who had extracted a promise from Rhys. He had to find the man’s wee sister, Emma.

Rhys opened the wardrobe door and reached for a clean plaid. A ray of sunlight spilled through the window and fell on the scarlet cloth folded neatly on the bottom shelf. His captain’s coat. He’d removed it the day he received his letter of dishonorable discharge and hadn’t worn it since. Rhys snatched his plaid and pushed the wardrobe door shut with an elbow.

Plaid in place, he cinched a leather belt around his waist. Perhaps, after he mended the upper fence, he would ride to Inverness and find the lass. Shame stabbed. How many times had he said that in the six months he’d been at Blackstone Abbey? He was a lazy sod. Nae, that was a lie. He was afraid. He should have died that day on the battlefield, not Tory. Would Emma know the truth when she looked into his eyes? Would she see what he saw every night when he closed his eyes?

Cannonballs shrieked overhead as he knelt by Tory’s side, desperately attempting to staunch the wheelwright’s blood.

”Find her,” Tory had gasped. “Make sure she is wed. My father promised.”

“Tory.” Rhys tried desperately to swallow his fear. So much blood. So much. “Ye will look after her yourself.” Tory had to live. He had to.

Tory’s lips pulled back in a grimace. “Tell the wee stinkpot I will watch o’er her from above.”

Rhys drew a sharp breath and his surroundings blurred.

“Blackstone,” he whispered. Blackstone.

He swallowed and closed his eyes. How long before the memories faded? Would they dull? He forced his legs into motion. After leaving the dormitory, he took the abbey passages to the refectory. He spotted Ewan and his younger brother, Liam, leaning over wooden bowls at the table as they spooned steaming porridge into their mouths.

Ewan looked up as Rhys neared. “The sheep in the east field escaped again.”

Liam groaned and ran his hands through his blond hair. “Ungrateful bastards. Why are they not happy grazing their own grass? What do they think they’ll find down by the pond?”

“You’re not fit to farm,” Ewan told his brother in a tone of dry amusement. “‘Tis fortunate you wed an heiress.”

Rhys cleared his throat and offered, “I will find them.”

“Good man.” Liam grinned.

Rhys grabbed several bannocks, left the refectory and cut across the courtyard, headed for the stables. The sheep search would go much faster on horseback. At the stables, he ate his bannocks as he saddled his horse. No doubt, the wee beasties had headed south, where the grass was plentiful. Rhys saddled and headed out, into the morning sun.

The sun hung low in the sky when Rhys returned home. As usual, one task had turned into three. Still, the day wasn’t over. He rolled his shoulders. Winter was months away, but they would need much wood in order to keep the abbey warm. He could chop wood for at least two hours and would likely fall dead into bed after supper. That could bode a good night. He guided his horse into the stable, dismounted, then lifted the stirrup and began unbuckling the strap. The barrel of a revolver dug into the flesh between his shoulder blades.

He froze. “Who have I offended?”

“Offended?” a female voice said.

What the bloody hell was a woman doing pointing a gun at him? Rhys started to turn.

“Uh uh,” she warned.

He bent and spun, striking her arm. The revolver roared as the weapon flew from her grasp, then bounced off the stable door. Rhys tackled her to the cobblestones and grimaced at the press of her breasts against his chest. He hadn’t touched a woman in two years and his cock immediately took notice.

A pair of frightened blue eyes held his—beautiful eyes with silky, dark lashes. Her lips were wide and full in the blush of her youth, and. a light dusting of freckles covered her nose.

“I cannot do it,” she sobbed.