Chapter 8
Too many times she had to look away from him. She wasn’t certain why. Perhaps because he had kissed her, this handsome stranger. The shame, the angst, the terribleness of his kiss lingered between them—and the sensations plagued her still. Why could she not get it out of her head?
She had no right to think of his lips.
But she glanced at them now, just one reckless glance.
They were full and firm, surrounded by a well-trimmed beard. Wiry against her skin, she remembered. Why did he have a beard?
Lord Cunningham didn’t.
He would look ridiculous.
“When did this happen?” Tom McGwen did not move, but she sensed he wanted to.
On an impulse, Meg circled around the sofa, putting it between them to safeguard herself from another one of his outbursts.
The last thing she could bear was to be assaulted again.
Even if it were by tender hands. “Night before last. Lord Cunningham frightened the man away but could not see his features. He wore something over his face.”
“Ye cannae stay here.”
“Do not be ridiculous.”
“Meg, this is no time for ye to be stubborn.” He said the words with gentle pleading. As if he had coaxed her before. As if she had resisted him. Then yielded—which she had no intention of doing now.
“We were unaware of the danger then. Now we are not.” She straightened her shoulders. “Besides, Lord Cunningham is more than capable of protecting me.”
“I want to protect ye.”
“You presume too much—”
“I will protect ye.” Stepping closer to the sofa.
Leaning forward. Hands on the back of the furniture as his eyes burrowed into hers with furious passion.
“And I will find out who did this to ye. And I will stop them. And I will help ye remember. And I will bring ye home. And I will build ye our cottage. And I will paint it red. And I will marry ye, Meg Foxcroft.”
Her breath shallowed. Weakness climbed her legs, and despite the fact she shook her head in protest, her tight grip of emotions began to spiral.
Before she could say a word, Tom McGwen departed the room.
She scrubbed dry her cheeks with vehemence.
He was wrong, in every point.
Because she had no intention of ever seeing the man again.
“Tommy!” Joanie scampered up from behind the kitchen table, little Gyb—as she’d named the kitten—dangling from one arm.
The hearth sputtered with flames, crackling beneath a steaming iron cauldron. The heavy scents of woodsmoke and venison stirred Tom’s hunger.
“Meade already left. He said he had to visit a friend.”
The tavern, more likely.
“But he said we could eat without him.” With the same blissful diligence of Mamm, Joanie bustled around the kitchen—clanking earthenware bowls to the table, pouring mugs of coffee, and slicing two thick chunks of bread from an already stale loaf.
When they sat across from each other, she opened up her hand to him.
He hesitated.
He had not prayed—nor linked hands, as Papa taught them—in seven long years. The last thing he wanted was to mutter thanksgiving now. Especially to a God who did not exist.
Or had failed Tom, in every way imaginable, even if He did.
He grasped Joanie’s fingers anyway. “Ye can say it, lass.”
“I did it last time.”
“Go on.”
Her prayer was quiet, bashful, but possessed the same sweet sincerity as Meg. As if it never occurred to them that God could not be real or good or just or all the lofty things the vicar shouted from his pulpit.
They ate in silence.
The kitten wandered under the table, climbing up Tom’s trouser legs, meowing until Joanie slipped him dripping chunks of venison. Heat from the hearth rolled sweat down Tom’s temples.
Everything tasted bitter.
Hard to swallow.
The food settled like millstones in his gut.
“You went to see the lady again.” With the table cleared, Joanie untied her linen pinafore and allowed Gyb to play with the strings. “The one from the carriage with pictures on it.”
“Meade told you?”
She nodded.
“What else did he say that wasnae his business?”
“You don’t want me to know?”
He scooted from the table. “Almost dark outside. Time ye get to bed, hmmm?”
“So you can visit a friend too?”
So he could figure out a way to stop what was left of his pathetic life from unraveling. He needed to keep things together. Needed to keep himself together.
For Meg.
And his sister.
With a solemn nod of understanding, Joanie tucked Gyb into her arms and slipped away.
The kitchen was too quiet without her.
He opened a window, found one of Meade’s old pipes, and breathed in the tobacco-scented smoke. His head buzzed. He needed to get out of this place. He needed to be closer.
After he’d departed the gates of Penrose Abbey on his livery-rented horse, he’d scoured the neighboring tenant houses and nearby cottages for anything empty.
Almost hidden from the road, a thatched roof and brick chimney had caught his eye. He’d ridden closer.
The place was lifeless, save for a small herd of wild geese in the overgrown yard.
The fence was gray and splintered.
The whitewashed walls grimy.
The door face-forward on the ground.
But as he’d leaned inside, brushing back cobwebs, some of the turmoil in his brain stilled. As if the old place, the old boards, the creaking floor—so close to Meg—might give him something tangible he could fix. Something he could control.
“Tom?”
He glanced back at the kitchen doorway. Joanie stood with sagging shoulders, her eyes wider than crown coins.
“What is it, lass?”
“There’s a spider.” She wrung her hands. “In the rafters.”
“A wee spider won’t hurt ye.”
“Oh.” She nodded, as if he were right of course, as if she should have known better. She turned to leave—
“Wait, lass.” He dumped the ashes of his pipe into the hearth, then preceded Joanie up the narrow stairwell and into the chamber. He took off his boot and bit back a grin as he utilized his childhood skill of climbing furniture and edging up walls.
Meg might hate him.
The killer was yet unfound.
He had a sister he did not know what to do with, in a shop he couldn’t stay in, with a mind too frenzied to resolve anything.
But he could kill a spider in the rafters.
That much he could do.
“I cannot dance.” At the confession, both Lord Cunningham and Violet glanced up from the white-knitted picnic blanket.
For the past week, Penrose Abbey had been different. The ancient corridors were less empty and dim. The windows more sunlit. The rooms all a bit cheerier, with their fresh vases of flowers and the joyous floral scents.
Perhaps it was the absence of Lord Cunningham’s secret. Why had he kept such a thing in the first place? Did he not think her capable, after he had borne her troubles, for her to bear his?
Only in her bedchamber, at night, did the merriment pass.
Darkness cloaked her, wrapped about her soul, as she blew out the final candle.
Because she thought of him.
Tom.
She knew every line he’d spoken to her by heart, she felt his lips, and she chilled beneath the powerful intensity of his eyes.
When she was awake, halfway into the night, she thumped her pillow and tossed and huffed in frustration.
When she was asleep, she was dragged unwillingly back into his arms, into haunting memories of him she knew weren’t real.
He had loved her.
That much she felt.
Had she loved him?
Doubtful.
No, she had likely been lonely and he a preying companion. Or foolish and him the luring pursuer. Which explained, of course, her fear of him. Why else should he discomfit her so? Why else should she resist the thought of ever seeing him again but, at the same time, think of nothing else?
Lord Cunningham deemed the man a rogue.
Her past, from all accounts, had been lovely. She had lived a pleasant life with her uncle in a pleasant apothecary shop, pleasantly assisting the ill and aching.
Tom McGwen had been the one stain on her lily-white existence.
She could not be blamed for wishing to rub that stain away.
Or for having trouble doing so.
“Even I know how to dance, and I am only seven.”
“Violet.” Lord Cunningham shook his head at his daughter, though he smiled. “You must remember that our darling Miss Margaret has not all of her memories. She may be more proficient at dancing than either of us.”
“She cannot be better than you.”
Lord Cunningham took another quick drink of his ginger beer, as if to keep from a laugh. “My daughter, as you can see, does like to flatter me. What is it you want, my dear child?”
“I wish to go punting on the lake.”
“You forget we made our good doctor a promise. An hour of fresh air and that is all. No exertion whatsoever.”
Violet crossed her arms over her chest with a pitiful glance at the rippling, sky-reflecting lake. Beyond it in the distance, Penrose Abbey sat crested among trees and bushes, a tranquil backdrop to their picnic.
“Very well.” Violet scooped up a handful of nuts and crunched on them a little too loudly. “I am used to being disappointed.”
“My dear—”
“Won’t you teach Miss Margaret how to dance? I want to watch. Please say yes. You never, ever allow me any amusements.”
His eyes hurried to Meg—a bit too eagerly, though he cleared his throat as if this were a sacrifice they both must make for the sake of indulging his daughter.
Meg placed her empty plate back into the wicker basket. “I suppose with the assembly ball tomorrow, I should know a little.”
“Precisely.” Lord Cunningham helped her to her feet. “Though I warn you, I am no caper merchant. And with no music or set, this might all be quite in vain.”
The ridiculous urge to wiggle out of her slippers came over Meg. She ignored the notion.
“Perhaps we should begin with simple footwork. The chassé step, perhaps.” He took both of her hands, though she sensed that was not entirely necessary. “Temps levé and step forward with your right foot. Very good. Now the left foot follows the right and takes weight.”
The breeze was warm, too warm, catching scents of roasted lamb and pickled vegetables and strawberries. She fumbled through the steps once. Then twice.