Chapter 10
“If I had known our stay would be so extended, I would have brought a volume of poems.” Lord Cunningham leaned back in his squeaky chair, his white gloved hands a perfect contrast to the scratched and dented table.
Pewter wall scones cast the taproom in a juxtaposition of light and shadow. Figures hunkered at tables, drinking, mostly clothed in articles as drab as the inn itself.
One of the fishermen slanted a look at her.
Another barked her name in a hoarse whisper.
Be calm. Hair stood on her neck, and the wild impulse to bolt back to her chamber nearly sprang her from the chair.
“Margaret, you must not think me so insensible to your turmoil.” With a careful finger, he nudged her white porcelain plate closer—filled to the brim with pigeon breast, sweet corn, grapes, nectarines, and pudding.
Where had he acquired all this? Did he not think her capable of common dishware and courses?
“Do not excite yourself, my dear.” He followed her gaze to the shadowed men in the taproom. “I daresay, if those villagers were about to injure you, they would have already done it. Besides, I have three servants posted out of doors. One hail from me and they shall be upon us.”
“Thank you.” He was right, of course. Then why were her muscles coiled so tight? Why did she flinch, in her bed, every time footsteps passed by her chamber doorway?
“I assure you, I shall make certain nothing so atrocious occurs again.” Lord Cunningham leaned forward. “We shall get you back to Penrose; we shall fortify the abbey; and you may set your heart to rest.”
“Am I to hide away the length of my life?”
“Until this fiend is entrapped.”
“And if he is not?”
“You are too somber.” His light blue eyes smiled, catching sconce light—though they were somehow less fervent than his voice portrayed. “Would it truly be so unfavorable to spend the length of your days in Penrose Abbey, my dear?”
Betsey’s words rushed back to Meg in a torrent. Then Violet’s. “My lord, you have been so kind to me.” The sudden need to clarify their attachment rose. “But certainly, we—”
The boom of a door jarred Meg.
Her heart pitter-pattered in her chest, and she twisted in her seat just as a giant man charged into the taproom. Meade, was it? His shirt sleeves were ripped at the shoulders, a black-smeared apron was tied across his waist, and something disturbing discolored his hands.
Blood.
“Miss Foxcroft, I be needin’ your help.”
She stood on legs already turning to jelly. “What has happened?”
“That doctor o’ yours. Where is he?”
“I believe he has retired to his chamber.” Lord Cunningham rose too. “But certainly, another local physician might administer to your needs without encumbering Mr. Bag—”
Meade was gone before Lord Cunningham had finished his speech. “Preposterous.” He ripped his napkin from his neckcloth. “We travel home in the morning, and the last thing I wish to do is entangle us further with—where are you going?” Lord Cunningham grabbed her shoulder as she turned.
“With them.”
“Impossible.”
“The doctor may need assistance, and I have aided my uncle enough to be of some use.”
“Before, granted. Certainly not now.”
“Perhaps my hands shall remember what my mind does not.” She hurried from the taproom, Meade and Dr. Bagot already descending the stairs.
Meg turned to the girl behind the long, wooden counter. “Betsey, have you a cloak?”
“Yes, miss.” She nodded and flounced away.
“Margaret, I must insist,” said Lord Cunningham. “This is not only unreasonable, it is unsafe.”
“Tom still not awake … cold rag on his head …” Snatches of Meade’s words hit Meg like a new onslaught of poison. As the two reached the bottom floor, Betsey returned and draped a moth-scented cloak about Meg’s shoulders.
“Has someone tried to murder Mr. McGwen?” the girl croaked.
Meade ripped open the door and shoved the doctor through. “Got to hurry.”
“Margaret.” Lord Cunningham maneuvered in front of Meg, blocking the doorway before she could follow. “That man, whoever he was to you before, is not your concern now.”
“I know.”
“Then in the name of faith, listen to reason. He is not worth your trouble. Indeed, he is not worth anything.”
“I did not say he was.” A light tremble fanned through her. Why, she was uncertain. Not for care of Tom McGwen. He was a blackguard who had assaulted Lord Cunningham, invaded her bedroom, kissed her … saved her life, only days before.
She pushed the memory of his arms, the smell of his blanket, out of her mind. She would do no less for anyone. She was the niece of an apothecary. It was in her blood to nurse the injured, and it was no more complicated than that.
“My lord, get out of my way.”
With her legs stronger and her stomach less like the tossing sea, the blacksmith shop appeared less ominous.
She shuffled inside behind Dr. Bagot and Meade, curiosity—not concern—drumming impatience at her chest. Was the doctor always so lethargic in his gait?
Was he untroubled when someone needed his help?
“This way,” grunted Meade.
Dripping tallow candles perched in wooden window seals set the rooms in a dim yellow haze as they made their way to the stairs. The steps creaked as they ascended.
Tom’s door slammed open before they reached the top. “Joanie.” He gripped the doorway to keep from falling. “Where is—”
“She be in my bed.”
“I want to see her.”
“After the doctor gets you—”
“He looks at Joanie first.” Tom rushed into the narrow hallway, but Meade shouldered under him before he stumbled. “I’m fine.” Tom yanked free. He burst into the second bedroom like thunder reverberating through clouds.
Dr. Bagot’s beaver hat blocked her view.
Then Meade’s shoulders.
But as Meg finally squeezed into the too-tiny chamber and skirted along the back wall, her breath snagged.
He leaned over the child in the bed, his hands frenzied as he turned her face from one side to another, searching for injury. “Ye hurt?”
Joanie cried and shook her head.
“Ye tell me the truth, lass, hear?”
“He didn’t hurt me.” She hiccupped, reaching beneath her dress collar to tug something free. A tiny green string securing a folded note. “He said to read you this. I was afraid to.”
Tom eased it from her. He stuffed it away in his trouser pocket. “Ye dinnae have to. Ye need but rest, lass.”
“Please, stay with me.”
“I will.” Meade stepped next to the bed, his giant presence emitting a sense of control. “Bagot, get this fool back to his chamber—”
“He looks at Joanie first.” Tom pulled back the thin coverlet. His shoulders deflated, as if he’d already known the child would be cradling her elbow.
Dr. Bagot was already clicking open his bag. “Show me, Miss McGwen, exactly where it is you experience pain.”
Shrinking back, without so much as glancing at Meg, Tom left the room.
Tightness pulled at her shoulders. She leaned harder against the wall, clasped her hands, because she had no intention of following him.
Until Meade lifted his gaze to her with pleading eyes.
But a moment. Gathering her dress, she swept back into the hall and approached his already closed door. Her hand was unsteady as she touched the knob. What could she do? What did she know?
Nothing.
Not of his injuries, nor the note in his trouser pocket, nor of him.
But she pushed the knob anyway. Too many candles were lit inside, and although she had expected to find him on the pallet on the floor, he leaned with his arm over his head at the window. The smell of night and chimney smoke wafted in.
“May I see the letter?”
He did not react to her voice. His voice was pain-laced. “Another time, lass.”
“This is not because of …” The words failed her when he turned.
In the candlelight, he was no more shadow and memory. Every detail of his features was visible—the lacerations across his smooth forehead, the white cheekbone peeking through a swollen and jagged cut.
In the strangest way, he appeared stronger.
Taller.
His gaze steadier, more mesmerizing, even blood-matted. “What are ye doing here?”
“Meade came to the coaching inn. He inquired after the doctor.”
“He shouldnae have asked ye to come.”
“He didn’t.”
Disbelief raised his brow, but he did not question her. Instead, he moved to the other side of the room. With a surprisingly steady hand, he poured water from a chipped pitcher into a mismatched bowl.
“Let me help you.”
“Not afraid I’ll hurt ye?”
“I deserved that, I suppose.” She pulled a linen rag from a peg on the wall, then slid next to him and dipped the cloth. The warm water calmed her uncertain hands. She had done this before, had she not?
“I can do it.” Tom stopped her before she touched him.
A jolt passed from his fingers to her wrist.
This close, he was taller than she had realized. He smelled like his blanket.
“Look toward the window.” When he did not obey, she used one finger to angle his chin, then pressed the rag to his cheek. The white soaked red. Her heart flipped every time he did not wince but she knew he should have.
“Dr. Bagot shall sew this. You may be scarred.”
“I dinnae spend much time with the mirror anyway.”
The village girls would be disappointed, perhaps. “Are you injured elsewhere?”
“No.”
“You are lying, sir.”
“Ye’ve not called me that before.”
She dipped the rag back into the water, wrung it, then swept it at his split lip.
Unbidden thoughts heated her cheeks. These same lips pouring over hers.
Tasting strange and confusing and frantic.
He’d been as out of control, as reckless, as the Tom who had just barged into Joanie’s room and rubbed her entire face—but just as loving.
Had he kissed other girls as he’d kissed her? Was that the reason shopkeepers’ daughters crept to the docks to watch him? Had she done so herself?
The breadth of his chest struck her. The clearness of his eyes. She felt his breath, warm, measured—and a traitorous tingle soared up her spine.