Chapter 10 #2
“That’s enough.” For the second time, Tom put distance between them. He walked to the door and held it open. “I want ye to go back to the inn. See that Meade takes ye. Ye’ll be safe with him.”
“Mr. McGwen, answer me one thing.”
He nodded her on.
“Is what happened tonight, the letter …” Why was it so hard to get out the words? “It is not because of me … is it?”
Tom did not answer for so long that she knew the answer. “I am sorry.” For more than tonight. For several days ago, when she had lashed out at him in this very room, when he had done nothing but keep her safe.
“Goodnight, lass.”
She hurried from the chamber and nearly ran back down the stairs.
She gripped the railing at the bottom. Whoever he was, whatever atrocities he had done—or they had done together—she was beginning to understand one thing: why the old Meg Foxcroft, and every other girl in the village, had seen more than a mere fisherman in Tom McGwen.
Meade’s soft snores drifted through the door, the rhythmic sound finally uncoiling the tension in Tom’s muscles.
“Sleep,” Meade had barked at both Tom and Joanie when the doctor departed. “I’ll guard the door.”
Tom had argued it was unnecessary. Whoever had done this would not be so quick to return. But Meade had insisted and, with his new bottle of ale and one of the kitchen stools, had taken his position like a sentry.
Tom straddled his chair backwards.
Joanie still slept, her cotton sling visible between her hair and the coverlets. The doctor said she was no more than bruised. She shouldn’t be that. Tom should have stopped this, and by heaven, he should have kept her safe.
He dropped his head. The letter wailed from his pocket, like a sharp wind cutting through wet trees. The edges were black again. The mark of grief.
You save the lives of those who take others. You dip your hands in their blood. Cease now before that blood is yours.
Mr. Foxcroft had killed no one. Meg had killed no one. All they’d ever done, the whole of their existence, was restore health and save lives. They had unstained hands.
Unlike Tom.
Rolling over in bed, Joanie’s soft breathing came faster. Tears dripped from under her closed eyelids.
“Shhh, lass.” Tom moved to the edge of the bed. “Ye awake?”
“Is it morning?” she whispered, eyes still closed.
“Nay.”
“Where is Gyb?”
“Last I looked, the wee thing was sleeping on Meade’s lap. But if ye tell him I told ye, I’ll be denying every word.”
She rumbled with a quiet laugh, smearing the wet streaks from her cheeks. She sighed and finally squinted up at him. Her lashes quivered. “Tom?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you wish Mamm had never sent me here?”
“Why would ye say that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lass.”
She slipped her fingers over her face.
“Look at me, ye wee little ninny.” He pried back her hands. “Wouldn’t ye know I was thinking to ask the same of ye?”
“You were?”
“I’ve done little more than leave ye to yerself in that dashed room of mine or drag ye along for errands.”
“You bought me shoes.”
“And I’ve no friends for ye. I’ve not even taken ye to church.”
“Meade is my friend. And Gyb.”
“ ’Tis not so grand as ye’re saying, Joanie. Any other brother would have done better for ye.”
“No, Tom.” She leaned up and with her good arm wrapped herself close to his neck. She kissed his cheek. “Isaac and Moses never rode me on their back when I was little. They wouldn’t talk to me like you do, now that I’m grown.”
“Ye’re not so grown as all that.” He laughed, though it sent pain rippling along his bruised ribs. “Enough of this fuss. Lie down with ye and go back to sleep.”
“You’ll be here?”
“Aye.”
“What will we do tomorrow?”
“Rest.” And show Meg the letter. Because as much as it would frighten her and make her question everything, she deserved the truth.
Lord Cunningham spoke very few of his usual pleasantries on the journey home. Every moment or so, he licked his thumb, turned a worn page of A Guide to Health, and swayed with every jostle in the road without bumping her elbow.
Which he had done, more than once, on the arriving trip.
“I fear you are terribly angry with me, my lord.”
“I am never angry.” He turned another page. “As I am wont to telling Violet, only momentarily disappointed.”
“If my conscience would allow me to apologize, I would.”
“But it does not?”
“No.” She sighed, placing her hand on the glossy blue edge of the landau. An afternoon breeze rustled across the countryside, scented of brine and flora. “Not when I am certain I would have made the same decision again.”
“Then it is of necessity we discuss the matter no further, my dear. I cannot be persuaded to your opinion, and it is certain you cannot be persuaded to mine. Thus”—he snapped his book shut and finally glanced at her—“what do you say we put last night out of our minds? Indeed, this whole trip entirely?”
“I am agreeable to such terms.” Meg smiled and held out her hand. “Friends again, then?”
He pulled her fingers to his lips. “Friends again, my sweet one.”
They settled back into silence, albeit a more comfortable one, and Meg took to watching the fishing vessels in the distance. They bobbed up and down in rhythm to the sea, some twenty feet beneath the high road.
The beach below was secluded. Jagged rocks were scattered among the rust-colored sand, and the sloping hill between the road and the shore was dotted with bright yellow flowers.
Had she come here with Tom? Had she watched him set sail on his boat each morn, then waited for his return each eve?
Had she teased him? Told him her secrets?
Loved him?
She forced her eyes back to the road. No matter if she had. Meg Foxcroft—niece of an apothecary, girl of mystery and mischief—was as far removed from who she was now she could not even reconcile the two.
A zing shot past her ear.
“Oh.” She shifted. “What was …” No.
From his perch, the driver slumped forward. His tricorne hat was gone. A black-red hole dented his head.
“Down.” Lord Cunningham scrunched himself into the landau floor, hands over his head. His breathing raced faster than the carriage. “Down, Margaret!”
“We need to jump!” Another shot whizzed. A carriage lantern shattered. “Now! The reins—”
The driver toppled over. Gone. The horses bolted faster.
With a numbing surge of adrenaline, she flung herself to the opposite seat and climbed for the driver’s empty perch. Her dress tangled about her legs. Bonnet ribbons fluttered in front of her face. God, help me. Securing her grip on the perch, she leaned forward and groped—
Another shot.
One of the horses downed, the other reared, and the landau raised on two wheels. Then everything whished and whooshed around her. A scream. Mayhap her own. The sensation of falling dropped her stomach, and the shadow of the hurling carriage sent her mind shrieking.
Earth pounded her face.
She flopped downward.
At first groping, resisting, grabbing fistfuls of grass in attempt to catch her fall. Then just floating, not tethered to anything, as her mind grew feathers and wings. She flew into darkness and felt nothing at all.