Chapter 11
A dull pain radiated through Tom as the slobbering mutt jumped up and slapped its paws on his thighs. Mud streaked his trousers. “Down, boy.”
“Oley’s a girl.” From the second story of the coaching inn, Betsey leaned over the outside railing. She wiped loose hair from her smirking eyes. “Don’t you know a girl, Mr. McGwen, when you see one?”
He rubbed the animal’s head, pushing her down with the other hand. He kept on toward the front door without looking up.
“What you want? Come for your ladylove?” Louder. “She ain’t here, Mr. McGwen. They left near an hour ago.”
He halted and craned back his head. “Where to?”
“That abbey, reckon.”
“Did she leave me any word?” He wasn’t certain why she would.
Still. He had not thought she would dry the blood off his face either.
What had possessed her to accompany the doctor last night?
She had shuffled into Tom’s chamber unafraid.
She had stepped close to him, spoken to him, just softly enough he might have pretended nothing had changed.
That she was still Meg.
His Meg.
“Well.” Betsey flapped a white sheet, dust flying. “All she said was things I ’pose you wouldn’t want to hear.” Flap. “Things about that lordy.” Flap. “I’ll not be the one to tell you, to be sure.”
“Miss Creagh.” He tried to rein his anger as showers of dust landed on his face and the infernal dog once again leapt on his trousers. “Talk sense.”
“I am. ’Deed, it makes perfect sense why Miss Foxcroft would want to marry him. Why wouldn’t she? I would. He is handsome, you know. And rich.”
Marry him? Repulsion chilled him. Then burned him, like a fever creeping across his brow. No, she would not marry him.
She’d already promised herself to Tom.
Whether she remembered or not.
Lifting the dog off him, Tom strode into the inn and brought his fists down on the long wooden counter. “Has Dr. Bagot departed yet?”
“Decided to stay a day or two longer to take in the sea air.” Mrs. Creagh frowned. “Might be in his room. Might not. I don’t have time to keep up with every Jack Adams who stays here.”
“Which room?”
“Eleven. Second floor.” Mrs. Creagh pruned her lips. “But mind you take care of your business and get. This hain’t no visiting parlor, see?”
He took the steps two at a time and found room eleven in the first hall. He knocked once. “Dr. Bagot?”
No answer.
He turned to leave, but a faint creak drew him back. So the man was here after all. Tom pushed at the door—
“Oh!” Mrs. Musgrave gave a little start. “Tommy, dear, it is you.”
He swung the door wider and glanced about the room in confusion. One neatly made bed. A greasy lantern. A crookedly hung mirror above a washstand, where a black-leather medical bag sat beside the pitcher.
No doctor.
“What are ye doing here?” Tom stepped inside, glancing at the cloth-covered platter in her hand. The smell of chocolate wafted from under the linen. “With those.”
“Oh, these.” Mrs. Musgrave smiled. She wore one of her flower-studded hats, and a bit of powder was smeared across her wrinkled cheeks.
Perhaps it was only that which made her face so pallid.
“I just thought how nice it would be to bring Miss Foxcroft some of my chocolate biscuits. You do remember she loved them.”
He nodded. “How did you end up here?”
“Oh?” Her eyes shifted. “Oh, oh, yes. When I realized she had already departed, I thought I might as well share these treats with someone who might enjoy them.” She touched his stitched cheek.
“If I had known you looked like this, I would have brought them to you instead. Whatever happened to you, child?”
“Nothing.”
“I think perhaps you should wait for Dr. Bagot. He must take a look at you.”
“He already has.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Then why were you”—Mrs. Musgrave gave a little chuckle—“you know, my dear, looking for him now?”
“I’ve not been able to talk with him about Meg. I want to know if she will …” Remember Tom? Look at him the same? Keep her promise? “Get better.”
“You need not worry. Most troubles have a way of sorting themselves.” Mrs. Musgrave patted his chest, then leaned up on her tiptoes and planted a small kiss on his cheek. Was it his imagination, or did her breath seem short?
“I must be running along now, dear. Bring little Joanie to see me soon. I am certain Lenox and her new kitten shall quite enjoy each other’s company.” After settling her platter beside the medical bag, Mrs. Musgrave offered him a faint little wave and bustled away.
Tom sighed.
When he could think straight, he would question Mrs. Musgrave further. Perhaps she was not so much in health as she seemed. But now, he must find Meg.
Clutching his ribs, he lumbered back into the hall. He had two things to give her.
The note.
And all the reasons she could not marry anyone else.
The grass was wet. With a throbbing head, she pushed herself up on her elbows, muscles quivering. Twilight had already settled, making the distant ocean a foggy haze. The wind moaned. She bit back her own complaints. Lord Cunningham.
Standing on wobbly legs, feet slipping in the grass, she made her way toward the black shadow of the carriage. “My lord?” She yanked at the crushed door. It didn’t budge. “My lord!”
“Over here.” The voice came from the bottom of the slope.
Fisting her dress, she skidded down to him and collapsed her knees into the sand. “Are you injured? Can you move?”
He was leaned against a rock, and even in the growing darkness, blood was visible across his temple. He tugged his cravat from his neck. “I think I have twisted my ankle. My head is madness.”
“Do not move. Here.” She mopped at the blood. “It is no more than a scratch.”
“Which is more than can be said for my carriage.” Dry anger pulled at his voice, and he pushed her hand away from his head. “Enough, dear girl. You are patting me to death. I shall hitherto sympathize with Violet for being prodded upon all the time.”
She scooted back, trying to compose her breath. Pain pulsated through her skull, and too many thoughts scrambled in her brain. The only one she understood was that someone had tried to kill her.
Again.
Why? What had she done that was so terrible, so despicable, that someone would hunt her this way? Had she known before? Or was the old Meg just as oblivious as she was now?
“There is simply no way I shall be able to move from this spot.” Lord Cunningham ripped his tailcoat open. Buttons popped. “If Dr. Bagot had accompanied us as planned, he might have been of service.”
“Or dead.” Meg stood back to her feet, grabbing the rock for support. She studied herself for injury. Other than sore limbs and a pounding headache, she appeared to be unharmed. “I must look for the driver. Perhaps he is yet alive.”
“He is not.” Lord Cunningham pointed.
A few feet away, face down in the sand, the man’s body was sprawled.
Meg hurried toward him. With tears in her throat, she grabbed his stiff shoulder and overturned him. His eyes were half open. Dry and cloudy and … so very, very lifeless.
She sniffled. “He is dead because of me.”
“Come here, my dear.” When she didn’t move, he said again in a more demanding pitch, “Come here, Margaret.”
She trudged back to him, lowering herself next to where he patted. His arm came around her, pulling her close.
“The blame for this atrocity is not yours to bear.”
“You do not know that.”
“Of course I do.”
“Perhaps I did something, gave someone cause to—”
“There are very few acts hideous enough to warrant murder. I am confident you could not be guilty of one.” He hugged her tighter. “Regardless, we are in a very compromised position. I cannot climb to the road, and you cannot venture the journey alone.”
“Perhaps with my arm under you, we could—”
“Impossible, my dear. I have not the strength.”
“Then I can wave down a carriage from the road.”
“Prey to any highwayman or vagabond? I think not.” He reached for her fingers, pulled them up to his cheek.
Had she not been so weary, so afraid, she would have drawn away.
“No, Margaret, I think we have little choice but to remain here until daylight and hope someone stumbles upon our plight.” He sighed. “Now lay your head upon my shoulder and rest. This has all the makings of a very long night.”
A shiver swept up her spine as she rubbed her arms and blinked into the deepening darkness. Whoever had shot at them might still be out there. Every rustle of the grass, every crash of the waves heightened a sense of fear not even Lord Cunningham’s arms dissuaded.
Oddly enough, her harried thoughts strayed to Tom. She almost prayed he’d come. That he’d find her.
For the strangest reason in the world, that made her feel safe.
Blast it. The road stretched out before Tom, choked in blackness and fog. The air was moist. A chill prickled through his body like an infection, giving his heart a light stutter.
Meg was gone.
He had arrived at Penrose Abbey an hour later than it would have taken before. He’d ridden slower, one hand supporting his ribs, endeavoring to hit as few ruts as possible.
He would have raced like the wind had he known.
Now it was too late.
He leaned forward, tightness pulling at his stitches. The pain fired him. He should have showed her the note. She should have been aware. Tom and Meade and the constable and anyone else should have guarded her carriage home.
Not again. A holy name was too close to the words. Words that felt, against his will, like a prayer. Please.
Yanking the horse to a stop, he tucked the reins under his knee and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Meg!” His bellow echoed. He shouted louder, trotted forward a mile, then yelled again.
No answer on the wind.
No waving shadow on the road.
Heaven help him, he could not find her body. He knew cold skin too well. He’d touched Caleb’s face after it happened, straightening his crooked limbs, wiping the drizzle of blood from the corner of his lip.
“Moses, get Papa!” He’d been crying. He never cried. “Hurry!”