Chapter 12
For a long time, he told her nothing. Had it been Lord Cunningham, she would have used a piteous voice and coaxed him into telling her anything.
Tom McGwen was different.
He did things his own way, in his own time—and if they had ever fought in the past, perhaps that was why. He was as headstrong as she. Perhaps more.
The weight of her question ground into her, like bricks being stacked on her already heavily laden shoulders. She should have suspected before. Her discomfort every time Lord Cunningham maneuvered close. The instant flight sensation every time lips swept innocently across her own.
“The carriage was no accident, lass.”
“I know.” She should have fought against the change in subject, but a small part of her wished to run from it anyway. “There were gunshots. The driver is dead.”
“Ye saw nothing?”
“No.”
“ ’Tis luck ye survived.”
“It was God.”
No answer. His arms widened around her, a curtesy he’d demonstrated ever since she mentioned the kiss, as if he were unwilling to make her feel trapped. “I wanted to show ye the note.”
“Have you no belief in God, Mr. McGwen?”
“I’ll say no word against Him.”
“That is hardly an answer.”
“Here.” Behind her, he reached into his pocket and slipped a black-edged letter into her hand. “I plan to speak with Mr. Telfner, the stationer, ’pon my return. Mayhap he’ll know the paper.”
“Or the handwriting.” Meg skittered over the words with a fresh churn of sickness. “What does this mean … the lives of those who take others?”
“Ye did naught but help folk, lass.”
“This is some sort of … vendetta against me. Against my uncle.” The letter blurred. “For something we did. Perhaps for someone we lost.”
“Ye could not save everyone. Ye did yer best.”
“Whoever wrote this would not be so certain nor so righteous in their crusade of justice had there been no fault.”
“Meg.”
“I must have done something. I must have allowed someone to die.”
“I know ye, and I say ye didn’t.”
His confidence, his utter belief in her, steadied her tattered nerves. ’Twas almost a comfort. When she could not even trust herself, to have someone so assured of her innocence, her goodness, her integrity …
More than anything in the world, she wished to believe him.
She was not certain she could.
Not if all the things Lord Cunningham warned were true. How much had the lord not told her? How many secrets about Tom McGwen would she unbury later?
Somehow, she didn’t fear them.
She should.
Instead, the tightness twisting and pulling inside her finally loosened. Perhaps it was only the sway of the horse—the constant clacking of hooves, the soothing sun in her face—that made her lean back against his chest.
She meant to apologize, explain how weary she was, but Tom said nothing and his breathing was even, steady, next to her ear. She stared at his hands.
Strong, tapered fingers. Freckles. The faintest protruding veins.
They were nice hands.
Lord Cunningham’s were pale, his fingers too long and smooth. His palms a little damp, sometimes, though it was likely from the gloves—and she certainly could not fault him for that.
Meg yawned. She should not think such things. None of this mattered. Nothing mattered except remembering what she’d forgotten, knowing who she was … and extracting herself from the web of whomever wanted her dead.
When the horse finally trotted into Sunderlin Downs, she had to fight to keep her eyes open.
Tom pulled the reins in front of Dr. Bagot’s office—a tall, square-bricked building down Plumgate Row. Across the street, a barrow-woman shouted, “Lemons—ripe, ripe lemons!” while a gang of children chased a scraggly dog into an alley.
“Ye awake?”
She nodded and bit back a pinch of protest when he dismounted.
He pulled her down next to him. “I’ll walk ye in.”
“You need not bother.” Lord Cunningham, she imagined, would already be dismayed at Meg’s choice of company. ’Twould be in bad form to frustrate him more.
“Stay away from the windows. See that ye keep yer doors locked.”
“I will.”
“Dinnae leave this office until yer lord has sent for servants.”
“Already done, I am certain.”
“I’ll speak with the constable and see to it the driver’s body is—”
“You need not trouble yourself.” She raised her chin in false assurance. “Lord Cunningham is most capable, and I’ve no doubt at all he has already seen to the details. This was our tragedy after all, Mr. McGwen. You must be anxious to return to your sister.”
As if he had not heard anything she said, he continued, “And then I’ll find yer shoes.” The smallest grin worked at his lips, the pull of it somehow disarming. He gave a hard little nod. “Now go lie down somewhere and sleep.”
She huffed and spun for the door, rankled that he thought it his right to order her about. Or rankled, perhaps more so, that her lips smiled back.
“A little higher, my dear.” Lord Cunningham sucked air through his teeth as Meg stacked another feather-stuffed pillow beneath his ankle. “Yes, yes. That shall suffice. Elevation seems to alleviate my pain, if nothing else.”
“The nurse assured us your ankle is not broken.”
“It might well have been for all this agony I am suffering.” Lord Cunningham sighed and reached for the glass the nurse had left by his bedside. Meg suspected laudanum, judging by the glassiness of his eyes. “And you, my dear? You appear very drawn. How long have you been sitting here next to me?”
“Less than an hour. The nurse sent an errand boy to fetch a new carriage and servants from Penrose.” She tucked the bed linens higher up his neck. “They shall arrive soon.”
“I should not have been so heedless to fall asleep.”
“You were weary.”
“As are you.” He glanced about the wide upstairs room—complete with a singular bed, a cluttered desk in the corner, an examining table, and a hanging skeleton body in the corner.
“Here. As we are quite alone and propriety has already been breached, you may sit next to me. I daresay that chair must be most disagreeable after such an ordeal.”
She stood. “I am not tired, my lord.” The lie bolstered her with a new wave of energy. She moved to the window, knees jittering as she peeled back the curtain.
Below, the street bustled with wagons and dog carts and basket-laden hawkers. The cadence of their noises drifted to Meg like a raspy whisper that everything was still well. She was still alive. Was he down there? Had he—or they—already discovered where she hid?
“Margaret, please sit next to me.”
She did not wish to look at him, let alone settle next to his side. Nevertheless, she returned to her chair. The air lodged in her throat.
“I assured myself, for your sake, I would remain silent and cumber you not with any unpleasantness. Remorsefully, I seem to possess no such powers of restraint.”
“Go on.”
“It was in a most unorganized and improper manner that I was thrust upon the passengers in the mail coach.”
“Yes.”
“I was in grave pain, I was uncommonly ill of temper, and I was as angry at myself, as I was at you, that your passage home was with the dreaded Mr. McGwen.” Lord Cunningham took the last sip of the reddish-brown medicine, scrunching his face.
“So you must forgive me for the lack of wisdom and discretion in such an hour.”
“Pray, my lord, what are you saying?”
“They know, my dear.” His pale eyes drilled into her. “They are all quite aware of our compromised situation. That we were … alone … the length of the night.”
“Which could not be helped.” She stood again, nearly knocking over the chair. “We were victims of a cruel attack and cannot be blamed for—”
“I fear wagging tongues are never so kind.” Lord Cunningham frowned. “This terrible incident, along with any mysteries of your past, may prove to be our ruining.”
“My reputation is of no consequence.”
“I fear I cannot be so yielding.”
Eyes widening, she glanced at his face. The same overwhelming sense of being lost—and alone—hollowed through her. “I understand.” Her shoulders slumped as she turned. “I fear you are right. It was only a matter of time, and now that the danger has escalated, it would be wrong of me to stay.”
“Dear—”
“You have been very kind to me.”
“Margaret, you are not listening to me.” He groaned and the bed linens rustled as if he’d swung his legs over the edge. “I am not asking you to depart Penrose Abbey nor to abandon my company.” He limped behind her, hands falling on her shoulders, and whispered, “I am asking you to marry me.”
The corridor was long, the stained-glass windows casting colorful hues onto the gleaming hemlock floor boards. Lord Cunningham’s footsteps matched hers. He had spoken without abate on their journey back to Penrose, as if nothing had changed.
As if her world had not altered.
Again.
“… Consequently, there are many features of the home you have yet to explore. Perhaps when you are rested again, I shall give you the tour myself.”
She would have been kind to say anything.
Nod, at the least.
But all she could think was to keep moving—to make it to her chamber, where she would slam the door, turn the lock, and breathe.
“I have been equally negligent in delighting you with the abbey’s history. I assure you, even for one who would rather study casebooks, it is a matter of interest.”
Marry her? Had that been his intention all along?
“The monastery was founded in 1147 …”
His reason for helping her?
“… but was surrendered for dissolution in 1539. After a house fire nearly two centuries later, the abbey was gutted and reconstructed to more modish architecture.”
Had she been wrong to accept his charity, the comfort of his support, though she suspected his heart was involved? Had she trampled his grace?
“Thus, our Penrose Abbey.”
The word our stuck in the air, sucking the wind from her lungs, as they halted before her bedchamber door.