Chapter 16
They should go back. If Lord Cunningham had not already sent an army after her, he would if she was not returned before dark.
For the second time today, Tom grabbed her hand.
She thought to protest, but the gesture seemed more practical than affectionate.
From the millinery shop, he’d dragged her to the smithy, where they’d eaten warm pasties with Meade and Joanie.
Then on to the graveyard, where he’d shown her Mr. Foxcroft’s tombstone.
Then the curiosity shop, where they’d piddled about and purused the old and scruffy treasures.
His fingers were strong, almost too strong.
The alley narrowed, then opened up to weathered quays and a translucent green sea. He jogged to the end of a wharf, freed her hand, sat, and dropped his legs over the edge.
She remained standing. “I think it time we depart.”
He patted beside him.
“I am in earnest.”
“Sit down with ye before I throw ye in.” Ever since their departure from the millinery shop, he had been distracted, his brow a little heavy, as if his mind were solving problems elsewhere.
Now, his eyes lifted to hers in full attention.
A faint pricking sensation breezed the back of her neck, and she threatened her lips not to return his grin.
He raised a brow, as if giving her one last chance to comply. Had he always been so demanding? Or she only more indulging?
“Oh, fine.” She plopped down next to him, sighing away her frustration. “You realize, of course, I shall never hear the end of this from Lord Cunningham.”
“Yer uncle always survived. I think yer lordy will too.”
“Were we so imprudent?”
“Depends on who ye ask.”
“What if I ask you?”
He took off his coat, tossed it beside him, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “I think ye worry about it all too much. Ye were happy. ’Tis all ye need to know.”
“Surely, you cannot blame me for my inquiries.” She stared out across the water—the blue-orange evening sky melting into the horizon, the seagulls mewing above them, the anchored fishing vessels bobbing in the waves.
“It is not enough to know I was happy. I must know why I was happy in order that I might be so again.”
“I’ll tell ye how.”
“How?”
“Find out what makes ye get out of bed in the morning.” He shrugged, smiled. “My Mamm used to write things. I had nae time for words when I was wee, but she’d sing them to me at night or say them in my ear when she was scrubbing me clean.”
“That is lovely.”
“‘Whatever it is, keep it,’ she said. ‘Then ye’ll be happy.’”
“What made her happy?”
“Her wee ones. Papa, I guess.” He rolled his shoulders again. “I never asked.”
“And you?”
He looked at her, then away, the wind stirring his hair the same time it tousled hers. He jumped up too quickly, grabbing her hand. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“To see the boat.” Energy radiated from him like a lightning bolt from his fingers to hers as they took off running back down the wharf. She almost laughed. She grumbled instead, murmuring how they should go home, that they had not time.
At the rocky slope, he hesitated, staring at her with a roguish twinkle.
Then he swooped her into his arms.
“Tom!” She had not meant to cry his name. Sir would have been far more effective—and he deserved no more, especially after this.
Climbing over the rocks, he splashed knee-deep into the water and waded toward a small, two-masted boat. The canvas sails were rolled tight, and a fiery orange sun cast the vessel in an unearthly glow.
“Here.” Up to his waist in water, Tom swung her into the boat. “Careful of the mess. Mr. Flemick takes little care.”
“Mr. Flemick?”
Tom climbed in next to her and rubbed a wooden plank clean so she could sit. “He owns it. Used to catch for him.”
“You stopped.”
“Aye.”
“Because of me?”
“Because I had nae time.” Dripping, he scooted in next to her and clapped his knees in pride. “Well, what do ye think?”
She curled her nose. The boat was despicable. Empty wine glasses littered the floor, along with a slush of fish entrails and seaweed. The stench was repugnant. “It is …” Why was she compelled to say something gracious? To feel something gracious?
Maybe because the boat mast had her initials carved in the wood.
Or because the sun bathed them in such a warm light and the waves rocked the boat in such a soothing motion. Or maybe it was only that he smiled at her.
The boat was dear, not for anything it had to boast of but for the memories it still possessed for him. Memories she had lost. Memories she couldn’t get back, even if he took her everywhere and showed her everything.
“It is a very good boat.” She resisted the sudden sting of emotion. “To be certain, I cannot remember ever boarding any better.”
“Careful, lass.”
“Pardon?”
“Ye’re being kind. His lordship willnae approve.”
“I wish you would not tease me about him.” Meg stood, wobbled, and frowned at him when he steadied her arm. “I can manage myself, thank you. Now, if you are quite finished showing me your boat, I think it would be wise to consider our departure—”
A gunshot rang in her ear.
Terror drenched her like water so cold she lost feeling. Duck. She didn’t have time.
Tom tackled her down, shoving her body between two wooden boat slats. He covered every inch of her. Hid her face with his hands. “Ye’re fine. Ye’re fine.”
She was not fine.
Something slimy and cold squished into her ear. The rotten scent of fish and blood made her stomach heave, and had it not been for him—the familiar scent of his wet shirt—she would have retched.
Hours fled.
No.
Seconds.
He shifted, his breathing fast. “Stay down.”
“Tom, no—”
“Stay. Down.” He lifted himself off her, the boat creaking, the waves lapping and slurping beneath the rough wood.
She counted the seconds. He would go down first. Then her. She hoped they threw her overboard. She’d rather fade into the sea, loose and cold and drifting, than to burn like her uncle. She didn’t want to be ashes. Please, God.
A mild oath carried with the breeze, then Tom pulled her up. “Look.”
She followed his finger to shore, where a ratty-bearded man plucked a gray pigeon from the quayside. “He did not … I mean, I was not …”
“Old Jabez. Local poulterer.” Tom rolled down the sleeve of his shirt and swiped it across her cheek, the linen fabric soft and calming.
She almost leaned into his touch. Just long enough for her legs to gain their strength and the bile to slip back down her throat.
“Ye’re all right.” He said it again, slower, as if determined to make her believe him. She was not certain she did.
Hoisting her back into his arms, he lowered into the water and carried her to shore. The cool, salty liquid splashed her clothes, reminders she was still alive, still breathing.
For now.
Back on the quayside, he ran for his coat and came back to drape it around her shoulders. “I dinnae want to take ye back. I want ye to stay here with Meade, where I can guard ye.”
“I cannot hide from my danger when it follows me everywhere.”
“I can keep ye safe.”
“Ye didn’t before.”
His eyes flinched, but it only made his jaw stronger and his stance broader. “I’ll promise ye this. I willnae let it happen again.”
She had no way of knowing if Tom McGwen kept his promises. A pull inside her whispered he did.
The days stretched longer than before. Too many times, amid all her dancing lessons and reading and netting purses, Meg stole glances at the clock.
Never had the hours chimed with such lethargy.
Or the hands moved so slowly.
Why?
She should be grateful. She should be eager to fulfil her role as lady and wife—not bored. But the listlessness droned in her brain, weighting her limbs, and drawing her back to places she didn’t wish to go.
The graveyard.
Tom had knelt next to Mr. Foxcroft’s grave, and his smooth voice—with its musical Scottish lilt—had been fond as he told her stories.
Then the curiosity shop. The building had been old, the shelves a little bowed, and the dull collection of useless trinkets had been anything but interesting. Tom had made it so anyway. Perhaps she should not admit that.
But it was true.
He had slipped on a glove puppet of Punch, mimicking the same rasping, swazzle-sounding voice that might be heard from a street show. She had shaken her head at him, tickled with mirth.
Side by side, they’d weaved through the clutter. He had plucked things off the shelves, made jesting remarks, laughed now and again.
All of it, everything they said, had been pointless and little.
Nothing like Lord Cunningham’s poems.
Or his medicinal knowledge.
Even so. She jabbed a pianoforte key with too much gusto. Tom was … well, fun.
“Is that what you think?”
Meg nearly fell from her seat as Lord Cunningham strode into the music room. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks, as if he’d comprehended her thoughts. Which he hadn’t, of course. Had he?
“Lady Walpoole, she plays the pianoforte with grave unhappiness.” Lord Cunningham moved behind her to inspect the sheet music. “Perhaps this is too difficult a piece for one who has never played anything.”
“I shall ask Tom.” Meg did not mean for the words to slip. “After all, we cannot be certain I was entirely without musical skill.”
“It is no mystery to me.” Lady Walpoole rose from her armchair, her grimace patronizing. “Good afternoon, my lord. I hope you have the afternoon free and might join me in encouraging Miss Foxcroft to exercise more patience.”
“She has every virtue. You cannot convince me otherwise.”
“Virtue without accomplishment is imbalanced.”
“But still beautiful.” Lord Cunningham swept Meg’s hand from the ivory keys. He kissed her knuckles. “In fact, I do indeed have the afternoon free and was hoping it would not be too troublesome for me to steal your pupil away.”
Lady Walpoole feigned a smile. “You are quite at your leisure, my lord. I have letters to finish in my chamber if my presence is no longer needed.” She curtsied. “Until dinner.”