Chapter 17 #2
When the water shallowed, Tom held her hand and they stumbled over smooth, slime-covered rocks. The stream wound them farther into the countryside. Once, they trekked up the bank, climbed over a fieldstone wall, and hurried across a meadow of sheep.
“It’s over here.” Tom ran her to a hedgerow. “Ye love these.”
When he handed over a plump blackberry, she popped it into her mouth. Flavor burst across her tongue, sweet enough to make her smile, tart enough she wrinkled her nose.
“Yer uncle used to send us out for blackberry leaves every summer.”
“He must not have opposed us greatly.”
“He liked me being with ye. Thought I would keep ye safe. But only for running errands or staying close to the shop, where he could keep an eye on the likes of us.”
The sun glittered as she shaded her eyes and ate another berry. “He was not fond of you?”
“Och, he was.”
“Then why was he so against …”
“Me marrying ye?”
“Yes.” Why did the words have such difficulty coming out? A fresh wave of heat spread across her cheeks. “If he had no reservations concerning you, he must have had them concerning me.”
“Och, nay, lass.” Tom stuffed his pockets with berries, then started back through the tall meadow grass. “ ’Twas only that he didnae want to lose ye. Ye were all he had.”
“Surely a marriage would not have taken me from him. How terribly stubborn.”
His beard parted with a grin. “Like ye.”
She gainsaid him—of course—but the words sang in her mind as they walked back for the cottage. Why did everything he said of her, whether unfavorable or not, sound so soft?
As if he were praising her, even though he called her stubborn.
As if she amused him.
Pleased him.
By the time they reached the cottage, the moon already hung in the pink evening sky, and her legs felt raw from the chafing of wet layers. “Our shoes.” She glanced down at their bare feet, frowning. So much for concealing her ankles. How had she forgotten?
Tom swung open the cottage door. He said something dismissive—that he’d fetch them tomorrow—then ushered her into the tiny bedchamber. “Betwixt my clothes and Joanie’s, ye should be able to find something.”
“That is unnecessary, as we shall be starting for the abbey now.”
“When ye’re dry.”
“Tom.”
He shut the door before she could say more. Sighing, rankled that she was about to do as he wished, she rummaged through patched shirts, wrinkled pinafores, and paint-stained trousers. She settled on one of Joanie’s loose cotton dresses, though the short sleeves fit a bit too snuggly for comfort.
Her hair was the true tragedy.
The braid had come unraveled hours ago, and her fingers caught in too many tangles to remedy without her maid. Must she always return to Penrose Abbey looking like an unsightly beggar?
“Done in there?”
“Coming.” She gave up, threw her hair behind her shoulders, and joined Tom in the main room.
He was hunched by the hearth, stoking kindling into flames, his cheeks glowing pink from a day spent in the sun. He had not changed, but the white shirt seemed dry and loose. “Sit here. I’ll get ye something to eat.”
“I am not hungry.”
He ignored her and went to cutting a loaf of bread and slapping cold fish meat onto an earthenware plate. He settled it into her lap. “Eat.”
“Where is yours?”
Scooting next to her by the hearth, he snatched a piece of bread from her plate.
“Tom McGwen, you are uncouth.”
A shrug. “Saves on dishes.”
“I am especially not hungry now.” She shoved it over to his lap, proud she had at least taken a small stand on propriety. Even if she were sitting here—alone with a stranger in his cottage—with no stockings and not even her own apparel.
The flames crackled into the silence. The windows dimmed a deep blue, the room was swallowed in shadows, and the rug beneath them was soft to her bare feet. Her shoulders relaxed. She slouched again, shoulder bumping his, as he polished off another slice of bread.
The sweet, buttery smell rumbled her belly.
No.
Ridiculous girl, she could be feasting at Penrose Abbey right now with an illustrious spread before her, in a dining room three times the size of this cottage.
With a furtive look, she reached for a slab of fish.
Well.
Just one bite wouldn’t hurt.
The food soothed her, coaxed her deeper into comfort she had no right to entertain. She ate more. Tom told her stories. He spoke in a hushed voice, one that banished all her defenses and made her smile at him.
He set the empty plate on the other side of him. “Turn around.”
“What?”
“Ye cannae have yer hair drying like that. Ye’ll be pulling and yanking it out for days.” He twisted her to face away from him. “I’ll be right back.” He jogged into the bedchamber, then returned with something metal flashing in his hand. He plopped down behind her. “Now sit still with ye.”
“What are you doing?”
“Dinnae worry. I never liked this anymore than ye did.” His hands scraped the hair away from her face, behind her ears, down her back.
She was unprepared. Tingles burned where he touched. “You need not do this.”
“I am used to it.”
The metal comb eased through her tresses. Careful. Gentle. His breath touched the back of her ears and sent odd vibrations across her chest. Sweet vibrations. Vibrations that made her want to lean back into him and close her eyes.
“Tom?”
“Hmm?”
“Why did you love me?”
He worked another tangle from her hair. Sparks fluttered in the hearth.
“Tom?”
“I dinnae know what to say, lass. I’m nae good at words.”
“There must have been something. Betsey says all the village girls were fond of you. Why should it have been me you chose?”
Another long silence. The sound of the comb gliding. Then his sigh. “I guess because ye were the thing.”
“What thing?”
“That made me want to wake up in the morning.”
“I made you happy.”
“Aye.”
“And you made me happy?”
“Aye.”
“I am sorry.” Tears filmed her vision. She trampled the urge inside her that wanted to reach back and catch his hand in some sort of gesture of contrition. “For being so …”
“Pigheaded?”
“You have not been exactly congenial either.”
“I dinnae know how much more congenial I can be than kissing ye.” He draped smooth, damp hair back across her shoulder, then whispered in her ear, “Dinnae fash yerself, lass. All is well—”
The door banged open, letting in a whipping breeze.
Meg jumped, swiveled. Her heart sank with guilt the same time Lord Cunningham stepped through the threshold.
“Margaret.” A black carrick coat whipped about his shoulders. “I am rejoiced to find you just where I thought I might.”
The man was a milksop.
Tom reached for another soft strand of hair and would have continued combing, but Meg flurried out of his touch and stood to her feet.
“My lord,” Meg squeaked. “What are you doing? Violet. Is she—”
“She is well.” He entered the cottage as if it were his domain, a couple livery-dressed servants following him inside. One of them shut the door. “In truth, I was ill at ease tonight. The gardener spotted fresh boot prints in the courtyard, and the dog has not ceased barking the evening long.”
Hair raised to attention on the back of Tom’s neck. He stood. “Ye checked the grounds?”
“Thank you for your insight, Mr. McGwen. Most certainly, the entire estate has been combed for predators.” His eyes smoldered like blue fire. “At the abbey, I can guarantee her safety. Elsewhere, she is not so secure.”
“You are mistaken,” said Meg. “I am equally secure here.”
“With one guard as opposed to four and twenty? I think not, my dear.”
“Mr. McGwen has kept me very safe, I assure you.” Meg skirted around the table—likely to hide her bare ankles, he guessed—and leveled her shoulders. “I appreciate your concern, my lord, but this was an inconvenience you need not have bothered with.”
“You are never a bother.”
His tone punched like sour vinegar down Tom’s throat.
“A word with you, Margaret.” The man cut a glance at Tom. “Alone, if Mr. McGwen has no objection.”
Tom started for the door, but Meg said instead, “Never mind, Tom.” Did she realize she’d spoken his Christian name? “Lord Cunningham and I shall speak outside.” Face stoic, she marched out, the lordy on her heels.
Tom was tempted to move to the window, where their shadows hovered close to one another. The fool inside him panged to listen. Needed to listen.
Instead, he moved back to the hearth. He lugged a log into the fire and embers danced. Then wandered. Then faded into nothing.
Like the last of his patience seeping away.
“She is right.”
“You are not being sensible, dear.”
“No, I am not. Neither are you.” Meg moved deeper into the darkness, closer to the paint-peeling barn. Bats fluttered from holes in the thatched roof, soaring over their heads. “I presume she has departed?”
“No. Lady Walpoole, though very perturbed to discover your mysterious outings have been with an unchaperoned gentleman, remains to purify your tainted social conduct.” His steps matched hers. “Her words, not mine.”
“That is not why you came.”
“No.”
“Nor why you followed me in the name of danger.”
“You require patience, Margaret, and I have embodied it. You require time, it is yours. You require your past, handed back to you on a silver platter, and I have given it to you.” He guided her back into the barn wall, one hand over her head.
“But I am as red-blooded as any man, so you must forgive me if small traces of envy arise to flaw my character.”
Meg flattened her back against the rough wood of the barn. The air held a chill, made sharper by the dampness of her hair and the harsh realities on the brink of her consciousness. “You were right, and I have been wrong.” Another rush of tears. “And in too many ways, Tom was right too.”
“I do not understand.”
“I did love him.”
“You remember?”
“No.”
“Darling—”