Chapter 18
Exhaustion ached her bones, and the harsh drawing room lights stitched pain across her forehead. She accepted the cup of green tea. The steam was moist and warm against her face as she stared down into the rippling yellow liquid.
Anywhere but at them.
Either of them.
“Margaret, I think it time we discuss what you said when you first arrived home.” Lord Cunningham took a seat next to her, the settee creaking. “I believe everyone in this room is fully aware that this gentleman cannot be your uncle.”
The older man leaned forward in his wingback.
From the light of a wall sconce, she had a chance to examine him better.
His clothes were plain—brown coat and breeches, green waistcoat, and black-velvet watch fob.
He had brooding eyes. Deep wrinkles in his face.
Slightly disheveled tufts of thinning white hair.
The teacup shook in her hands. He was alive? Was it possible?
“Heard about your mind.” His gaze remained on some unknown object across the room. “Other things I can fix. Mix something up for. Ailments of the mind are for God.”
“If you are indeed her uncle, why have you not come sooner?”
“Did. Been moseying around for the past week or two.”
Lord Cunningham stood. “You are the gentleman who called, then had the unfavorable indecency to disappear.”
A terse nod.
“You have allowed your niece—and everyone else—to assume you were dead.”
“Safer that way.”
“For whom, pray?”
The man snorted, yanking up his waistcoat and shirt. A dark pink scar twisted into his abdomen. “Almost died. Didn’t know who was after me. Had to do something with Meggie and leave her somewhere safe.”
Meggie? The childhood dream returned to her. The pink pinafore and white duck and petals. This man spoke the truth. He was her uncle, wasn’t he?
“Why here, of all places?” asked Lord Cunningham.
“I knew your father.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter now. Long time ago.” Her uncle scratched his chin. “He owed me a favor. Thought this might settle the debt.”
Lord Cunningham finally looked down at her.
His look was pensive, strange. From irritation at the unexpected guest?
Or shame in himself? He cleared his throat before she could decide.
“The hour is very late, Mr. Foxcroft—if that is indeed your name.” He flicked his hand at a servant.
“My footman will escort you to your chamber. We shall discuss this more fully tomorrow, at which time I shall require proof of your identity.”
The stranger turned to Meg, face reddening. Moisture sprang to his eyes then was gone. “Go sleep, Meggie.” As he moved past her, he landed a small, awkward pat to her cheek. “I’ll fix this for you. Just like I always do.”
She was too weary, too confused to allow the words to penetrate her emotions. When he was gone, she took a trembling sip of tea and left the cup on the stand. “I am going to bed.”
Lord Cunningham reached for her. “Margaret, we must talk.”
“Not tonight.” She nearly ran for the door. She had not strength for his excuses. Nor, at present, the will to believe them.
Violet’s sweet coverlets folded around Meg like a cocoon. The child was already asleep. Little Pippins was curled at the foot of the bed, and the steady creak of Jenny’s rocking chair soothed Meg’s nerves.
Burrowing deeper, Meg hugged the child’s back. Touching someone filled her emptiness. Holding another person kept back the tears. I am all right. If Tom were here, he would tell her that.
Not that she needed Mr. McGwen.
She shivered. Everything repeated in her mind like flashes of lightning. The gunpowder kegs exploding. Lord Cunningham running. The two men’s faces, haggard and dirty. She should have grimaced at their memory, but something about them had seemed, well, less heinous than she had imagined.
More desperate.
Lost.
I am your uncle. The last of her family resurrected from the dead, flesh and bone. Why had she refused to speak with him downstairs?
She didn’t know what to say.
More than that, she didn’t know what to think of him. He was coarse, direct, and grumbly—all the things Tom had described. But there was a peculiarity in his manner no one had warned her about. Something about the twitch of his eyes. The lack of light.
The rocking chair ceased groaning.
Jenny left.
Meg left too, dragged away by the black sea of sleep. She dreamed of pinning floral wool fabric to a wingback chair in Tom’s cottage. She hummed. The braided rug was littered with playful kittens, the boots she thought she lost, and the metal comb Tom used to brush her hair.
A hand feathered down her cheek.
She blinked, sleep fading, and wondered if it had only been a figment of her dream. “Tom?”
His silhouette dropped closer. His fingers brushed her lips.
“What are you doing?” She tried to sit up, but he guided her back down. “How did you know?”
“Och, but ye’ve nae sense to hold yer tongue.” He palmed her cheeks. Just as gently as he’d done to Joanie the night she’d been injured. “Close yer eyes and rest.”
“My uncle—”
“We’ll talk on the morrow.”
“Everything is wrong.”
“Nay.”
“I am so confused.”
“We’ll set it all to right together.”
She allowed her eyes to drift shut again, but she caught his hand before he withdrew. “Tom?”
“Hmm?”
“Promise you shall return in the morning?”
“I’ll do better than that.” He squeezed. “I willnae leave this room.”
She was faintly aware that he crossed the chamber in the darkness, grabbed a chair, and pushed it back against the door. He sank into it with his arms crossed. Like a wall, strong and solid and impenetrable.
Comfort burst inside her. Tom McGwen was here. For the strangest reason in the world, she was glad.
“So it was ye.” Tom shut the door behind him. Energy stampeded his guts like hundreds of thundering hooves.
Mr. Foxcroft sat in the corner of the room, nursing a pipe. He’d opened a window, and morning light burned through the blue draperies, highlighting his rings of smoke. “Least one thing turned out right. You didn’t marry her.”
Tom was overpowered with the desire to turn over the man’s chair—or embrace him. He did neither. “I’m still trying.”
“And I’ll still stop you.”
A grin tried to pull Tom’s mouth, but he scowled it away. “I see a knife to your stomach did nothing to rid yer devilment.”
Muttering, Mr. Foxcroft waved a jerky hand. “Sit. Need to talk.”
Tom took the edge of the bed. The coverlets were not even wrinkled. Had the man slept?
“How’d you know?”
“I heard the explosion,” said Tom. “Brought my rifle and came. I saw Meg with ye. Knew she was safe, so I took after the blackguards who set off the gunpowder.”
“And?”
“They were already gone.”
“You did right.” Mr. Foxcroft nodded his approval, gaze steady out the window. Birds cheeped outside. “You watched after Meg. You always do.”
“Ye always have too. Until now.”
“Couldn’t help it.”
“Who’s doing this?”
“Don’t know.” Mr. Foxcroft scratched his face. Lines marred his features that had never been there before, and heaviness purpled under his eyes. “Got this two days before the fire.” He patted his pocket. A crinkling sound, like paper.
“A letter?”
He affirmed with a grunt.
“What did it say?”
“Doesn’t matter. Message was clear, though. Same as the others. They want me dead and my girl along with me.”
“I willnae let that happen.”
“Good. Don’t.”
Silence.
Mr. Foxcroft crossing and uncrossing his knee.
The bed squeaking every time Tom shifted.
His heart pounding.
“Sir, I’ve a word to speak with ye.”
“The answer is no.”
“This is not about Meg.”
“Still no.” Mr. Foxcroft sprang from his chair too quickly. He moved to the window. Fidgeted with it. Finally yanked it shut with enough force the room seemed to rattle.
Tom stood and stared at the man’s back. A man he was not certain he knew. “The notes say ye killed them.” His voice scratched. “Some of yer patients. I want to hear it from ye.”
Mr. Foxcroft hurled back a fire-fueled curse.
Called Tom a name that would have made Meg blanch. Then he flung his arm toward the door with a raging, “Get out.”
A hole scorched Tom’s chest as he bolted from the chamber. He was not certain if it was shame because he’d failed to believe in someone he should be trusting.
Or devastation because the letter was right.
The breakfast table had never been so occupied. Nor the room so quiet.
Mr. Foxcroft—or rather Uncle—had seated himself next to Lady Walpoole, and he smacked his way through a third piece of toast. Then, using his knife to stab a boiled egg, he hunched over his plate to ravish it in two bites.
Lady Walpoole sent an appalled look across the table.
Lord Cunningham mirrored the expression for a second before masking it with an unconvincing smile. “Miss Foxcroft, I trust you slept well?”
“Violet did not awaken me once.”
“Violet?” Lady Walpoole perked up. “Do you mean to say you have forsaken your own chamber to sleep with a child?” She angled her chin at Lord Cunningham. “You must put an end to such nonsense, your lordship, if you require your wife to possess any semblance of decorum.”
To these words, the breakfast room doors parted, and Tom entered.
Instant heat skittered beneath her cheeks.
“Mr. McGwen.” Lord Cunningham ushered him in.
“Do take a seat. Mary, bring another plate.” When Tom had taken the seat across from Meg, Lord Cunningham pulled the napkin out from his cravat.
“I have asked Mr. McGwen to partake of breakfast with us. The very least accommodation I can offer my guest.”
Tension surged throughout the room.
Her appetite waned.
“Upon your next visit, Mr. McGwen, do make me aware. You must allow me the pleasure of securing you a proper guest chamber. I imagine you shall find a bed much more restful than a chair.”
If Tom detected the spur of hostility, he gave no sign. He nodded his thanks to Mary when she slid a plate of food in front of him. Why had he yet to look at Meg? Had he overheard Lady Walpoole?
Meg pushed away the memory of his hands on her face. The warm swirl of heat still stirred in her, like a terrible rash after consuming something sweet and tempting. Something she should not have. Should not wish to have. What was wrong with her? Why was she thinking of him this way?
She knew enough of the past to know he’d been trouble. She’d had enough of that already.
“She cannae be left alone.”
“Mr. Foxcroft and I have been discussing as much,” answered Lord Cunningham.
“Not even in the house.”
“These walls have yet to be compromised.” Lord Cunningham scooted back his chair. “I believe if she remains here, no calamity shall befall her. I think it wise Mr. Foxcroft do the same.”
“Can’t.” Mr. Foxcroft drained his coffee. “Going back to Juleshead. Rebuilding the shop.”
“No.” All eyes turned on Meg, and she regretted her outburst. “It is not safe.”
“People need medicine,” said Uncle.
“And I need family.” Stranger or not, he was blood. Someone she belonged to. “If you return to Juleshead, I go with you.”
“You stay.”
“Well.” Lady Walpoole offered a pinched smile to Lord Cunningham as she folded her napkin by her plate. “This is all very stimulating. Unconventional too. But hardly the sort of topic one digests at the breakfast table.”
“You are right of course, my lady.” Lord Cunningham raised his goblet. “We shall resume this later. Mr. Foxcroft, I do hope you shall reconsider. At the very least, I hope you will remain a guest here until some measure of compromise has been reached.”
Mr. Foxcroft snorted. He grabbed the last piece of toast from the platter, speared Tom with a hard glare, and bumbled from the room.
The door banged shut behind him.
The sound rattled through her, long after the room fell silent. She had loved her uncle. That much she knew from Tom’s stories.
From all accounts, he had loved her back.
Then why could he not look at her? Nor she him? She had everything to tell him and nothing to tell him. Every encounter was strained. Was she so very changed? He so very reclusive he could not speak to her?
Forks scraped on chinaware. Tom’s knee must have been bouncing, because an annoying squeak repeated over and over under the table.
Lady Walpoole was the first to rise. She requested Lord Cunningham’s presence, and with a grim nod, he followed her from the table. He paused before exiting. His mouth tightened as if he were reluctant to leave Meg alone.
What did he think she was going to do? Throw herself into Tom McGwen’s arms?
Her stomach flipped.
Ridiculous.
“Will you please stop?” she said to Tom once they were alone.
“This place unnerves me.”
“Then eat your breakfast standing up.”
He came to his feet, very little of his plate touched, and threaded both hands through his hair. He paced the room. “Ye’re not going to Juleshead.”
“Neither is my uncle.”
“He does as he likes.”
“So do I.”
Tom circled around to her, leaned on the table with one arm until his face was mere inches from hers. “I’ll tie ye to a chair and stand guard over ye myself, lass, and dinnae think I won’t.”
“Oh, I am quite confident you would try.” Meg refused to shrink away.
Her blood rushed at his proximity—the smell of his shirt, the fire in his eyes, the wry curve of his lips.
“It is high time both you and Lord Cunningham cease behaving as if I were some witless bird in need of someone to orchestrate my every step.”
“Ye’re not marrying him.”
“Pardon?”
“I said ye’re not marrying the lordy.”
“Why should I not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because this.” His hand moved behind her head, pulling her in. He claimed her mouth. Hard and quick and wild and earnest. Frenzy ruptured inside her. She wasn’t certain if she were yanking back her head or falling into him, because the room spun, spun, spun.
No. But the sweetness sucked her deeper. He tasted like the kiss. The first one. The one that had haunted her, trudging through layers of defiance like gold refined in the heat—and her fingers slipped up to his cheek.
His beard was soft, rich, and she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t need to breathe.
Tom.
He looked away. Then kissed her again. Then retreated and walked backward toward the door, never taking his eyes off her. His gaze was stunned. Glassy. Irrevocably changed.
A change she was not ready for.
But, heaven help her, had no power to stop.