The red cottage, p.21
The Red Cottage, page 21
“The fact you need ask such a question speaks detrimentally to your character.”
“Ye know nothing of my character.”
“I know enough.”
He would have dismissed the comment as more of her cursed defiance, but something about her voice stilled him. The brittle rasp. The downward pull at her lips.
He frowned. “Ye are serious.”
“I think you should work on your garden.”
“Whatever ye’ve heard, ye’re wrong.” Was that her opinion of him? Ire wetted his palms. If he knew who had whispered lies in her ears, he’d cuff the sense out of them. Tom seized her hand. “And we’re going swimming, lass. If I have to drag ye there and dunk ye in myself.”
If she had realized one thing about Tom McGwen, it was only how impossible he was. That, and how impossible it was to remain angry with him.
The stream was flanked on both sides by ancient, gnarly trees. Bracken, gorse, and tiny wildflowers mingled with the grass, and the water caught blue reflections from the sky. Tom had kicked down the growth and now sat pulling cotton stockings from his feet.
She wasn’t certain what about him disarmed her.
How he could enrage her, then amuse her, then endanger her, then comfort her, all in the span of one heartbeat. He was complicated.
Lord Cunningham she understood. She knew enough of his past to forgive his failings; she comprehended his tragedies enough to condone his obsessions; and despite everything, she still found him pleasing. She wished to marry him.
Except she did not.
“Dinnae tell me ye need help with that.”
The niggling twitch in her chest gave way to distraction. “What?” He nodded to her feet. “Yer shoes.”
“What about them?”
“Ye forgot how to take them off, did ye?”
“No, I did not forget.” She loosened her shoelaces deftly. “Look away.”
He laughed.
“I am quite serious, sir. Look away or I shall not get in at all.”
“I’ve seen yer ankles before, lass.”
“Well, you shall not see them now.” She waited until he’d tossed both shoes over his shoulder—who knew if he’d ever be able to find them again in all this grass—and rolled up the legs of his trousers. He started to pull the shirt over his head.
Her blood flow spiked. “You will leave it on or I shall never see you again.”
“Och, Meg, yer temper.”
“It is not my temper. It is my sense. Now keep it on.”
“Fine.” He pushed up the loose sleeves of his white shirt, slid closer to the water, and splashed in.
Only then, with his back turned, did she remove her shoes and stockings. She followed his lead by tossing them over her shoulder. What was she doing?
She should never have come today.
Not twice in a row.
She’d awakened early, and in the predawn light, the empty halls of Penrose Abbey had seemed so excruciating. The crossed swords on the walls, the stagnant smell of old syringas in a vase, those solemn ancestral paintings in their golden frames.
With numbing boredom, she’d crept to Lady Walpoole’s chamber. Soft snores had drifted out into the hall. Much like rumbles of thunder, promising another rainy day.
On impulse, she’d raided a maid’s wardrobe, badgered a footman into escorting her, and ran to the one person she should be running from. Yet … was not discovering her past more important than studying the Latin alphabet?
Up to his waist in the current, Tom shook water from his hair. “Ye coming, or do I have to run up and catch ye?”
She scooted closer to the edge, dipped in a toe. “It is cold.”
“Come on, ye ninny.”
“Do you always resort to insults?”
A clapping sound, then water splashed over her in an icy shower. She squealed and shivered, just as his hand grabbed her foot. He tugged. She slid.
The stream swallowed her and a shocking burn stung her nose as water rushed up her nostrils. She flailed and broke the surface, gasping, retaliating … laughing, despite every fiber of her body demanding she not. “You wretched, wretched fool.” She hurried more water into his face. “You have no right to sling and toss me whenever you please.”
He wiped his eyes. His lashes stuck together—like the shirt clinging to his carved chest.
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat. To get the water out of her lungs of course. “If you are finished, I am ready to leave.”
“Nay.” He grinned. “I’m not.”
She glanced about them—the babbling water, the silent trees, the overwhelming vastness of isolated countryside. How many times had she been alone with him in her life? Had it been this way before?
The world feeling so small.
Him so big.
Them so … close.
“Ye have questions.” He lowered into the water, pushing it away from him with muscled arms, his gaze trained on her face. “Ask them.”
“I liked flowers, did I not?”
“Thistles and daisies.”
“Did I bake?”
“Aye.” A chuckle. “Not well, but aye.”
“Did I do anything of great significance?” She curled her toes in the cool mud. “I mean, I must have sung or played something or been fair at some form of accomplishment.”
He lifted his shoulder in a shrug.
“Surely I was good at something.”
“Ye weaved baskets. Sometimes.”
“Was I proficient at it?”
His narrowed eyes dashed her anticipation. She sank deeper into the current, the water lapping against her chin and rushing through her dress in cold waves. “What of my character?”
“Ye’ve been listening to wagging tongues.”
“You evade the question.”
“Nay.”
“Then tell me.”
“There is nothing to tell.” She expected his face to color, for signs of remorse or guilt to contort his face. But his eyes still smiled, firm and certain, with that glow which seemed so brimming with animation. “Ye were blameless. Ye were good. To people. To yer uncle.” The nub in his throat moved. “To me.”
“There was talk of nighttime excursions.”
“They were innocent.”
“One who has no shame does his deeds in the light.”
Tom blew air from his cheeks. “It was yer uncle. He fussed about …”
“About what?”
“Our getting married.”
“So you stole me into the night.”
“I dinnae expect ye to understand.” Lines of frustration formed on his forehead and he waded closer. He sank face to face with her. “Maybe it wasnae right. Ye’d know better about that than me. But there wasnae shame in it, lass. If ye believe nothing else I’ve told ye, believe that.”
Emotion whirlpooled inside her. She was surprised to find she did.
They stayed too long.
Meg forgot her demands that Tom return her, and she wasn’t certain he would have listened anyway. The stream had carried them downward as steadily as Meg asked her questions.
Every answer fascinated her. She inserted colors, places, names into the empty chambers of her mind, until the space felt furnished and lived in.
’Twas a strange feeling.
A good one.
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—”
“Listen, my lord. Please.” She slipped under his arm, too aware of the feeling of Tom’s fingers in her hair, on her neck, just moments before. “I thought I could discover my past without suffering any injury from it. I thought I could face the future with you if I were unfettered by all of these questions.” She hugged her arms. “But the truth is, as much as I wish to imagine my life began the day you rescued me under the elm tree, we both know it did not.”
“Ye know nothing of my character.”
“I know enough.”
He would have dismissed the comment as more of her cursed defiance, but something about her voice stilled him. The brittle rasp. The downward pull at her lips.
He frowned. “Ye are serious.”
“I think you should work on your garden.”
“Whatever ye’ve heard, ye’re wrong.” Was that her opinion of him? Ire wetted his palms. If he knew who had whispered lies in her ears, he’d cuff the sense out of them. Tom seized her hand. “And we’re going swimming, lass. If I have to drag ye there and dunk ye in myself.”
If she had realized one thing about Tom McGwen, it was only how impossible he was. That, and how impossible it was to remain angry with him.
The stream was flanked on both sides by ancient, gnarly trees. Bracken, gorse, and tiny wildflowers mingled with the grass, and the water caught blue reflections from the sky. Tom had kicked down the growth and now sat pulling cotton stockings from his feet.
She wasn’t certain what about him disarmed her.
How he could enrage her, then amuse her, then endanger her, then comfort her, all in the span of one heartbeat. He was complicated.
Lord Cunningham she understood. She knew enough of his past to forgive his failings; she comprehended his tragedies enough to condone his obsessions; and despite everything, she still found him pleasing. She wished to marry him.
Except she did not.
“Dinnae tell me ye need help with that.”
The niggling twitch in her chest gave way to distraction. “What?” He nodded to her feet. “Yer shoes.”
“What about them?”
“Ye forgot how to take them off, did ye?”
“No, I did not forget.” She loosened her shoelaces deftly. “Look away.”
He laughed.
“I am quite serious, sir. Look away or I shall not get in at all.”
“I’ve seen yer ankles before, lass.”
“Well, you shall not see them now.” She waited until he’d tossed both shoes over his shoulder—who knew if he’d ever be able to find them again in all this grass—and rolled up the legs of his trousers. He started to pull the shirt over his head.
Her blood flow spiked. “You will leave it on or I shall never see you again.”
“Och, Meg, yer temper.”
“It is not my temper. It is my sense. Now keep it on.”
“Fine.” He pushed up the loose sleeves of his white shirt, slid closer to the water, and splashed in.
Only then, with his back turned, did she remove her shoes and stockings. She followed his lead by tossing them over her shoulder. What was she doing?
She should never have come today.
Not twice in a row.
She’d awakened early, and in the predawn light, the empty halls of Penrose Abbey had seemed so excruciating. The crossed swords on the walls, the stagnant smell of old syringas in a vase, those solemn ancestral paintings in their golden frames.
With numbing boredom, she’d crept to Lady Walpoole’s chamber. Soft snores had drifted out into the hall. Much like rumbles of thunder, promising another rainy day.
On impulse, she’d raided a maid’s wardrobe, badgered a footman into escorting her, and ran to the one person she should be running from. Yet … was not discovering her past more important than studying the Latin alphabet?
Up to his waist in the current, Tom shook water from his hair. “Ye coming, or do I have to run up and catch ye?”
She scooted closer to the edge, dipped in a toe. “It is cold.”
“Come on, ye ninny.”
“Do you always resort to insults?”
A clapping sound, then water splashed over her in an icy shower. She squealed and shivered, just as his hand grabbed her foot. He tugged. She slid.
The stream swallowed her and a shocking burn stung her nose as water rushed up her nostrils. She flailed and broke the surface, gasping, retaliating … laughing, despite every fiber of her body demanding she not. “You wretched, wretched fool.” She hurried more water into his face. “You have no right to sling and toss me whenever you please.”
He wiped his eyes. His lashes stuck together—like the shirt clinging to his carved chest.
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat. To get the water out of her lungs of course. “If you are finished, I am ready to leave.”
“Nay.” He grinned. “I’m not.”
She glanced about them—the babbling water, the silent trees, the overwhelming vastness of isolated countryside. How many times had she been alone with him in her life? Had it been this way before?
The world feeling so small.
Him so big.
Them so … close.
“Ye have questions.” He lowered into the water, pushing it away from him with muscled arms, his gaze trained on her face. “Ask them.”
“I liked flowers, did I not?”
“Thistles and daisies.”
“Did I bake?”
“Aye.” A chuckle. “Not well, but aye.”
“Did I do anything of great significance?” She curled her toes in the cool mud. “I mean, I must have sung or played something or been fair at some form of accomplishment.”
He lifted his shoulder in a shrug.
“Surely I was good at something.”
“Ye weaved baskets. Sometimes.”
“Was I proficient at it?”
His narrowed eyes dashed her anticipation. She sank deeper into the current, the water lapping against her chin and rushing through her dress in cold waves. “What of my character?”
“Ye’ve been listening to wagging tongues.”
“You evade the question.”
“Nay.”
“Then tell me.”
“There is nothing to tell.” She expected his face to color, for signs of remorse or guilt to contort his face. But his eyes still smiled, firm and certain, with that glow which seemed so brimming with animation. “Ye were blameless. Ye were good. To people. To yer uncle.” The nub in his throat moved. “To me.”
“There was talk of nighttime excursions.”
“They were innocent.”
“One who has no shame does his deeds in the light.”
Tom blew air from his cheeks. “It was yer uncle. He fussed about …”
“About what?”
“Our getting married.”
“So you stole me into the night.”
“I dinnae expect ye to understand.” Lines of frustration formed on his forehead and he waded closer. He sank face to face with her. “Maybe it wasnae right. Ye’d know better about that than me. But there wasnae shame in it, lass. If ye believe nothing else I’ve told ye, believe that.”
Emotion whirlpooled inside her. She was surprised to find she did.
They stayed too long.
Meg forgot her demands that Tom return her, and she wasn’t certain he would have listened anyway. The stream had carried them downward as steadily as Meg asked her questions.
Every answer fascinated her. She inserted colors, places, names into the empty chambers of her mind, until the space felt furnished and lived in.
’Twas a strange feeling.
A good one.
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—”
“Listen, my lord. Please.” She slipped under his arm, too aware of the feeling of Tom’s fingers in her hair, on her neck, just moments before. “I thought I could discover my past without suffering any injury from it. I thought I could face the future with you if I were unfettered by all of these questions.” She hugged her arms. “But the truth is, as much as I wish to imagine my life began the day you rescued me under the elm tree, we both know it did not.”
