“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.”
