“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.Neededto 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.”
