Maybe he was only tired, but her lips stretched wider, and her eyes danced with warm, alluring candlelight. Did she tease him?
Aye.
This side of her he knew.
Against his own resolve, his lips responded to her—upturning, breaking with a laugh as he shook his head in ragged amusement. “Ye’ve nae wits about ye, lass. Ye always think ye can be running about to do as ye wish.”
“This from the man who lured me to mischief.”
“Och.”
“From the man who stole my stockings.”
“Stockings?” He cocked his head at her in mock denial. “Who told ye about that?”
“That was terrible of you.”
“That’s what ye said.” The laugh hurt. The memory hurt. “I gave them back.”
“All of them?”
“Some.”
“You must have found it great sport to exasperate me.” When he did not answer, she sighed and rested her chin in her hands. “You are not the only one.” She soared off into some nonsense concerning Lady Walpoole. A languid and sleepy recount of how the woman tortured Meg to death.
The stories amused him.
Lulled him.
In an old and easy way, he was drawn back into answering everything she said in hushed tones and laughing when she made faces. He didn’t measure his words. He sensed she didn’t either.
Sitting between them on its pewter chamberstick, the candle dripped shorter and shorter.
Gyb climbed on his lap.
Meg slumped on the table, holding her head up with her hand, yawning and smiling while Tom told her about the time he’d sunk a fishing boat three miles from shore.
“Surely I was not the only one who noticed your absence.”
“When I made it to the docks, ye were the only one there.”
“Meade would have realized, doubtless.”
“Next morning, mayhap.”
“And …”
“And what?”
“Well.” Her drooping eyes fell, and a rush of pink collected on her cheeks. “You must have known the village chits cast eyes upon you. I imagine they would have all rallied to your rescue had they known you were in peril.” She troubled the edge of her bottom lip. “Captain Godfrey is a very interesting, amusing man.” A longer pause. “As is his sister. Do you not agree?”
“I know what ye’re doing.”
“What?”
Grinning, he scooted back his chair. “Trying to fight, lass, and I’ll have none of it.” He was too aware that the windows were fading into a purplish dawn. That the owl no longer cooed outside. That this—whatever this was—was almost over. “Time to take ye home.”
She didn’t say anything as she draped on her cloak and they walked on foot back through the dew-glistened fields. When the abbey came into view, sunrise reflecting off the distant stained-glass windows, she spoke without looking at him. “Tom?”
