“I was new in Juleshead. On my own.” He moved from the sofa a little too fast, thrusting his hands in his pockets. The memories pricked him like a needle in his flesh. He hadn’t eaten in two days. He’d been sleeping in an alley doorway at night and scouring the village for work from dawn till dusk.
He hadn’t minded the hunger.
His punishment, he guessed.
For Caleb.
“How did we meet?” she pressed.
“A wee gang of village lads thought to rough me up.” He turned his back to her. “Ye thought to stop them.” With her weaponized basket, which she swung at many a head. With her hair in messy braids. With her rolled-up trousers and her flushed face and her livid eyes.
When the lads scampered away, she’d stood over top of Tom with her hands on her hips. She knew he was hungry when no one else had bothered to notice. “Come to the apothecary shop tonight, and I’ll see that Uncle makes another plate.”
He had nodded, but he hadn’t gone.
She was everywhere after that—spotting him in the meat market, waving at him across the docks, even showing up at the blacksmith shop on an errand for her uncle after Tom found work and a room.
Maybe he hadn’t gone because a lass had rescued him. In some blundering way, she’d taken a swing at his pride and kicked him harder than the street lads.
Or maybe because he knew, all along, that Meg Foxcroft would see things about him he didn’t want known. That she’d make him happy. That she’d make him forget what he’d done when it was his duty to remember.
“I suppose it does not matter greatly.” Her dress ruffled as she stood. “Not now.”
As if it were all over.
As if there were no Tom and his Meg.
He was back to a world where she didn’t know him or love him or care if he stayed in the sun too long or ate raspberries or visited home. His chest tightened. He turned to face her.
She met his eyes with full strength. With one finger, she tugged at her fichu. A dark bruise discolored her skin. “I want to know who wants me dead.”
His blood chilled in shock.
Someone had hurt her.
Again.
No.
“Please, Mr. McGwen.”
Panic shredded his voice, “I dinnae know.”
CHAPTER 8
Too many times she had to look away from him. She wasn’t certain why. Perhaps because he had kissed her, this handsome stranger. The shame, the angst, the terribleness of his kiss lingered between them—and the sensations plagued her still. Why could she not get it out of her head?
She had no right to think of his lips.
But she glanced at them now, just one reckless glance.
They were full and firm, surrounded by a well-trimmed beard. Wiry against her skin, she remembered. Why did he have a beard?
Lord Cunningham didn’t.
Hewould look ridiculous.
“When did this happen?” Tom McGwen did not move, but she sensed he wanted to.
