On an impulse, Meg circled around the sofa, putting it between them to safeguard herself from another one of his outbursts. The last thing she could bear was to be assaulted again. Even if it were by tender hands. “Night before last. Lord Cunningham frightened the man away but could not see his features. He wore something over his face.”
“Ye cannae stay here.”
“Do not be ridiculous.”
“Meg, this is no time for ye to be stubborn.” He said the words with gentle pleading. As if he had coaxed her before. As if she had resisted him. Then yielded—which she had no intention of doing now.
“We were unaware of the danger then. Now we are not.” She straightened her shoulders. “Besides, Lord Cunningham is more than capable of protecting me.”
“I want to protect ye.”
“You presume too much—”
“Iwillprotect ye.” Stepping closer to the sofa. Leaning forward. Hands on the back of the furniture as his eyes burrowed into hers with furious passion. “And I will find out who did this to ye. And I will stop them. And I will help ye remember. And I will bring ye home. And I will build ye our cottage. And I will paint it red. And I will marry ye, Meg Foxcroft.”
Her breath shallowed. Weakness climbed her legs, and despite the fact she shook her head in protest, her tight grip of emotions began to spiral.
Before she could say a word, Tom McGwen departed the room.
She scrubbed dry her cheeks with vehemence.
He was wrong, in every point.
Because she had no intention of ever seeing the man again.
“Tommy!” Joanie scampered up from behind the kitchen table, little Gyb—as she’d named the kitten—dangling from one arm.
The hearth sputtered with flames, crackling beneath a steaming iron cauldron. The heavy scents of woodsmoke and venison stirred Tom’s hunger.
“Meade already left. He said he had to visit a friend.”
The tavern, more likely.
“But he said we could eat without him.” With the same blissful diligence of Mamm, Joanie bustled around the kitchen—clanking earthenware bowls to the table, pouring mugs of coffee, and slicing two thick chunks of bread from an already stale loaf.
When they sat across from each other, she opened up her hand to him.
He hesitated.
He had not prayed—nor linked hands, as Papa taught them—in seven long years. The last thing he wanted was to mutter thanksgiving now. Especially to a God who did not exist.
Or had failed Tom, in every way imaginable, even if He did.
He grasped Joanie’s fingers anyway. “Ye can say it, lass.”
“I did it last time.”
“Go on.”
Her prayer was quiet, bashful, but possessed the same sweet sincerity as Meg. As if it never occurred to them that God could not be real or good or just or all the lofty things the vicar shouted from his pulpit.
They ate in silence.
The kitten wandered under the table, climbing up Tom’s trouser legs, meowing until Joanie slipped him dripping chunks of venison. Heat from the hearth rolled sweat down Tom’s temples.
Everything tasted bitter.
Hard to swallow.
