“It wasnae yer fault, Meg.” He dumped the powder into a tiny blue-glassed vial. “Ye did all ye could.”
“He should have lived.” She crushed with aggression. “He was seven and twenty years old. Strong.”Grind. Bash.“He fell six feet from a ladder.”Grind. Bash.“He should be lying in there with a crippled leg, not dead.” The last word faltered.
Helplessness had pulled at Tom. He hadn’t known what to say when she threw her face into her hands, bent over the counter, and stifled a terrible sound.
“I did everything Uncle ever taught me.”
“Ye did right, lass.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesnae have to.” He stepped closer. Touched her braid, then stroked her arm with the back of his fingers. All hesitant. Uncertain. As if he were doing the wrong thing.
But she flung against him anyway. Her arms circled his waist, her face burrowed into his shirt, and she clung so hard he felt every choppy breath as if it were his own. “Squeeze me, Tom.”
His arms tightened.
His senses hummed alive—with grief because she grieved, with fervor because she needed him, with rapture … for no other reason than that he could smell her hair.
“I wanted to speak with Uncle.” She smeared her tears. “We told so many people of his death. The wife. The children. The vicar. And I wanted to tell all of them how sorry I was, how frustrated and confused.” Her voice dropped. “I couldn’t tell anyone but you.”
“Ye’ve nothing to be sorry for, lass.”
“I can always tell you.” Pulling back, she took a deep breath. “Make me laugh.” She scampered to the other side of the counter. With flustered embarrassment, she wiped her nose and cheeks with her apron. “Please. Do something ridiculous before I become a weeping child.”
Now, clenching his broom, Tom bristled at the memory. He could not recall what measure of nonsense he had displayed for her. Something absurd, like setting half her uncle’s bottles upside down.
With glassy red eyes, she had laughed at him. Her attention was so eager and glowing that he might as well have been the king of the world.
Tom glanced about the dirty, empty cottage with an even bigger hollowness inside himself. His heart shriveled.
He missed that.
He missed her.
Something about the smell bothered her. Even tucked beneath the downy coverlets provided by the inn, she tugged the warm blue blanket tighter against her neck.
She closed her eyes.
Wool.
Earth.
Another faint scent, one she could not identify but had only noticed in the presence of Tom McGwen. ’Twas a nice smell. Whether she wished to admit it or not.
The chamber door opened and closed, and a lanky young woman swept into the room. “My name is Betsey, Miss Foxcroft.” She settled a tray next to Meg’s bed. “I thought I ought to tell you, on account of you forgettin’ things.”
“Thank you.”
“Here.” Betsey lifted a pottery plate to Meg’s lap. “Oat cakes, fish, and peas. His lordship downstairs was right ready to pay an extra shilling for more proper courses, but Mamma didn’t have nothin’ else to fix.”
“I am not very hungry anyway.” She expected the girl to nod and depart, but instead, Betsey scooted a chair next to the bed and rested her chin on her hands.
Her sharp brown eyes narrowed. “Are you telling the truth?”
“Pardon?”
“About not knowin’ nothing.”
