“Miss Foxcroft—”
“He brought my shoes. Give them here.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Very well. Anything you wish, of course, Miss Foxcroft.” He surrendered a pair of muddy half boots. “But I have been instructed not to allow—”
Meg brushed past him and out the door, ready to shout the name of Tom McGwen.
But the steps were empty, there was no movement on the pea-gravel drive, and the distant thud of pounding horse hooves faded into silence.
Meg clutched Pippins with a ragged breath. She should not have wished to see him. Not tonight, of all nights.
But he had answers she needed. If she was to make any decision regarding her future, she must first understand her past.
“Are ye ready then?” Tom glanced down the black chimney hole, a foot on each slope of the thatched cottage roof. He hoped the groaning and creaking was no omen the boards were about to cave.
When Joanie’s answer rose up the chimney, Tom dropped the rope with a furze bush tied in the middle. Seconds later, she tugged the bush down.
Scratch.
Scrape.
Thunk.
“A bird nest!” Joanie laughed below, coughed, then shouted, “Up again!”
They repeated the process, pulling the bush up and down, until his hands were covered with soot—and the chimney, hopefully, was not. He pulled the bush out for the last time, the branches and crushed yellow flowers stained black and gray. A flurry of ashes swirled around him as he turned—
“Mr. McGwen.”
He straightened, stilled, heartbeat grinding into his chest with a burst of speed.
Below, hand shading her eyes, Meg stared up at him. She wore something elaborate—a sort of green-velvet riding habit, with yellow gloves and the same boots he had rescued the night before. Her expression was hard. Her shoulders tight. As if she wished him to think her calloused, unaffected, and determined.
Which he might have believed if not for her eyes.
“Yer lord allows ye to go roaming by yerself, does he?” Frustration nipped him. He slung the bush off the roof. “Ye should know better.”
“He does not allow nor disallow me to do anything. I am not imprisoned, sir.”
“No.” He tied the rope about his waist, secured it around the brick chimney, and lowered himself back to the ladder. “Just stupid.”
“I did not come here to be insulted.”
“Then ye shouldnae have come.” Rung by rickety rung, he climbed down. When he reached the ground, he turned on her. “Someone wants to do ye harm, and until that man is found, ye’ll be staying out of the open and going nowhere alone. Ye understand?”
“You are not my husband nor my guardian.”
“Meg.”
“Miss Foxcroft to you.”
“Fine. Miss Foxcroft.” He brushed at his shirt sleeves. Hard. “Since it’s apparent ye need no one to tell ye anything, I suggest ye start looking to yerself and using yer own wits.”
“I fully intend to.”
“Good.”
“Which is why, in fact, I am here.” Her chin raised a notch. She wore no bonnet, and the loose wisps of her brown-red hair gleamed in the morning sunlight. Pink stole across her cheeks. “I wish to finish our discussion.”
