“He never is.”
“With you.”
Meg gave the girl a reassuring smile, then hurried through the dark abbey corridors, down the stairs, and to the anteroom. Her heart pounded again. Not from fear. Something else.
She stopped before bursting out the door, shaking her head. What was she doing? This was unseemly. Absurd. Even if her old nature had been so reckless, she knew better now.
Go back.A dull warning, but she reached for the door anyway. She stepped outside, the blackness enveloping her, the night fragranced and chilly against her skin. “Mr. McGwen?”
Night bugs chirped in answer.
Had he gone already? She snuck down the steps, dragging her stained glove along the stone railing. His horse waited at the bottom. No Tom. She turned—
Hands swung her up in one effortless motion. She let out a small yelp, swatting, but she was planted atop the saddle before her fighting rendered any good.
Then he was behind her, arms caging her in. “Sit tight with ye,” he grumbled in her ear. “And for once in yer life, keep yer mouth shut.”
She wanted to be angry. She wanted to insist they take a carriage and, even more, that he never grab her again without proper consent. Which he would not receive. Not again.
But as the horse took off at a wild gallop and the air beat at her face, none of that mattered. She lost her fury to the wind, her heart to the night. And she couldn’t help thinking—no matter how wrong this was—that she could not remember feeling more exhilarated in her life.
He had braced himself for her confounded fury. She had asked him to teach her, raising her lofty chin and standing there in her fancy clothes as if Tom were a servant she was bidding to polish her shoes.
He knew her well enough to know one thing.
She would fight him on everything.
She always did.
Blast.He thrust his heels harder into the horse’s sides, their speed gaining through the fog-moistened night. Mud splattered behind them. What would she think of Juleshead upon closer inspection?
He had a million places he wanted to show her.
None that would impress. Or mean anything.
That was the root, perhaps, of his foul temperament. Not that Meg would fuss at him. Not that she wore her perfect, tailored clothes. Not even that she demanded Tom teach her, after all these terrible weeks of despising the sight of him.
No.
He widened his arms again, but her wind-loosened hair still tickled his face. ’Twas only that the life she’d forgotten was small. The stockings he wanted to return were threadbare and worthless. The wharves a little grimy. The shore where they’d played without luster.
Painters would never go there.
She probably wouldn’t either after she saw it through new eyes.
He hardened his gaze on the road ahead, keeping the sigh trapped inside him. He would not think of such things. This was what Meg wanted. To know the truth.
He would give it to her.
What she did with it was out of his hands.
He would focus his attention, instead, on keeping her safe. Mrs. Musgrave had not shown him the letter. Mrs. Whalley had bustled into the kitchen, peppering questions about a certain ugly looking turban, and Mrs. Musgrave had no choice but to smile back her tears and slip the note away in her pocket.
She had reached for Tom’s hand just before she left. “Come back tomorrow after church. The shop will be closed, and we may talk then.”
He was afraid to find out what had spurred such a tormented look on her face.
He was more afraid not to.
