Tom tackled her down, shoving her body between two wooden boat slats. He covered every inch of her. Hid her face with his hands. “Ye’re fine. Ye’re fine.”
She was not fine.
Something slimy and cold squished into her ear. The rotten scent of fish and blood made her stomach heave, and had it not been for him—the familiar scent of his wet shirt—she would have retched.
Hours fled.
No.
Seconds.
He shifted, his breathing fast. “Stay down.”
“Tom, no—”
“Stay. Down.” He lifted himself off her, the boat creaking, the waves lapping and slurping beneath the rough wood.
She counted the seconds. He would go down first. Then her. She hoped they threw her overboard. She’d rather fade into the sea, loose and cold and drifting, than to burn like her uncle. She didn’t want to be ashes.Please, God.
A mild oath carried with the breeze, then Tom pulled her up. “Look.”
She followed his finger to shore, where a ratty-bearded man plucked a gray pigeon from the quayside. “He did not … I mean, I was not …”
“Old Jabez. Local poulterer.” Tom rolled down the sleeve of his shirt and swiped it across her cheek, the linen fabric soft and calming.
She almost leaned into his touch. Just long enough for her legs to gain their strength and the bile to slip back down her throat.
“Ye’re all right.” He said it again, slower, as if determined to make her believe him. She was not certain she did.
Hoisting her back into his arms, he lowered into the water and carried her to shore. The cool, salty liquid splashed her clothes, reminders she was still alive, still breathing.
For now.
Back on the quayside, he ran for his coat and came back to drape it around her shoulders. “I dinnae want to take ye back. I want ye to stay here with Meade, where I can guard ye.”
“I cannot hide from my danger when it follows me everywhere.”
“I can keep ye safe.”
“Ye didn’t before.”
His eyes flinched, but it only made his jaw stronger and his stance broader. “I’ll promise ye this. I willnae let it happen again.”
She had no way of knowing if Tom McGwen kept his promises. A pull inside her whispered he did.
The days stretched longer than before. Too many times, amid all her dancing lessons and reading and netting purses, Meg stole glances at the clock.
Never had the hours chimed with such lethargy.
Or the hands moved so slowly.
Why?
She should be grateful. She should be eager to fulfil her role as lady and wife—not bored. But the listlessness droned in her brain, weighting her limbs, and drawing her back to places she didn’t wish to go.
The graveyard.
Tom had knelt next to Mr. Foxcroft’s grave, and his smooth voice—with its musical Scottish lilt—had been fond as he told her stories.
