That was different.
Shewas different.
The way she poured over his lips. The surprise. The yielding. Then the vigor, as everything else wore away and she lost her fears and her mouth ceased to tremble. The taste of her clung to him. Poisoned him.
Like the muffled words he’d heard behind the closed breakfast room door.“You must put an end to such nonsense … if you require your wife to possess decorum.”
He clutched the reins, leaned forward, gaining speed the same time his heart clenched again. He’d be hanged before he’d see her marry such a fool. She didn’t belong at Penrose Abbey, and she didn’t belong with Lord Cunningham.
She belonged with Tom.
She’d been happy.
Loved him.
He had been the one she looked at with glowing fascination, and she the one he needed to keep drawing breath. He’d been caught in the throes of destruction. He’d been lost when she found him. Out of his mind. He’d sat alone by the forge, at thirteen years old, and emptied an entire bottle of Meade’s gut-biting ale.
The next morning, Meg had smelled it on his breath.“You going to make that your salvation, are you?”
“What do ye mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
He wasn’t certain he did, but he’d never touched a bottle since. He couldn’t bear the way she’d looked at him. But he’d still needed a salvation, and almost unconsciously, Meg became that. He’d needed her too much. He still did.
Now he was freefalling alone, and the holes in his soul were only yawning bigger.
Against his will, he glanced up.
The sky stared down at him, the clouds gray and shifting as sunlight ringed the edges. He’d distracted his mind against every sermon the vicar read. He’d closed his heart, because it was easier to believe God did not exist than that He’d said no.
Jagged emotions ripped through him. Pebbles burst on his flesh like the sensations he’d felt back in his childhood cottage when he’d said his prayers with Mamm. She’d called it the breath of God.
Part of him wished he could get that back.
That he could believe again.
He just wasn’t certain he could.
“What are you doing?”
With one final tug, Uncle yanked the white-flowered plant from the courtyard garden. He fingered the roots. “Licorice plant.”
Meg edged closer to him, rubbing her arms for lack of anything to do with her hands. Her heart ticked faster. “His lordship has been very kind to us. I think it only just we leave his garden intact.”
“Huh. Still there.”
“What is?”
“Your spirit.” Her uncle stuffed the roots into his pocket. “Add a little honey, this will make syrup. Good for coughs.”
“Which none of us has.”
He spared her a quick glance before jerking his head back away. He’d disappeared all morning and had missed luncheon. Only an hour ago, a servant had spotted him out here. “Peering at all the flowers,” the scullery maid had said, “like they was paintings in the prince regent’s Blue Velvet Room.”
Meg had moseyed back and forth from her chamber to the courtyard entrance three times before she’d finally gained enough mettle to face him. The silence she’d been dreading expanded between them.
Say something.She bit the inside of her cheek.Anything.
