“As have I, which seems to matter very little to you.” He gulped down the sherry, then grimaced as if both the taste and the circumstances were unfavorable to him.
But what had he expected her to do? Pretend he had not deserted her?
“What will you do? Keep me forever in suspense as to your feelings? Kill me slowly with your apathy and your not-so-veiled disgust?” He frowned. “I have enough afflicting me, Margaret, without you injuring me too.”
“I have no intention of injuring you.”
“Then speak to me.”
“There is nothing to say.”
“You think I ran.”
“Didn’t you?”
The beat of silence and the tick of his jaw dimmed the last hope she had for an ample excuse. His shoulders caved. “The animal was out of control. By the time I turned my mount back around, the smoke hindered me from finding you. I thought the best course of action to return to Penrose, where I might procure enough menservants to fight off such an attack. In hindsight, I realize this was not the best course of action.”
Her disappointment in him mellowed into a trickle of pity. “I suppose we cannot always be expected to think clearly in moments of disaster.”
“I should have been there. I should have protected you.”
“Your intentions were pure, my lord, I am sure.” She forced a smile, one she hoped would reassure him. “We shall forget it. All is well.” The same words Tom had once spoken to her.
Somehow, it was more comforting to hear them than to say them.
Embarrassment slinked the back of Tom’s neck, and he kept his eyes on the nicks and scratches of the bedchamber threshold.
“Go on then, guv. The likes o’ my little flittermouse won’t hurt you.” Lieselotte gave him a small push into a chamber that reeked of musky carnations.
Tom steeled his heels two steps inside. He gritted his teeth when the door slammed behind him. “I’ve nae wish to hurt ye, lass. I’d like to speak with ye downstairs.”
The girl across the sparse, cream-colored room stood from a chair. She was thin, young, with a sweat-ringed wrapper and limp red hair. Her cheeks were smeared with pink rouge. The only color of her face. “I don’t go downstairs.”
“Then in the hall.”
She gave a small shake of her head, though she didn’t explain why. What did they do, keep her locked in here?
Tom shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded. “I’d like to speak with ye about Elisabeth. About her death.”
“Who are you?”
“Tom McGwen.”
Her mouth gaped.
“Something wrong?”
“Most men that come here don’t have names.” She limped over to the bed, ropes and wood creaking as she sat. She hugged a pillow to her chest. “You her cousin?”
“No.”
“I think she lied about him, anyway.” Bibby blinked convulsively. “She lied about a lot. I bet you never do that, though, do you?”
Thoughts of Caleb whirred through him. All the things he’d never told Meg.
Och, aye. He lied.
“What do ye know about her sickness?” Tom stuffed his hands into his pockets, shifting. “Lieselotte says an apothecary came to look at her.”
