Mayhap it was time to leave the past behind him.
Meg tore open the arched stable doors, out of breath. She’d run so hard one of her jewel-studded shoes had slipped free in the abbey, and the granite floor felt gritty and shocking against her bare foot. The dress was too tight. The bodice constricting against her pulsing chest.
“Tom.”
He stepped out from one of the stalls, leading his chestnut mare into the center aisle. He turned. His eyes flickered across her face, impassive, before he murmured something to the horse and started forward.
She remained braced in the brick doorway. “He was mistaken.”
He came so close she thought the horse might plow her down, but Tom halted several inches from her face.
“About the marriage,” she stammered. “We are no longer betrothed.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw. He tilted his head as if asking her to move aside. “If ye please.”
“I am not finished.”
“I am.”
Her pulse jumped, and she wiggled off her second shoe so she no longer stood lopsided. Or was it because she could not bear to look at him? Because she needed to fidget. Because whatever Lord Cunningham had accused him of still hung in his eyes, bare and tenuous, like something she could reach out and shatter.
He was mischief. He was outlandish grins and the playful side of a world that had turned strict and demanding.
He was not this.
Or was he?
How much about Tom McGwen did she really know? Had shebotheredto know? A shudder of remorse curdled in her, and against all the reasoning in the world, she lifted her hand to his arm.
Stiffening, he tried to shoulder past her. “I have to go.”
She blocked him. “What Lord Cunningham said—”
“It doesnae matter.”
“He was wrong.”
“Move.”
“I cannot allow you to leave like this. You have borne my secrets. Someone should bear yours.” What was she doing? “I am sorry. I did not know about your brother. I must have known before.”
He looked away.
“Did I not?”
“I cannae do this with ye.”
“Tom—”
“I can’t.”
“Because you are afraid.”
“Nay.” He took another step forward, closer to her unbudging body. He was so near the sweetness of his breath carried over her face, raising her skin in bumps, vaulting her stomach upside down. “Because ye wouldnae care anyway.”
“If that were true, you would have told me before.” She lifted her hand to his chest, hesitated, then rested her fingers against the soft wool fabric. “But you did not. Did you?”
His eyes were hollow, then frightened, then sad, then bottomless with an unspeakable wound. He blinked and the blackness was gone. “I have to go.” When he pushed past her, she did not stop him.
