Meg stood still.
Awkward.
Seconds drifted, and the pounding inside his chest sped out of beat as the cottage warmed in the soft orange glow.
“The curtains look lovely,” she said, untying her cloak.
“Aye.”
“You painted the mantel.”
“Needed done.”
“These are new too.” She roamed toward the kitchen, where he’d hung a worn copper ladle, basin, and pan. Old treasures Mrs. Musgrave had sent home with him. “Joanie will use them much, I am certain. She is a very domestic child.”
Quietness again, save for the breeze whistling through the chimney and Gyb clawing at the rug with a sleepy yawn. The air smelled sweet. Like violets.
“May I sit?”
“Aye.” Tom pulled out a chair. Circled the table.
“You may sit too.”
“Nae need.”
She stared up at him. Her hair was loose and bed ruffled, and airy wisps floated about her face just like they’d done a thousand years ago. Och, but there was a softness about her. That same look she’d given him when he’d been lying on the street at twelve years old, wiping blood from his lip as the urchins fled away.
He had not wanted her pity then.
He didn’t want it now.
“Thought ye’d find me languishing, did ye?” He rubbed his neck, frustrated. “If ye came for me, ye wasted yer time.”
“It is my time to waste.”
“I dinnae need your help.”
“I would not know how to administer it, even if you did.”
His nerve ends bounced with energy, tempting him to shift back and forth. He grabbed the back of the chair instead. “What do ye want?”
“For you to sit.”
“Then?”
“I thought we might talk.”
“About what?”
“Whatever you wish.”
The temptation to sling her back into the cloak, throw her over his shoulder, and lug her home almost won. He sank into his seat and sighed. “ ’Tis the middle of the night.”
“Something I imagined would be of little consequence if stories of our midnight excursions are true.”
He scowled.
She smiled.
