More than anything, she should have known herself. Enough to trust who she’d been—that she’d made the right decisions, that she’d loved the right people, that she’d kept her hands washed in innocence—even if she couldn’t remember.
With a resigned nod, Uncle turned his back on her again.
This time, she caught his sleeve and pulled him back. “Uncle.” She lifted her arms, and though he hesitated, Uncle bent down and met her embrace. His rough lips pressed against her forehead. Once, then twice, then a third and lasting time.
She wasn’t certain what to say to him. If she should tell Lord Cunningham the truth about his father’s death or leave the past where it had stayed buried for so long.
She only knew one thing.
Meg Foxcroft—and all the people she’d loved—were not as lost on her as she had once believed.
Sometime that night, Tom left the chamber. Meade was asleep, and Joanie had left to assist the doctor in the upstairs quarters, else they would have stopped him.
He should have stopped himself.
Energy reared, then bottomed as he walked the hall with quickening breaths. Sweat tickled down his temples. The chances of finding her chamber in this cursed old abbey were sparse—especially when he had to stop every minute or so to lean against the wall and clutch his wound.
But something drove him on.
Shedrove him on.
Why had it always been that way? For as long as he could remember, he’d sloshed out of his fishing boat every late afternoon and run straight for the apothecary shop. His stories were never grand, his news never significant.
But he’d always wanted to tell her, and she had always wanted to listen.
“You smell like codfish.”The memory slinked back to him. Dull evening light, that old oak bench back of the shop, and the array of daylily leaves strewn on her lap.“You come out here to help?”
“Och, nay.”He’d plopped down next to her with his hands behind his head. At sixteen he’d been small, a little gangly, and his one consolation was the new growth of thick red beard appearing on his cheeks. Had Meg noticed?
After all, he noticed things.
Like the way tiny new hairs curled around her face. Especially now, in late August, when the days were hot and sultry. Or the fact that she wore her dress more often. The one with the faded red flowers on creamy muslin, instead of the trousers rustling on the alley clothesline.
That and how much she smiled at him.
How lively her eyes became when he talked.
“What do you think I should put in it?”She’d lifted the half-woven basket from her lap.“My button collection or Uncle’s tobacco pouches?”
“Ye can do better than that.”
“I supposed you would say something ridiculous.”She’d laughed anyway, leaned her head into his shoulder for a second, then weaved another leaf into the tiny basket.“Very well. What is better than buttons, Tom McGwen?”
“Well.”
“I didn’t think you had a better idea.”
He harrumphed, then dug something from his pocket.“What about this? Found it today caught on one of the nets. Guess it’s one of those things ladies hide in their boots in case men ever pester them.”
“A hatpin?”She examined the tiny, two-beaded pin with a grin.“I do not think ladies hide them in their boots. Besides, I don’t wear hats.”
“Ye dinnae need to.”Impatient, struck with a wave of vigor, Tom swept away the basket and pulled her up. “Ye can put treasures in it. Things ye find.”
“I never find anything.”
“We’ll go to the seashore. Look around.”
“Now?”
