“Aye.”He’d made swelling promises, told her all the things they’d find hidden beneath the sand or tucked inside the cliffside crevices. Truth was, they’d searched hours into the night without discovering anything. The basket had sat on top of the kitchen dresser for years, filled with nothing but multi-color buttons, the old goat’s velvet pouches, and one rusty hatpin.
Why she ever looked at him like she did, Tom didn’t know.
The seashore had been so small. Anything he’d ever had to offer her was small.
Doesnae matter.He shook away the past, but it clung to him now like saltwater, intensifying his thirst. All he knew was that he wanted her. That he missed her.
That he had to see her, his Meg—and he had to see her now.
Around the next bend of the hall, light poked out from a barely open door, and he knew she was inside. He leaned against the door jamb, widened the crack.
His heart faltered.
First at the sight of her—sweet, whole, and sitting up in bed. Braids cascaded down her nightgown, and the same drooping curls he’d loved a hundred years ago still wisped around her face.
Then his heart took its second plummet. Lord Cunningham leaned next to her, riffling through a book, while a little blonde-curled lass rumpled the coverlet on the bed.
Och, lass.
Some rash and insane part of him itched to tear through the door, fight Lord Cunningham away, and scoop Meg into his arms. He wanted to carry her to the cottage because she belonged there. She’d sewn the curtains. She’d dreamed it into existence. They both had.
Instead, he slipped past the door before she caught sight or sound of him. All this time, he’d done everything he knew to bring Meg back. He’d always believed she’d want him to.
If she remembered.
If she knew.
Breathing heavy, he rubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeve and found his chamber. Something he’d never considered flamed inside of him, hot and melting like lava crackling through his chest. He could tell her every story, show her every place, and teach her every lesson.
But he couldn’t make her love him.
Only Meg could do that.
Tom had left the house. His absence darkened the stained-glass windows and swept the lofty abbey air with a chill of gloom. Why had he run? Why now—when she had not strength to find him—would he leave her alone?
Hollowness enlarged within her, a lost and untethered sense that everything was over. Mayhap Tom had told the truth when he’d tangled with her lips on the floor. Maybe they never would have married. Nor been contented. Nor ceased to fight.
Even before.
What had made young Meg so certain, all those years, that Uncle was not right? Her love for Tom McGwen must have been steadfast, but they’d fueled their passion with childish rampages, the scarce coins Tom kept in his blacksmith chamber, and some faraway dream that someday they’d build something of their own. Some elusive, dreamlike cottage. Painted red, of all ridiculous colors.
Moisture stung her eyes. Mostly because … well, she loved red.
And she didn’t even remember why.
Tossing away the coverlets, Meg awoke Tillie. “I need to dress.”
“But Dr. Bagot says—”
“Please.” The tears must have flashed all over again, because Tillie looked abashed for one second before she consented. “You will be finding his lordship, won’t you? He said I ought to tell him if you stir.”
“Yes.” Dread dampened her palms. “I shall find him.”
“In the garden, he be. At the folly.”
Pain throbbed from dull pinpricks to plunging knife blades as Tillie maneuvered Meg’s arm through a leaf-patterned dress and wheat-colored jacket. She gritted her teeth all the way through her hair being combed, braided, and coiled in a circle back of her head. With one last pat of vanilla perfume, Tillie ushered Meg out the door.
Never had she been less ready to face him.
