“Och, but there’s things I never told ye. About my brother … the reason he’s dead.”
“I had secrets too. I do not remember when I told you, or why I did, but you must have stayed close enough for me to whisper them in your ear.” Her finger slid beneath one of his eyes, brushing away the trace of moisture. “I want to be that for you. I want to be so close … that should you ever wish to tell me anything, you need only turn your head and whisper it.”
“Marry me, and I’ll get ye that chair.”
“The wingback?”
“Aye.”
“And you shall sit in it?”
“Aye.”
“Every day?”
“Och, every day.”
“Fine.” She burrowed deeper into him—smiling a little, crying a little too—as he swept one last kiss across her salt-stinging lips. “Return my stockings, Tom McGwen, and it’s a deal.”
EPILOGUE
October 1818
Juleshead Village
North Cornwall, England
A chill seeped through his thin woolen coat as Tom tossed the anchor over the edge of the boat. A loudpluh-plunkburped from the black sea, followed by a spray of cold water.
“Come here with ye.” He dug a hand-loomed shawl from under his coat, draped it over her head, then twisted it about her neck.
She squirmed in protest. “I think myself entirely capable of packing my own attire.”
“Do ye?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Watch yer ferocious tongue before I throw ye overboard.” When she huffed, he turned around, braced himself on the rocking boat, and muttered for her to hurry up. He grinned when she jumped on his back. “Hold on with ye.” Had she ever not?
Deserting the boat, he climbed onto a craggy, water-eroded rock, jumped to the next by memory, and didn’t touch the water until his boots were taller than the sloshing waves. When they reached the dry shore, Meg leapt off him.
Sighing, she spread out her arms and collapsed to the ground on the sand.
Tom threw himself next to her.
The night was black, moonless, and only tiny yellow stars reflected light from the heavens. A chilling breeze roared over them. The sand stirred. Distant scents of brine and salt and whatever Meg had been baking at home filled his senses with contentment.
“What’s wrong, lass?”
Another sigh.
He grumbled. “Dinnae make me chase my wife about the seashore.” When she did not laugh, or kiss him, he reached for her hand and entwined her sandy fingers with his. Concern niggled him, but he waited.
Finally, she leaned her head against his. “I am only surprised. I never thought Joanie would wish to leave.”
“Ye dinnae think she’s doing the right thing.”
“No. I think she is.” Meg rolled to her side, slipped her fingers between the buttons of Tom’s coat. Her touch slid beneath his shirt, frigid and soft against the skin of his chest. “Violet was never more in need of a companion, and Joanie is just good enough to be sister and nurturing friend, all at once.”
