He was aware of everything at once.
The healing red wound across her forehead. The lack of color in her face. The stark panic rounding her eyes as she backed away, as if—
“Away from her this instant.” A strong, white-gloved hand clamped on Tom’s shoulder, yanking him backward.
His mind reeled, lagging. He stumbled back. “Meg.” Breathing hard. Then not at all. “Meg, it’s me.”
Her lips shook. Her gaze shook. The world shook.
She was afraid of him.
The realization stabbed him as he took one more step closer, arms spread. She looked ready for flight. Like the first time he’d kissed her, behind the apothecary among the elderberries and chamomile and thyme.
She knew he would not hurt her.
She’d known that then.
“Listen to me. I don’t know what ye’re doing in that dress and with this man, but I want ye to come home with me—”
“An impossibility, I fear, sir.” The gentleman stepped in front of Meg. Tall, broad, with blond hair and a too-large jaw. “Our wish is to speak with Mr. Willmott first and foremost. If you would like to request an audience with Miss Margaret, you may do so in a proper manner.” His brow hardened. “This,I daresay, is in very bad form.”
“Ye did this to her.” Tom tried to push past him. “What did he do to ye, Meg—”
“Sir, that shall be quite enough.”
“Get out of my way!”
“This is preposter—”
Tom’s fist connected with the man’s mouth, teeth puncturing knuckles. The gentleman crashed beneath the shadow of the bookstore’s awning.
“Meg, I’m trying to talk with ye.” He reached for her. “Please, talk to me.”
Red blazed her face. Instead of grasping his outstretched hand, she swept next to the stranger and grabbed his face like she’d grabbed Tom’s a million times. She crooned out a soft note of compassion. She wiped his blood away with the strange and terrible dress.
Then she looked back at Tom.
All the sweet creases in her face hardened, and the beautiful light in her eyes dimmed, and the love he lived and breathed for was absent.
“Whoever you are,” she whispered. “Leave me alone.”
CHAPTER 6
The corridor was too narrow. The walls were covered with paper hangings of bright green-and-red parrots and apples, and the single vase of wilted flowers put off a sweet, rotting fragrance.
Meg covered her nose. Not because the smell bothered her, so much as everything bothered her—and the last thing she wanted was to cast up her breakfast in Mr. Willmott’s corridor.
Beside her, leaning against a dusty longcase clock, Lord Cunningham dabbed his busted lip for the last time. He thrust the handkerchief into his pocket. “It should not be much longer.” But his words lacked conviction.
They had already been waiting twenty minutes.
Without chairs, or tea, or explanation.
“And I shall speak on your behalf, of course.” Lord Cunningham sent her a coddling look, as if she were some lost child who needed someone to hold her hand.
Maybe she was.
Maybe she did.
