She took in a breath and smiled, then nodded him on. “Forgive me, my lord. Tomorrow?”
“An assembly is to be held at the end of the week in Juleshead. It is, of course, a very modest affair and shall be a gathering of unskilled dancers and even worse wardrobes.” He took a quick sip of his barsac wine. “But my father always thought it a worthy charity to make local village balls as splendorous as possible, beyond what the mere subscription fares could render. When he passed, I took on the responsibility of donating to events throughout nearby parishes myself.”
“That is generous of you.”
“Not quite as noble as your tone implies, but thank you.” Lord Cunningham finished his wine in one long drink, then nodded to the footman to refill the goblet. “I have not attended one in years. In truth, since boyhood. My father always enjoyed making a brief appearance to witness the grandeur of his efforts.” His eyes grew glassy. “It is the only time in my life that I can ever recall truly having … well,fun.” He shook his head. “Our social station was, of course, very taxing. Our events were plays and we were all actors, instructed to move about and say our lines to perfection, without ever missing a note. The assemblies had no such expectations.”
“Did the whole of your family attend?”
“Fatherwasthe whole of my family.”
“You had no siblings?”
“Much to my chagrin, no. My mother died shortly after my birth, and even cousins were so distant I have still yet to meet them.” He stood from his chair, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his plate was still half unfinished and his fourth glass of wine had just been filled. “My books were both mother and brother and sister and playmate to me. But enough of my tedious childhood woes. Do you think, my dear Miss Margaret, that an outing to the humble assembly might cheer your otherwise downhearted countenance?”
“If it was a cure to you, perhaps it shall be for me as well.”
“My thoughts precisely. Perhaps there shall be acquaintances in attendance who might stir your memory as well.” He crossed the table with new energy in his steps. “Now, if you are finished here, what say you to an evening spent in the garden with more of our poems? I fear we were interrupted from the pleasure this morning, and I should very much like to finish our volume.”
The warm invitation soothed her. “I shall wait for you at the folly.” While he hurried off in search of the book, Meg weaved her way through the corridors that were finally familiar. She exited into the courtyard, walked the length of a sun-streaked cloister, and wandered into the heart of the garden.
The temple-styled folly, with blooming vines crawling up the pillars, sported a stone bench in the center. She sat and smoothed her dress. Then sighed. Then held her breath.
This was comfortable.
She was safe.
With Lord Cunningham, tucked away in this abbey, she could shrink from the frightening unknowns and angst of what she did not know. Her mind could grow lax. While he read poetry to her or smiled at her or encouraged her, she could exist without questioning anything.
But still.
The stranger returned to her, like an infection of the mind. His buttons had been made of wood. One was missing. His cheeks were sunburnt. She knew, not only because they were leathery and pink but because she felt the heat when his face had been in hers—
A blur of motion flashed before her.
Something whipped against her throat.
Course, rough, digging into her skin and cutting off her scream. A body pressed into her back. She groped at her neck, clawing at the rope, mouth open.
No. Help.Black dots scattered across her vision. Pain rushed up and down her in waves of shock. She couldn’t breathe. Her head rocked. The rope tightened.
“Stop!” A shout in the distance, then a vicious bark, but the sounds were ringing and the ringing faded. The rope must have fallen, because her body slumped from the bench. Everything was faint, dim, except the sound of her own frantic gasping.
The air hurt.
Everything hurt.
“Margaret. Margaret.” Lord Cunningham, lifting her up, rocking her, smelling of the fruity, apricot scent of his wine. “He is gone, and I am here. You are safe, my dear. I promise you are safe.”
Her fading consciousness tried to hold on to the lie, even though she knew it wasn’t true.
Her one haven in the world had just been shattered.
She was not certain she would be safe anywhere, ever again.
“What I knowed, I already told the justice of the peace, Mr. McGwen.” The gangly, sixteen-year-old balanced a tray of foaming tankards on her hip. “Papa told me not to talk to anyone more about it.”
“I’ll only bother ye a moment.”
