“But I feel, somehow, that while Mr. Willmott might offer me facts concerning my life, Tom McGwen might know more.”
“You remembered his name.”
Meg glanced away. “Not quite, my lord.” Did she really wish to tell him of the kiss now? She was not certain that would help her argument. “I know this must be difficult for you to understand, but I just wish to speak with him.”
“I do not trust him.”
“Nor do I.”
“I took the liberty some days ago to find out more concerning this stranger.” Lord Cunningham stood and poured himself a cup of tea. He slanted her a look, a hesitant one, as if asking for permission to continue.
“And what did you discover?”
“McGwen arrived in Juleshead seven years ago, yet no one has the slightest indication of where he came from. He is little more than an uncouth vagabond who lives in a room above the blacksmith shop and does nothing better with his time than render trouble.” His lips opened, then shut just as quickly with a look of disgust. As if there were more.
“What are you not telling me?” she croaked, a hand on her throat.
Lord Cunningham smiled away the worrisome look. “Suffice it to say, I do not think McGwen was … respectful to you, my dear. I am certain, by no fault of your own.”
A tunnel of shame burrowed through her. Flashes of the dark bedchamber, his consuming kiss, drew sweat to her hairline. She should have known he was terrible. What in heaven’s name had she been embroiled in? What dark and dishonorable secrets haunted her past?
Perhaps Lord Cunningham was right.
Perhaps it was wrong—and dangerous—to invite them all back to light. But did she really have a choice?
“Someone wishes me harm, my lord.” She could not bring herself to say the worddead.“I assure you, all I wish to do is find out why. Tom McGwen means nothing more to me than that.”
“Then it is Tom McGwen you shall have, tomorrow afternoon.” Lord Cunningham lowered his teacup back to the library stand. “I shall go ahead and write the letter now. Rest while I am gone, my dear.”
“My lord?” She called out to him as he reached the green-paneled doorway. “There is one thing. About last night.”
“It is better you do not think of the ordeal.”
“When you brought me inside … you called for Dr. Bagot. He was already in the house.”
Lord Cunningham’s expression remained steady, but his eyes seemed unable to meet hers. Was it her imagination, or did they moisten as he lifted his face to the ceiling and sighed? “Dr. Bagot was here because I had requested his stay at Penrose Abbey.”
“Why?”
Lord Cunningham finally met her gaze. His words rasped as much as her own, “Because my daughter is dying.”
CHAPTER 7
Meg wanted to see him.
Late evening wind rippled through Tom’s shirt, his burns no longer irritated by the scratch of fabric. He jogged to the end of the sagging quay.
Gray-blue water sloshed back and forth against the wooden posts, a soothing motion tampering down the tension spiking through him.
He should never have kissed her.
Too many times he’d wanted to clout himself in the head for doing the one thing she always feared. Before, she’d known her fears were ungrounded. That Tom wasn’t like the man in the alley.
Now, she didn’t.
He paced the edge of the wharf. The sun burned into the horizon, streaking the sky in shades of red and orange and pink. Any minute, the Creagh lass should be here. Whether this was another unfavorable attempt to entrap him or she actually had information, he was not certain.
But he needed something.
