He had wanted to tell her.
He always wanted to tell her.
Strange, because she knew every other part of him. She knew that he still ate raspberries late in the summer, despite the hives, because they reminded him of Mamm’s trifles back home. She knew that he belted Gaelic songs when he took out the boat alone. She knew that he only attended church because she wanted him to, that he fell asleep on any carriage ride, that he sometimes rearranged her uncle’s perfectly organized jars just to irritate the old goat.
She knew everything.
All of him.
Except what niggled his heart late at night, when he finally climbed into his pallet in the room above the blacksmith shop. Except how insane her fears tonight truly were.
No one back in North Brumcastle would beg Tom McGwen to stay when he returned tomorrow.
Least of all those in his own house.
A scream pierced the sleepy night air, raising the hair on Tom’s arms. He spun back. The buildings were motionless, the windows black, save for the street lamps glinting off their panes.
A dog yowled in the distance.
A broken shutter clickety-clacked back and forth in the breeze.
Nothing.He yanked the wet shirt back over his head, but instead of taking the alley to the smithy, he backtracked. Meg would despise him for returning.
He would tap on her window, make certain all was well, but she would call him ridiculous and say he fabricated the danger to see her again.
Mayhap he had.
A grin worked at his lips and that same odd sensation sparked through him again. She had kissed him. Why that was significant he was not certain, but it rattled something in his chest. Perhaps because she’d always been timid to his kiss—a little frightened, a little uncertain, her lips always quivering beneath his like a bird ready to take flight.
But tonight was different.
Shewas different.
Her arms had pulled him closer, deeper, than he’d ever been. Her lips had explored him. She’d still been afraid—he knew that—but in a new way, and it emboldened her affection instead of dimming its power.
Hopping over a puddle, Tom crossed the street to the apothecary and glanced through the white-paned glass. Blackness stared back at him. Should he truly summons her?
His luck, Uncle Owen would stumble out here with his knotty cane and uncouth words. If nighttime excursions riled the old goat now, the prospect of a marriage would send him thundering to kingdom come.
Perhaps it was just as well Tom would be away for a fortnight.
Give Meg time to soften him.
If such a thing were possible.
Smoke.The smell slapped Tom in the face, mingled with the cloying odor of whale oil.What?The window fogged. A muffled crash—
Tom darted for the door, heart faltering, as he jerked at the brass handle. Locked. “Meg!” Another bang inside the shop, distant as if it were in the bedchambers. Voices lifted, ones he didn’t recognize. “Meg, open up!” Backing up, he grinded his teeth and barreled into the door with his shoulder. The hinges groaned but didn’t give. He charged again.
Glass showered over him, pinging to the ground, as he busted through and stumbled inside.
Heat blasted him in the face.
Behind the rear counter, flames licked up the knob-drawered cabinets, flashing light into the darkness, illuminating the room. Broken delftware pottery. Overturned leech jar. Tangled wet hair sprawled on the floor—
Meg.His gut clenched as he drove his knees to the floorboards next to her. He swallowed her up against him. Her head craned back over his arm. Blood on her face, in her eyes, her hair, everywhere.God, save her.
The prayer came too quickly. Before he could pull it back.
