Sitting on the edge of a striped sofa with her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes watched him with disapproving wariness. Her dress was gold embroidered and navy. Her hair pinned back. Her lips tight. “I am grateful you came, Mr. McGwen.”
Had she thought he wouldn’t?
“I have many questions, and it is my wish that you would enlighten me.” Her focus shifted to the moving bulge inside his coat, one brow raised.
“Brought this for ye.”
She did not move.
Nor accepted the kitten when he approached.
“Joanie went to calling it Pippins. Ye can call it what ye like.” He settled it on her lap. “Ye always wanted one, but yer uncle would have nothing of it.”
Her jaw hardened, but she swept the kitten to her chest anyway. The meows softened. Faint purring filled the room. “Won’t you sit, Mr. McGwen?”
He didn’t want to sit. He wanted to sweep her from the couch, pull out the hair pins, tug off the slippers peeking out beneath her delicate trim.
He wanted to catch her face and make her look at him.
Rub her cheeks.
Unwind her unnatural curls.
Make her laugh at him, like she’d always laughed before.
“Mr.McGwen.”
“I’ll stand.”
“I would rather you did not.” When he did not budge, she came to her feet. Some of that old fury, that old fire, eroded at her stiff formalities. “I shall be very frank with you. After our last two encounters, it is necessity alone that drove me to see you again. I wish to do this as quickly as possible, and then you may leave. Is that understood?”
“I suppose yer coddling lord will make sure of it.”
“How dare you insult him.”
“I’m insultingye.” He grinned, but it trembled. “For letting him.”
“I do not have to listen to—”
“Ask yer questions, Meg.” He pulled her down onto the sofa next to him. Her arm brushed against his coat. Jolts zipped through him. “Ye hate porridge. Ye know how to make potions and medicines like most women know how to bake bread. And ye would never”—he reached up to flick her perfectly round curl—“wear yer hair like that.”
“Do not touch me.”
“Ye fight a lot.”
“With you?”
“And yer uncle.”
“Then we were not close.” Her lips flattened, and despite her efforts to look unaffected, disappointment moistened her gaze.
“He was an old goat. Always trying to make ye do what ye didn’t want. Fussing with ye. One day ye’d be locking yerself in yer chamber and saying ye’d never speak to him again, and the next day ye’d be on his lap and laughing at him for hiding his smiles.” Tom’s knees bounced. He looked away. “Ye fought with fierceness but loved the same way.”
“I am glad.” A whisper. “And you? How did we … I mean, how is it we first … became acquainted?”
“We were twelve.”
“And?”
