Pewter wall scones cast the taproom in a juxtaposition of light and shadow. Figures hunkered at tables, drinking, mostly clothed in articles as drab as the inn itself.
One of the fishermen slanted a look at her.
Another barked her name in a hoarse whisper.
Be calm.Hair stood on her neck, and the wild impulse to bolt back to her chamber nearly sprang her from the chair.
“Margaret, you must not think me so insensible to your turmoil.” With a careful finger, he nudged her white porcelain plate closer—filled to the brim with pigeon breast, sweet corn, grapes, nectarines, and pudding. Where had he acquired all this? Did he not think her capable of common dishware and courses?
“Do not excite yourself, my dear.” He followed her gaze to the shadowed men in the taproom. “I daresay, if those villagers were about to injure you, they would have already done it. Besides, I have three servants posted out of doors. One hail from me and they shall be upon us.”
“Thank you.” He was right, of course. Then why were her muscles coiled so tight? Why did she flinch, in her bed, every time footsteps passed by her chamber doorway?
“I assure you, I shall make certain nothing so atrocious occurs again.” Lord Cunningham leaned forward. “We shall get you back to Penrose; we shall fortify the abbey; and you may set your heart to rest.”
“Am I to hide away the length of my life?”
“Until this fiend is entrapped.”
“And if he is not?”
“You are too somber.” His light blue eyes smiled, catching sconce light—though they were somehow less fervent than his voice portrayed. “Would it truly be so unfavorable to spend the length of your days in Penrose Abbey, my dear?”
Betsey’s words rushed back to Meg in a torrent. Then Violet’s. “My lord, you have been so kind to me.” The sudden need to clarify their attachment rose. “But certainly, we—”
Theboomof a door jarred Meg.
Her heart pitter-pattered in her chest, and she twisted in her seat just as a giant man charged into the taproom. Meade, was it? His shirt sleeves were ripped at the shoulders, a black-smeared apron was tied across his waist, and something disturbing discolored his hands.
Blood.
“Miss Foxcroft, I be needin’ your help.”
She stood on legs already turning to jelly. “What has happened?”
“That doctor o’ yours. Where is he?”
“I believe he has retired to his chamber.” Lord Cunningham rose too. “But certainly, another local physician might administer to your needs without encumbering Mr. Bag—”
Meade was gone before Lord Cunningham had finished his speech. “Preposterous.” He ripped his napkin from his neckcloth. “We travel home in the morning, and the last thing I wish to do is entangle us further with—where are you going?” Lord Cunningham grabbed her shoulder as she turned.
“With them.”
“Impossible.”
“The doctor may need assistance, and I have aided my uncle enough to be of some use.”
“Before, granted. Certainly not now.”
“Perhaps my hands shall remember what my mind does not.” She hurried from the taproom, Meade and Dr. Bagot already descending the stairs.
Meg turned to the girl behind the long, wooden counter. “Betsey, have you a cloak?”
“Yes, miss.” She nodded and flounced away.
“Margaret, I must insist,” said Lord Cunningham. “This is not only unreasonable, it is unsafe.”
“Tom still not awake … cold rag on his head …” Snatches of Meade’s words hit Meg like a new onslaught of poison. As the two reached the bottom floor, Betsey returned and draped a moth-scented cloak about Meg’s shoulders.
