“Has someone tried to murder Mr. McGwen?” the girl croaked.
Meade ripped open the door and shoved the doctor through. “Got to hurry.”
“Margaret.” Lord Cunningham maneuvered in front of Meg, blocking the doorway before she could follow. “That man, whoever he was to you before, is not your concern now.”
“I know.”
“Then in the name of faith, listen to reason. He is not worth your trouble. Indeed, he is not worth anything.”
“I did not say he was.” A light tremble fanned through her. Why, she was uncertain. Not for care of Tom McGwen. He was a blackguard who had assaulted Lord Cunningham, invaded her bedroom, kissed her … saved her life, only days before.
She pushed the memory of his arms, the smell of his blanket, out of her mind. She would do no less for anyone. She was the niece of an apothecary. It was in her blood to nurse the injured, and it was no more complicated than that.
“My lord, get out of my way.”
With her legs stronger and her stomach less like the tossing sea, the blacksmith shop appeared less ominous. She shuffled inside behind Dr. Bagot and Meade, curiosity—not concern—drumming impatience at her chest. Was the doctor always so lethargic in his gait? Was he untroubled when someone needed his help?
“This way,” grunted Meade.
Dripping tallow candles perched in wooden window seals set the rooms in a dim yellow haze as they made their way to the stairs. The steps creaked as they ascended.
Tom’s door slammed open before they reached the top. “Joanie.” He gripped the doorway to keep from falling. “Where is—”
“She be in my bed.”
“I want to see her.”
“After the doctor gets you—”
“He looks at Joanie first.” Tom rushed into the narrow hallway, but Meade shouldered under him before he stumbled. “I’m fine.” Tom yanked free. He burst into the second bedroom like thunder reverberating through clouds.
Dr. Bagot’s beaver hat blocked her view.
Then Meade’s shoulders.
But as Meg finally squeezed into the too-tiny chamber and skirted along the back wall, her breath snagged.
He leaned over the child in the bed, his hands frenzied as he turned her face from one side to another, searching for injury. “Ye hurt?”
Joanie cried and shook her head.
“Ye tell me the truth, lass, hear?”
“He didn’t hurt me.” She hiccupped, reaching beneath her dress collar to tug something free. A tiny green string securing a folded note. “He said to read you this. I was afraid to.”
Tom eased it from her. He stuffed it away in his trouser pocket. “Ye dinnae have to. Ye need but rest, lass.”
“Please, stay with me.”
“I will.” Meade stepped next to the bed, his giant presence emitting a sense of control. “Bagot, get this fool back to his chamber—”
“He looks at Joanie first.” Tom pulled back the thin coverlet. His shoulders deflated, as if he’d already known the child would be cradling her elbow.
Dr. Bagot was already clicking open his bag. “Show me, Miss McGwen, exactly where it is you experience pain.”
Shrinking back, without so much as glancing at Meg, Tom left the room.
Tightness pulled at her shoulders. She leaned harder against the wall, clasped her hands, because she had no intention of following him.
