Had he kissed other girls as he’d kissed her? Was that the reason shopkeepers’ daughters crept to the docks to watch him? Had she done so herself?
The breadth of his chest struck her. The clearness of his eyes. She felt his breath, warm, measured—and a traitorous tingle soared up her spine.
“That’s enough.” For the second time, Tom put distance between them. He walked to the door and held it open. “I want ye to go back to the inn. See that Meade takes ye. Ye’ll be safe with him.”
“Mr. McGwen, answer me one thing.”
He nodded her on.
“Is what happened tonight, the letter …” Why was it so hard to get out the words? “It is not because of me … is it?”
Tom did not answer for so long that she knew the answer. “I am sorry.” For more than tonight. For several days ago, when she had lashed out at him in this very room, when he had done nothing but keep her safe.
“Goodnight, lass.”
She hurried from the chamber and nearly ran back down the stairs. She gripped the railing at the bottom. Whoever he was, whatever atrocities he had done—ortheyhad done together—she was beginning to understand one thing: why the old Meg Foxcroft, and every other girl in the village, had seen more than a mere fisherman in Tom McGwen.
Meade’s soft snores drifted through the door, the rhythmic sound finally uncoiling the tension in Tom’s muscles.
“Sleep,” Meade had barked at both Tom and Joanie when the doctor departed. “I’ll guard the door.”
Tom had argued it was unnecessary. Whoever had done this would not be so quick to return. But Meade had insisted and, with his new bottle of ale and one of the kitchen stools, had taken his position like a sentry.
Tom straddled his chair backwards.
Joanie still slept, her cotton sling visible between her hair and the coverlets. The doctor said she was no more than bruised. She shouldn’t be that. Tom should have stopped this, and by heaven, he should have kept her safe.
He dropped his head. The letter wailed from his pocket, like a sharp wind cutting through wet trees. The edges were black again. The mark of grief.
You save the lives of those who take others. You dip your hands in their blood. Cease now before that blood is yours.
Mr. Foxcroft had killed no one. Meg had killed no one. All they’d ever done, the whole of their existence, was restore health and save lives. They had unstained hands.
Unlike Tom.
Rolling over in bed, Joanie’s soft breathing came faster. Tears dripped from under her closed eyelids.
“Shhh, lass.” Tom moved to the edge of the bed. “Ye awake?”
“Is it morning?” she whispered, eyes still closed.
“Nay.”
“Where is Gyb?”
“Last I looked, the wee thing was sleeping on Meade’s lap. But if ye tell him I told ye, I’ll be denying every word.”
She rumbled with a quiet laugh, smearing the wet streaks from her cheeks. She sighed and finally squinted up at him. Her lashes quivered. “Tom?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you wish Mamm had never sent me here?”
“Why would ye say that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lass.”
