“Which is more than can be said for my carriage.” Dry anger pulled at his voice, and he pushed her hand away from his head. “Enough, dear girl. You are patting me to death. I shall hitherto sympathize with Violet for being prodded upon all the time.”
She scooted back, trying to compose her breath. Pain pulsated through her skull, and too many thoughts scrambled in her brain. The only one she understood was that someone had tried to kill her.
Again.
Why? What had she done that was so terrible, so despicable, that someone would hunt her this way? Had she known before? Or was the old Meg just as oblivious as she was now?
“There is simply no way I shall be able to move from this spot.” Lord Cunningham ripped his tailcoat open. Buttons popped. “If Dr. Bagot had accompanied us as planned, he might have been of service.”
“Or dead.” Meg stood back to her feet, grabbing the rock for support. She studied herself for injury. Other than sore limbs and a pounding headache, she appeared to be unharmed. “I must look for the driver. Perhaps he is yet alive.”
“He is not.” Lord Cunningham pointed.
A few feet away, face down in the sand, the man’s body was sprawled.
Meg hurried toward him. With tears in her throat, she grabbed his stiff shoulder and overturned him. His eyes were half open. Dry and cloudy and … so very, very lifeless.
She sniffled. “He is dead because of me.”
“Come here, my dear.” When she didn’t move, he said again in a more demanding pitch, “Come here, Margaret.”
She trudged back to him, lowering herself next to where he patted. His arm came around her, pulling her close.
“The blame for this atrocity is not yours to bear.”
“You do not know that.”
“Of course I do.”
“Perhaps I did something, gave someone cause to—”
“There are very few acts hideous enough to warrant murder. I am confident you could not be guilty of one.” He hugged her tighter. “Regardless, we are in a very compromised position. I cannot climb to the road, and you cannot venture the journey alone.”
“Perhaps with my arm under you, we could—”
“Impossible, my dear. I have not the strength.”
“Then I can wave down a carriage from the road.”
“Prey to any highwayman or vagabond? I think not.” He reached for her fingers, pulled them up to his cheek.
Had she not been so weary, so afraid, she would have drawn away.
“No, Margaret, I think we have little choice but to remain here until daylight and hope someone stumbles upon our plight.” He sighed. “Now lay your head upon my shoulder and rest. This has all the makings of a very long night.”
A shiver swept up her spine as she rubbed her arms and blinked into the deepening darkness. Whoever had shot at them might still be out there. Every rustle of the grass, every crash of the waves heightened a sense of fear not even Lord Cunningham’s arms dissuaded.
Oddly enough, her harried thoughts strayed to Tom. She almost prayed he’d come. That he’d find her.
For the strangest reason in the world, that made her feel safe.
Blast it.The road stretched out before Tom, choked in blackness and fog. The air was moist. A chill prickled through his body like an infection, giving his heart a light stutter.
Meg was gone.
He had arrived at Penrose Abbey an hour later than it would have taken before. He’d ridden slower, one hand supporting his ribs, endeavoring to hit as few ruts as possible.
He would have raced like the wind had he known.
