But the sound of his breathing slowed, his shoulder slumped beneath her, and the lulling roar of the water stilled the rushed pattern of her heart. Her eyes became heavy.Stay awake.She stared at the hillside—the faint yellow flowers in the moonlight, the lifting fog, the carriage.
Then the moon was gone.
Everything was faint and empty, and a cottage appeared in the pink light of sunrise. A woman stood in the garden. She flung something from her pinafore, and the ducks all waddled to her side, quacking. Meg rushed to the woman too.“Mamma.”The arms swallowed her. Gentle, delicate, then soft lips fell to her cheek.
Just as quickly, the cottage was gone.
The woman gone.
Different lips roved over her. Hot, demanding. Clammy fingers slid across her skin and into her hair—
Meg flinched, opened her eyes.
Lord Cunningham.
She leaned back, startled, wiping the taste of him from her tingling mouth. “My lord.”
“We are already compromised, my dear. Look.”
She glanced around them, disoriented. How long had she been asleep? The sun burned a line of orange across the water, and the sky had transformed from blackness to a cloudy blue. Her skin was moist with dew. Soreness ebbed and flowed throughout her muscles in protest of both her position last night and the fall.
Lord Cunningham reached for her face—
She gasped and scooted away from him, wiping tangled hair out of her eyes. “Do not touch me.”
“Whoever finds us now shall make no delays, I am certain, in spreading the lateston ditamong all of the parish. Scandal is always rousing to the ears, I am afraid.”
“You had no right.” She pushed to her feet, stumbled away from him. She turned for the hill.
“Where are you going?”
Her shoes slipped in the wet grass. She flung them off, climbed with her hands.
“It is not safe, Margaret! Be reasonable.” He shouted more, words that she muffled consciously.
All she listened for was the ocean, a steady roar—her own throbbing heart, the tear of her dress, the seagulls in the distance.How could you?She wiped her mouth, for the second time, with her shoulder. Panic strengthened her climb. When she finally reached the road, she stood alongside it with limp arms and choppy breaths and perspiration that had nothing to do with the exertion.
She never wished to be kissed again.
Tom drew the reins of his horse as he rounded another curve.
Midway down the straight stretch, a yellow-and-black mail coach had halted its route, and more than one gentleman peered down the edge of the hill.
Then Meg.
She emerged from behind the coach, an oversize coat draped over her shoulders. She wore no shoes. Hair fell around her shoulders as she called something down the slope.
Tom picked up speed, relief unsnagging the hook in his chest.Thank mercy.
By the time he neared the coach, three gentlemen were lugging a groaning Lord Cunningham into the already crowded carriage.
“Now, load up! We’re six deuced minu’es behind.” A short, nubby man—presumably the coachman—waved a hand at Meg. “We’re loaded seven already, so’s unless yew wants to be waitin’ for me to send someone back, yew’ll have to climb on someone’s lap.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Tom swung down from his horse. “I’ll be returning the lass.”
The coachman growled. “Yew know this man, miss?”
Meg’s eyes flew to Tom. Her cheeks paled, and for a second, he was certain she would shake her head. She said instead, “Yes.”
