He did things his own way, in his own time—and if they had ever fought in the past, perhaps that was why. He was as headstrong as she. Perhaps more.
The weight of her question ground into her, like bricks being stacked on her already heavily laden shoulders. She should have suspected before. Her discomfort every time Lord Cunningham maneuvered close. The instant flight sensation every time lips swept innocently across her own.
“The carriage was no accident, lass.”
“I know.” She should have fought against the change in subject, but a small part of her wished to run from it anyway. “There were gunshots. The driver is dead.”
“Ye saw nothing?”
“No.”
“ ’Tis luck ye survived.”
“It was God.”
No answer. His arms widened around her, a curtesy he’d demonstrated ever since she mentioned the kiss, as if he were unwilling to make her feel trapped. “I wanted to show ye the note.”
“Have you no belief in God, Mr. McGwen?”
“I’ll say no word against Him.”
“That is hardly an answer.”
“Here.” Behind her, he reached into his pocket and slipped a black-edged letter into her hand. “I plan to speak with Mr. Telfner, the stationer, ’pon my return. Mayhap he’ll know the paper.”
“Or the handwriting.” Meg skittered over the words with a fresh churn of sickness. “What does this mean … the lives of those who take others?”
“Ye did naught but help folk, lass.”
“This is some sort of … vendetta against me. Against my uncle.” The letter blurred. “For something we did. Perhaps for someone we lost.”
“Ye could not save everyone. Ye did yer best.”
“Whoever wrote this would not be so certain nor so righteous in their crusade of justice had there been no fault.”
“Meg.”
“I must have done something. I must have allowed someone to die.”
“I know ye, and I say ye didn’t.”
His confidence, his utter belief in her, steadied her tattered nerves. ’Twas almost a comfort. When she could not even trust herself, to have someone so assured of her innocence, her goodness, her integrity …
More than anything in the world, she wished to believe him.
She was not certain she could.
Not if all the things Lord Cunningham warned were true. How much had the lord not told her? How many secrets about Tom McGwen would she unbury later?
Somehow, she didn’t fear them.
She should.
Instead, the tightness twisting and pulling inside her finally loosened. Perhaps it was only the sway of the horse—the constant clacking of hooves, the soothing sun in her face—that made her lean back against his chest.
She meant to apologize, explain how weary she was, but Tom said nothing and his breathing was even, steady, next to her ear. She stared at his hands.
Strong, tapered fingers. Freckles. The faintest protruding veins.
