“It was in a most unorganized and improper manner that I was thrust upon the passengers in the mail coach.”
“Yes.”
“I was in grave pain, I was uncommonly ill of temper, and I was as angry at myself, as I was at you, that your passage home was with the dreaded Mr. McGwen.” Lord Cunningham took the last sip of the reddish-brown medicine, scrunching his face. “So you must forgive me for the lack of wisdom and discretion in such an hour.”
“Pray, my lord, what are you saying?”
“They know, my dear.” His pale eyes drilled into her. “They are all quite aware of our compromised situation. That we were … alone … the length of the night.”
“Which could not be helped.” She stood again, nearly knocking over the chair. “We were victims of a cruel attack and cannot be blamed for—”
“I fear wagging tongues are never so kind.” Lord Cunningham frowned. “This terrible incident, along with any mysteries of your past, may prove to be our ruining.”
“My reputation is of no consequence.”
“I fear I cannot be so yielding.”
Eyes widening, she glanced at his face. The same overwhelming sense of being lost—and alone—hollowed through her. “I understand.” Her shoulders slumped as she turned. “I fear you are right. It was only a matter of time, and now that the danger has escalated, it would be wrong of me to stay.”
“Dear—”
“You have been very kind to me.”
“Margaret, you are not listening to me.” He groaned and the bed linens rustled as if he’d swung his legs over the edge. “I am not asking you to depart Penrose Abbey nor to abandon my company.” He limped behind her, hands falling on her shoulders, and whispered, “I am asking you to marry me.”
The corridor was long, the stained-glass windows casting colorful hues onto the gleaming hemlock floor boards. Lord Cunningham’s footsteps matched hers. He had spoken without abate on their journey back to Penrose, as if nothing had changed.
As if her world had not altered.
Again.
“… Consequently, there are many features of the home you have yet to explore. Perhaps when you are rested again, I shall give you the tour myself.”
She would have been kind to say anything.
Nod, at the least.
But all she could think was to keep moving—to make it to her chamber, where she would slam the door, turn the lock, and breathe.
“I have been equally negligent in delighting you with the abbey’s history. I assure you, even for one who would rather study casebooks, it is a matter of interest.”
Marryher? Had that been his intention all along?
“The monastery was founded in 1147 …”
His reason for helping her?
“… but was surrendered for dissolution in 1539. After a house fire nearly two centuries later, the abbey was gutted and reconstructed to more modish architecture.”
Had she been wrong to accept his charity, the comfort of his support, though she suspected his heart was involved? Had she trampled his grace?
“Thus, our Penrose Abbey.”
The wordourstuck in the air, sucking the wind from her lungs, as they halted before her bedchamber door.
For the hundredth time, he touched a light finger to the bandage on his head. No blood dotted the linen, but he winced just the same. “I can see I have bored you with my lessons, however, so you must allow me to finish when we are both in better health and spirit.”
“You have not bored me, my lord.” She stared at the doorknob. “I am only uncertain—”
