He searched for words to defend himself. He didn’t have any. “Och, go to sleep.” His final command spiraled the tiny, dark bedchamber into silence. He stared at the rafters. He rubbed a hand down his face. Then, low, “I dinnae know what to say to her. I dinnae know how to talk to her anymore.”
Joanie’s shadowed form raised her head.
“And I’ve a fear she’ll not love anything about her old life.” His face tightened. “Not now.”
“Maybe you should do something nice for her. I didn’t remember you much when I came. I was afraid you would wish me gone. But when you gave me my new shoes, I thought you were …”
A noise outside the cottage, altering his focus.
He whipped up. “Hush.”
“Was that a horse?”
“Stay here. Dinnae move.” He crept from the bedchamber, pulling the door shut behind him. His nerves snapped to attention. In the darkness, he ducked below window view and stood only long enough to grab the double-barrel rifle above the mantel.
He swung around just as the door crashed open.
“Move and I’ll kill ye.”
The bulky shadow took a staggering step inside. “If you can.”
Meade? Tom lowered the gun, although he was tempted to fire a bullet next to the man’s head. “Blast, what are ye doing? I could have shot ye.”
“Brownie said you bought a horse.” Meade stumbled inside and tried to hang his hat on the peg. He missed. “Gun too. You gonna spend every last nicker on this place?”
Tom decided not to answer. “It’s eleven o’ clock at night.”
“Came home. Found this.” Meade tried one pocket, grunted, then searched another. He finally found what he was looking for tucked in his left boot.
Tom snatched it and looked for a candle. He lit it and read over the familiar script.
They are blind who close their eyes. If you wish the truth, perhaps you should call again upon your friend. Mrs. Musgrave knows more than she tells.
Mrs. Musgrave? What did she know or have to do with any of this?
“You sleep. I’ll guard.” Meade reached for the rifle as if he expected trouble, but Tom shook his head.
“It is nae threat, but ye best not ride home like this.”
“I can sit saddle.”
“Take my bed.”
“I’ll be takin’ the barn.” With nothing more and forgetting his hat, Meade swaggered from the cottage and slammed the door behind him.
Tom stared at the black-edged note in his hands. The words made him cold. This better lead him to answers—and fast.
Meg’s time was running out.
“You have an artless hand, Miss Foxcroft.” Lady Walpoole handed Meg another cutout paper. This one appeared to be a bugle. “See there, an empty space. You may situate it between the manor and the tree.”
Or your forehead.Meg resisted the urge to smack the paper into the woman’s face. With a careful hand, she swished on the glue and secured the bugle to the folding screen.
After a morning of letter writing and table etiquette, Lady Walpoole had ordered a manservant to carry this lumbering screen into the courtyard. For the past three hours, they had been laboring to paste on decorative pictures, and when the glue had ample time to dry, they would come back to paint on the varnish.
“Decoupage,” Lady Walpoole explained. “All ladies of breeding are well accomplished in the skill, and if you are incompetent, you shall have nothing at all to talk of with your peers.”
What sort of conversation would this make, even if she were master at it?
