“Then why was he so against …”
“Me marrying ye?”
“Yes.” Why did the words have such difficulty coming out? A fresh wave of heat spread across her cheeks. “If he had no reservations concerning you, he must have had them concerning me.”
“Och, nay, lass.” Tom stuffed his pockets with berries, then started back through the tall meadow grass. “ ’Twas only that he didnae want to lose ye. Ye were all he had.”
“Surely a marriage would not have taken me from him. How terribly stubborn.”
His beard parted with a grin. “Like ye.”
She gainsaid him—of course—but the words sang in her mind as they walked back for the cottage. Why did everything he said of her, whether unfavorable or not, sound so soft?
As if he were praising her, even though he called her stubborn.
As if she amused him.
Pleased him.
By the time they reached the cottage, the moon already hung in the pink evening sky, and her legs felt raw from the chafing of wet layers. “Our shoes.” She glanced down at their bare feet, frowning. So much for concealing her ankles. How had she forgotten?
Tom swung open the cottage door. He said something dismissive—that he’d fetch them tomorrow—then ushered her into the tiny bedchamber. “Betwixt my clothes and Joanie’s, ye should be able to find something.”
“That is unnecessary, as we shall be starting for the abbey now.”
“When ye’re dry.”
“Tom.”
He shut the door before she could say more. Sighing, rankled that she was about to do as he wished, she rummaged through patched shirts, wrinkled pinafores, and paint-stained trousers. She settled on one of Joanie’s loose cotton dresses, though the short sleeves fit a bit too snuggly for comfort.
Her hair was the true tragedy.
The braid had come unraveled hours ago, and her fingers caught in too many tangles to remedy without her maid. Must she always return to Penrose Abbey looking like an unsightly beggar?
“Done in there?”
“Coming.” She gave up, threw her hair behind her shoulders, and joined Tom in the main room.
He was hunched by the hearth, stoking kindling into flames, his cheeks glowing pink from a day spent in the sun. He had not changed, but the white shirt seemed dry and loose. “Sit here. I’ll get ye something to eat.”
“I am not hungry.”
He ignored her and went to cutting a loaf of bread and slapping cold fish meat onto an earthenware plate. He settled it into her lap. “Eat.”
“Where is yours?”
Scooting next to her by the hearth, he snatched a piece of bread from her plate.
“Tom McGwen, you are uncouth.”
A shrug. “Saves on dishes.”
“I am especially not hungry now.” She shoved it over to his lap, proud she had at least taken a small stand on propriety. Even if she were sitting here—alone with a stranger in his cottage—with no stockings and not even her own apparel.
The flames crackled into the silence. The windows dimmed a deep blue, the room was swallowed in shadows, and the rug beneath them was soft to her bare feet. Her shoulders relaxed. She slouched again, shoulder bumping his, as he polished off another slice of bread.
The sweet, buttery smell rumbled her belly.
