Pendragon (29 page)

“Don't be a fool, William. She was a virgin. Or will you try to tell me that she wasn't?”

“Perhaps a girl can have many virginities, perhaps she can develop a new one to lure in young men—”

“Which will it be, William?” Thomas asked with great patience, his voice implacable. Thomas had said earlier to Meggie that he couldn't imagine why any girl would want William, but the girl did. As for her father, Teddy had rubbed his hands together and smiled. It hadn't been a nice smile. “I'll see to it the lad behaves himself,” Teddy had said, and Thomas believed him. He then gave Thomas a ferocious smile and shook his hand to seal the bargain.

“Marriage,” William said into his lower lip. “I choose marriage.”

“And you swear you will do your best to be a good husband and a good father?”

“I swear.”

“Good. Niles, will you attend William's wedding?”

Lord Kipper raised a sleek brow, smiled, and raised his wineglass. “It will be a very nice wedding,” he said. “To William and—what's-her-name?”

“Jenny MacGraff.”

“To William and Jenny.”

Everyone drank except Libby and William, who both moaned into their glasses.

“It's done,” Thomas said when he and Meggie were finally alone some two hours later in the White Room, the door closed and locked. “It's been a very long day. Now, at last, I can concentrate on you. I've been thinking about this since this morning.”

“Yes, it's done. Let me tell you, Thomas, Mrs. Black
is thrilled about it. Your mother is chortling because Libby will have a low-born daughter-in-law and be a grandmother before she will. Really? Since this morning?”

“Remember when you were dancing down the corridor and I ran into you? Yes, since that moment when I saw exactly what you were thinking. Your eyes tell me everything, Meggie. Everything. Come here.”

Meggie went, nearly skipping to him since she was so very eager. It was much a repeat of the previous night, but better, Meggie thought, grinning down at her husband, who looked nearly dead. She felt so good she wanted to sing, perhaps write a ditty for Mrs. Mullins about Mary Rose's stewed fish stew.

She whispered against her husband's ear, “Perhaps we could hold a cat race to celebrate the wedding.”

Life, Thomas thought, would never be boring with Meggie in it. He kissed her temple and wondered what the future would bring. More lovemaking, that was what he wanted, much more.

“Should you like to go to Italy, Meggie?”

“I should love it above all things.”

“Soon,” he said. “Soon.” He pressed his forehead against hers, breathed in her scent, unique to Meggie. “I was just wondering what life would bring us.”

“Lots of good things, I hope,” she said, and kissed his chin. “You know, Thomas, when I take you into my mouth like that and you—”

He jerked. He was hard that instant, something he'd sworn was beyond him for the next twelve hours. When she was moaning into his mouth, he was the one who wanted to sing with the pleasure of it.

31

M
EGGIE WAS WALKING
along the trail that led to the Pendragon cliffs, whistling, occasionally flinging a stick for Brutus to retrieve, which he did with great enthusiasm. “Too bad,” she said, scrubbing behind his ears, “that there can't be dog racing, but it just isn't possible. Can you imagine racing, Brutus? No, you'd just sit there wagging your tail, wouldn't you, or rush to bring back sticks. Your brain just isn't fashioned for racing.” And she'd throw the stick again. Brutus was one of Thomas's dogs, an exuberant terrier who looked more like a Clara, in truth, than a Brutus. One stick flew too close to the edge of the cliff. Brutus skidded at the edge and slunk down onto his haunches, whining softly. He would go no farther.

“What's the matter? Oh, I see, you're afraid the ground isn't steady and you'll go right over. You're right. I'm too strong in my throwing. Let me get this stick, Brutus, and I'll hurl it in the other direction.” She leaned down to get the stick when she heard a snicker of sound right beside her. She turned, then there was another snicker of sound and this one landed in her shoulder, hurling her backward off the cliff.

She screamed, loud, wailing, and hit the water below. She struck the water flat on her back and sank like a stone. She was sure she'd broken her back. She hit the bottom, but thankfully not hard. Waves washed over her head,
rocks and sand tore her clothes and scraped her skin. She swallowed water, gagged.

It was the gagging that brought her right back up. The water was just over her head, and even though her clothes were heavy, she managed to struggle to shore. She was wheezing, choking, gagging on the harsh salt water, trying to get her breath and ignore her back, which felt like a large sofa was sitting atop her from striking the water so hard.
Think about now, just about now
. She pulled herself out of the water and fell on her face onto the sand.

She vomited up all the seawater. She was shaking so badly that she could barely catch her breath. Then she realized that blood was dripping onto the wet sand.

She stared at the blood, at first not understanding. Blood, it was her blood. She hadn't seen her own blood since she'd gotten scratched by Tiny Tom. It was faded, all that blood, since is was mixed with water. It had turned the bodice of her blue muslin gown into a faint pink color, and now, it was oozing out of her, snaking downward. She swallowed, realizing now that the strange snicking sound—it had been a bullet and it had gone into her body, hurled her backward over the cliff and into the sea below.

Thank God it had been high tide, otherwise she would be dead now.

She didn't want to think about that.

She tried to straighten, to push herself back onto her knees, so she could stand up, but ferocious pain suddenly ripped through her shoulder, and she groaned with the shock of it, the unexpected clout of pain, and fell back onto her face.
I've got to move, got to move. Someone tried to kill me and he can do it again. I've got to get away.

She heard Brutus barking his head off above her on the cliff edge.

She had to get up. She had to get back to Pendragon. She just couldn't remain here. Where was the person who should be close by protecting her?

Oh, God, the person who had shot her could simply
walk down the cliff walk and shoot her again. This time, dead. She wouldn't stand a chance.

She couldn't, wouldn't, do that to Thomas.

Get up, get up.

Slowly, her chest blazing with such pain she was gasping with it, Meggie managed to come up onto her hands and knees. She looked up. There was someone up there, she felt it. Then she heard Brutus growling, then barking loud and louder still.

She saw movement, then a shadow through the bright morning sunlight, saw a gun, a hand was raising it, raising it and pointing it downward, toward her. Meggie crawled toward a boulder, managed to fall flat behind it. A chip of the rock flew off.

Oh God, he was going to kill her. At least he was up there and not down here.

Was it really a he?

She didn't know.

She lay there, panting, trying to control the pain, listening to Brutus barking louder and louder, then heard the dog cry out.

The bastard had hit Brutus.

Silence.

Where was he? Was he coming down that path? She had to move, she had to do something, but there was nowhere to go, just miles of beach strewn with heavy boulders, seaweed drying on chunks of driftwood. No place, no cave, where she could hide. She could arm herself, yes, that was it. She looked around to find a rock. Too small. No, that one she couldn't begin to lift even if she hadn't been injured.

There was one. She managed to pull herself within reach of a round black rock, sitting just beyond her fingertips, all by itself, as if waiting for her. She pulled herself toward that rock, then got her hand around it. It felt nice and heavy. She gripped it against herself, then managed to get back up onto her knees. She pressed against the boulder, then slowly, carefully, eased her face around to look toward the cliff path.

She didn't see anything, didn't hear anyone climbing down.

She didn't hear Brutus.

She hurt, but she kept her eyes on the cliff trail. She ripped a long strip of wet material off her skirt and wrapped it as tightly as she could around her shoulder. It wasn't a very good job since she had only one hand, but it was the best she could do.

Time passed. She blinked, cursed herself, tried to hum a song, anything to stay alert, but it was hard, her shoulder hurt so badly. She felt tears trail down her cheeks, couldn't stop them. She tasted her tears mixed with the salt water.

More time passed.

Where was Brutus? She prayed he hadn't been shot.

Then she heard a man's voice yelling her name. She nearly shattered from fear until she realized it was Thomas. She tried to call back to him, but just a very thin whisper came out of her mouth. It didn't matter. He would come to her. She smiled even as she sank down to rest her cheek against the wet sand.

She saw his shadow over her, felt his hands on her, and opened her eyes. “Is Brutus all right?”

“Oh yes, the man just knocked him in the head, but he's all right. As for you—”

She heard him say her name, faintly, faintly, then she was gone, away from the pain, away from the fear. Everything would be all right now. Thomas was here.

Panic nearly sent Thomas over the edge. He pressed his hand against her chest, felt the smooth, slow beat of her heart. She was unconscious. He lifted his hand, covered with her blood. He gently tied the ripped material more tightly over her shoulder.

He prayed she would remain unconscious. He lifted her into his arms and began the long trek back up the narrow cliff path.

He was going to kill William.

 

“She'll live, but it's bad enough, my lord.”

Thomas couldn't stand it. She was still unconscious, so pale she looked dead, her flesh so cold. He pulled another blanket over her. Every few moments he lightly laid his palm on her chest to feel her heart.

He stared up at Dr. Pritchart with haggard eyes. “You swear she will live?”

Dr. Pritchart rubbed his palm over his forehead. “I think so. The bullet went through her, high on her shoulder, which is a good thing, less chance of infection, which would most certainly kill her. Now, I must set in stitches, both in her shoulder and in her back.”

Meggie moaned and opened her eyes.

Thomas cursed. Meggie frowned. “What's wrong? Oh, Blessed Hell, something hurts, Thomas, hurts really bad.”

“I know, sweetheart. Just hold on.”

“Give her some brandy, that will help. Then hold her down, my lord.”

When Dr. Pritchart had finished setting the black stitches, Thomas stared down at her white flesh, the blood and black thread all mixed together, and he couldn't bear it.

Her eyes were closed. She'd said not a word while Dr. Pritchart was stitching her flesh together. Not made a sound, but she'd clutched his hands so tightly they hurt. He'd wished she'd pass out, but she hadn't. She said now, “I'm going to be all right, Thomas. Stop worrying. I heard you saying over and over that you were going to kill William. Why? Did he get another girl pregnant?”

“Not that I know of. No, Meggie, he was supposed to stay with you. Since he was worried you would try to stomp him into the ground if he stayed too close, he said he would keep his distance. Didn't you wonder?”

“Well, I saw Jem the stable boy walking just behind me, and I thought he was the one who was to make sure no one came close.”

“Yes, Jem was to stay fairly close as well. However, he got sick to his stomach and had to come back to the stable. I had also told William to stick close to you.”

“He wasn't there?”

Thomas shook his head, brought her hand to his mouth, kissed her fingers.

“Maybe he was the one who shot me.”

“He could have, but why would he do it? He knows you dislike him, but why would he want you dead? That makes no sense, Meggie. Now, here's some more laudanum for you. Dr. Pritchart says just a few more drops of this will send you off into a very nice place where there isn't any more pain.”

“That would be good,” she said and drank down the barley water laced with laudanum.

 

“Will the girl live?”

“Yes,” Thomas said to his mother, and walked to the sideboard to pour himself some brandy. “Her name is Meggie, not ‘the girl,' and she is your daughter-in-law. Speak of her properly, Mother.”

“You should hear what Libby calls her.”

“And what would that be?”

“A little ingrate.”

Thomas's eyebrow shot up. “Why would Aunt Libby call her that?”

“She believes it is Meggie who is forcing you to have William marry that worthless girl. All because she's a vicar's daughter and is very rigid in her morality, too rigid obviously. Libby also says she likely highly disapproves of her liaison with Lord Kipper, and she has no right.”

“I will tell Aunt Libby otherwise,” Thomas said. “Surely you corrected her, assured her that I am even more staid than my wife.”

“No I did not. I don't wish you to be staid. A bit of wickedness from you wouldn't be amiss, Thomas.”

“William has performed enough wickedness for the both of us.”

“His is just a boy's wickedness.”

“William is a man,” he said, then just shrugged. His mother many times baffled him. He said, “Barnacle told me that Lord Kipper was here asking about Meggie.”

“He doesn't think William should marry until your sweet wife is able to attend. He is afraid she will die and then poor William would be attending both a funeral and his own wedding, which will be, you must admit, like a second funeral.”

Thomas sighed. There was so much to be done here at Pendragon, but none of it was important. The only thing that was important was Meggie. He had to find out who had shot her. He had a very bad feeling about a third attempt. He left his mother, went to the small estate room, and wrote a letter to Meggie's father. It was his right to know there was trouble. It was the hardest letter he'd had to write in his life.

 

“Open your mouth, Meggie.”

Meggie obeyed, but she didn't open her eyes. It was potato soup and it was delicious. She kept eating until Thomas said, “You ate the entire bowl. I'm proud of you. Now, how does your shoulder feel?”

“Not as bad as yesterday.”

“Good. There's no infection, no fever. You've got grit and guts, that's what Dr. Pritchart said. You're so strong, he doesn't believe he'll have to coddle you even when you birth our children.”

The last was said with a good deal of satisfaction, and Meggie smiled, now opening her eyes to look up at him. She frowned. “You've lost weight, Thomas. You should have eaten some of that soup.”

“Now that I know you're not going to heaven before your time, I will get food down my gullet again.” He lightly traced his fingertips over her cheeks, her brows, smoothed her hair behind her ears, leaned down, and kissed her.

“You scared me out of a good year of life.”

“I was afraid of that. I knew I couldn't die, knew it would flatten you. You feel things so very deeply.”

A black brow shot up a good inch. He felt things deeply? “What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

“I mean that if something final happened to me, you
wouldn't recover. You would feel guilty and it would gnaw at you.”

“It would be warranted. It's more than that, Meggie. Perhaps you finally realize how important you are to me.”

“Oh yes. Possibly as important as you are to me.”

She yawned even as those words of hers floated through the still air to his ears. He went still. He wanted to ask her what she meant, but he didn't. He watched as her eyes closed. He listened as her breathing evened into a light sleep. He thanked God she'd survived.