He took one of the blankets, carried a chair to the windows and watched the dawn break through the gray rain.
* * *
Chapter 28
Pendragon Two weeks later
WILLIAM WAS ON his knees, trying to pet Miss Crittenden’s head. She snarled and tried to bite him. “There now, nice kitty,” he said, and stuck out his hand again. Meggie gave him a disgusted look.
“She is a racer, not some lazy creature to sit on your lap and take treats from you, William. Take care or she’ll nip off the end of your finger. What are you doing here? I’m busy.”
He rose and dusted off his hands on his tan riding pants. “You don’t like me, Meggie.”
“No,” she said, not looking up from the brushing she was giving Miss Crittenden, a reward for her excellent leaping, this time a running start that kept her in the air for a good two seconds and an amazing distance of over four feet.
“Why? Whatever did I do to you?”
Meggie said, “Why haven’t you left to go back to Oxford, William? Perhaps a serious bit of study would improve you.”
“Well, I can’t go back. You see, I didn’t tell Thomas the precise truth. I was sent down, but just for this term. I will go back again, it’s just a matter of time.”
“Why were you sent down?”
He flushed, turned, and tried to pet Oscar DeGrasse, one of Lord Kipper’s mousers, long, lean, short-haired, black as a moonless night, with a chewed-up left ear. Oscar arched his back and purred.
Meggie didn’t have much hope for Oscar. True racing cats were born with a goodly amount of arrogance, a cold and snarling sense of self, and woe be to any other cat who challenged him. They were disdainful, they were tough. They would burst their hearts to win. Oscar was asking to be petted. It wasn’t a good sign. She’d asked Lord Kipper why the name DeGrasse, and he’d said, quite in a straightforward way, that it was the last name of one of his long-ago mistresses who’d been an excellent mouser in her own right, very dedicated to catching her prey and consuming it. When Meggie had asked him what that meant, he’d just laughed, and lightly touched his fingertip to her mouth. “A roundabout allusion to something you should know about by now.”
She’d jerked away. He was a dangerous man; it was stupid ever to be alone with him. Unfortunately he was undoubtedly one of the guards who, when he visited, stuck close to her. Too close for Meggie’s comfort. There were always two guards, not just one. Meggie sighed. She wished William would go away. She wanted Thomas. She wanted him to smile at her, kiss her, tell her what had happened to make him go away from her.
She wondered where he was right now. During the day she was never alone, thus here was William. And, of course, Thomas slept with her every night She would lie there on her side of the bed listening to his deep smooth breathing.
He hadn’t touched her in two weeks. She’d tried only once to initiate lovemaking with him, and he’d pulled away, saying only, “I’m tired, Meggie. I’m also not interested. Go to sleep.”
It was worse than a slap in the face. She wanted to scream, perhaps even yell right in his face, but in the end, she whispered, “What’s wrong, Thomas? I don’t understand.”
And he’d said his favorite litany, “I don’t wish to speak of it. Go to sleep.”
She hadn’t touched him since. He had fast become a stranger who stayed close to her at night, to protect her. At least he didn’t want her dead. He just didn’t want her for a wife either.
And now here was William hanging about her, and she knew that Thomas had set him to be another guard.
“Why were you sent down, William?” she asked again even as she thought of Ezra, big, fast, and gray with a white face, from Horton Manor. The squire’s wife claimed he could fly faster and straighter than an arrow on the wing. What she’d seen of Ezra’s talents the day Thomas took her to visit was him rolling across the floor with one of the squire’s children. She decided that she would simply have to set up a competition of sorts to see how many country folk hereabouts were interested.