“Mary Rose and I would like you to visit Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin in Scotland.”
She turned on him, bitterness overflowing. “Won’t everyone think I’m pregnant?”
He hated the hurt in her, knew that rage would come, and he wished with all his heart that it didn’t have to be like this. “I’m sorry, Meggie, but there are men in this world who are simply not worthy. I am so very sorry that you had to meet one of them, trust one of them.”
Meggie felt pounded, felt the words hollowing her out, leaving her empty with only the bowing pain to fill her. She said as she slowly rose and shook out her skirts, “You know I must speak to Thomas, Papa. I must hear this from him.”
“Yes, Meggie, I know you must.”
“I will know the truth when I hear him speak.”
“I hope that you will.”
Meggie had turned away when he felt a sudden shaft of alarm, and called after her, “Do not go to a private spot with him, Meggie. I wish you wouldn’t go to Bowden Close without a chaperone, but I know that you feel you must. So be mindful. Do you promise me?”
“Yes,” Meggie said. “I promise.” She wasn’t about to tell him that she’d visited Thomas at his home alone before. She walked away, her head down, deep in thought. She wasn’t aware that her father was watching her, pain in his eyes for the pain he’d had to give her.
Tysen rose from the bench, stared down at Sir Vincent’s tombstone, and wondered what Sir Vincent D’Egle, that medieval warrior, would have done to Thomas Malcombe if Meggie had been his daughter. Probably lop off his head.
All Meggie could think about as she strode to Bowden Close was that she’d been wrong about him, that Thomas had fathered a child, that he’d professed to care for her when just a couple of months before he’d been intimate with another girl and fathered a child. That, Meggie knew, meant intimacy and that meant they’d caressed and kissed each other. Meggie stopped short. She touched her fingertips to the velvet of a blooming rose that climbed the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the cemetery. She knew in that moment that there was an explanation that would absolve him. She wanted that explanation and she wanted it pure and clean and straightforward, with no questions, no doubts, left behind.
* * *
Chapter 12
Bowden Close
THOMAS WAS SMILING even before Meggie slipped into his library. It wasn’t at all proper that she came in through that old garden gate, but they would soon be married. Soon he would no longer have to concern himself with the vicar’s daughter bending society’s rules. It wouldn’t matter. That thought pleased him mightily.
Her hair was mussed, as if she’d been fretting about something and had yanked on it, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes, so expressive, bright and vivid, so filled with what she felt—oh God, something was wrong. It was like a punch to the gut.
He was around his desk in an instant, his hands around her arms but a moment later, and he was actually shaking her. “What the devil is wrong? What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
She looked up at him and said, without preamble, “My father told me about Melissa Winters.”
A dark eyebrow went up, making him look like a satyr, emphasizing the arrogant tilt of his head, the go-to-the-devil look. His hands dropped away, his voice was suddenly colder than the Channel waters in February. “Your father, my dear, shouldn’t meddle.”
Meggie sent her fist as hard as she could into his belly. He’d had an instant to tighten his stomach muscles before her fist landed hard and his breath whooshed out. At least the punch didn’t bowl him over. He grabbed her wrist before she could hit him again.
“That hurt,” he said.
Meggie tried to pull away, but he held her wrist tightly. She was panting even as she shouted at him, “I’m glad it hurt. Let me go and I’ll do it again!”
He grabbed her other wrist and shook her. “Dammit, Meggie, what the devil is wrong with you?”