And Meggie cried against her father’s shoulder, and Thomas Malcombe’s life, as he’d known it, as he’d anticipated it would be with his new wife, fell into pieces at his feet.
The candle was nearly gutted when he rolled off her onto his back. She was up in an instant, ready to clout him when, her fist hard and ready, ready to strike, he snored. Meggie couldn’t believe it, just couldn’t. She wanted to kill him for what he had done, damn him a million times more than she’d already damned him.
She looked down at him, waved her fist not an inch from his nose, and whispered, “Blessed hell.”
Slowly she got off the other side of the bed and managed to stand straight. Every part of her hurt, but nothing compared to the pain deep inside her, where he’d poked and pushed and shoved, and no, she still wanted to kill him, very badly. She felt wet and sticky and her legs were shaking. She could barely stand up.
She’d trusted him.
She’d been an idiot.
Was this the way things were always done? First a man left a woman’s body and the second time he didn’t? Was it some sort of strange ritual? Did her father do this to Mary Rose? Her brain shied away from that. What about Jeremy? Had he done that to his precious Charlotte their wedding night? Meggie had been eaten up with jealousy at the thought of Jeremy kissing Charlotte, not her, but if it had led to this utter humiliation, then her jealousy was ridiculous. Meggie walked over to the small table that held a basin of clean water and washed herself. She winced at the pain and saw that the water was red with her blood. He’d done that to her the first time just before he’d jerked away from her.
Then she headed straight to the table where the remains of their meal still were, and immediately picked up the champagne bottle. Thank the good lord it wasn’t empty.
She downed the rest of it. Warm or not, bubbles or not, it was quickly down her throat. She didn’t stop drinking until the bottle was empty. Then she stood there, staring out over the English Channel, at the magnificent moonlight that was a wide swatch across the water, making it glitter. Hah, glitter. Here she was admiring the beauty of nature when that man who was her husband was lying on his back, naked, snoring, on that wretched bed where he’d behaved so strangely. Surely a husband wasn’t supposed to do that to his wife. She wouldn’t believe that Jeremy had done that to Charlotte, that that was simply the way men behaved. Very well, if men weren’t all like this, then why had Thomas done it to her? Because he didn’t love her and thus didn’t care if he hurt her or not? That just made no sense. He’d laughed with her, saved Rory’s life, wanted to marry her. Meggie just stood there looking out over the moon shining onto the water, and wondered what to do.
She tipped the champagne bottle again, but the wretched thing was empty. She wondered what the innkeeper would think if she ordered another bottle, and then she just didn’t care. She pulled on Thomas’s dressing gown that he’d tossed over the end of the bed, an old burgundy velvet, its elbows nearly worn through, and tied it tightly around her waist. She left the room, walked barefoot down the hall and down the stairs. Mrs. Miggs was the only person in the taproom. Her hair was coming out of the tight knot at the back of her head, her apron was spotted, but she was humming as she wiped a wet cloth over the wooden tabletops. “Hello, Mrs. Miggs.”
“Oh my,” Mrs. Miggs said, startled, her hand holding the wet cloth, clutched over her breast. “Lady Lancaster? Goodness, it is nearly midnight. What is the problem?”
“I would like another bottle of champagne.” Mrs. Miggs nearly dropped the cloth she was so surprised. Then she really looked at the tousled girl in front of her, barefoot, wearing a man’s dressing gown that dragged the floor, very pale in the dim candlelight, and said slowly, “It’s very late, my lady. I do not see your husband. You are obviously alone. Thank heavens I sent the rest of the men on their way a few minutes ago.”