“So she started all this marvelous running trying to find Davey. Hmmm. Maybe you’ve hit upon a new training technique. Mrs. Black, have you asked Dr. Pritchart about glasses?” she asked.
“Oh aye, my lady. Dr. Pritchart has tried everything. He says it’s the cataracts that are like veils over my eyes, that they will just thicken and thicken until there won’t even be shadows. He calls it white eyes.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“It’s just that I would like to see Miss Crittenden race about Cook’s jugs of flour and sugar. Many the times I’ve nearly tripped over her. So many changes you’re bringing, my lady, and all of them exciting. Do you know I can smell how clean Pendragon is now? It’s a blessed thing, it is. Now, why are you interested in Miss Crittenden and how she runs?”
“Have you ever heard of cat racing?”
Cook came into the huge kitchen and said, “Cat racing? Now, that’s a loony thing, it is.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Mullins,” Meggie said, and since neither of them had heard of such a thing, for the next ten minutes, Meggie told them about the history of cat racing, begun at the Mountvale Mews in the last century, brought to its premiere place in the racing world by the Harker brothers, the major trainers for two decades now. “The McCaulty Racetrack is the major venue for cat racing,” she said. “The meets are held from April to October. Mr. Cork is the current champion. He from the Vicarage Mews and I trained him.”
“You really trained a cat to race?” Barnacle said, dragging himself into the kitchen, and one eyebrow arched up so high he looked like a bit of a demon, in agony, of course.
“I most certainly did. I think Miss Crittenden just might take to the sport. What do you think? Cat racing at Pendragon?”
“Oh, aye, that would be something, now wouldn’t it?” Mrs. Black beamed.
Cook harrumphed. “It’s loony, now isn’t it?”
“There’s nothing like seeing those sleek bodies flying by,” Meggie said. “It makes your heart gallop.”
“Meggie.”
She turned to see Thomas striding into the kitchen. He was carrying a package under his arm. “Here you are.” He didn’t sound at all surprised. During the past week, once he’d let her out of bed, she’d been everywhere in Pendragon, overseeing everything and everyone, and that pleased him all the way to his gut.
“Oh, my lord,” Barnacle said and creaked into a semblance of a bow, adding a little moan as he straightened, his face a hideous mask of pain. “Mrs. Black, it’s his lordship.”
Mrs. Black, instantly flustered that the master was in the kitchen, of all places, curtsied and knocked a teacup off the table.
“No harm done,” Meggie said as she snagged the falling cup out of the air, and added to her husband, “Miss Crittenden just might be a racing cat. What do you think?”
Thomas looked over at the large calico, sitting in a slice of sunlight in a corner of the kitchen bathing herself. “She’s huge.”
“Well, I think most of it is muscle. I just watched her run. She’s amazing, Thomas. She will lean down a bit during training.”
“Cat races at Pendragon. Let me think about that, Meggie.” He handed her the package. “This is from your family.”
“Oh my,” Meggie said, clutched the package to her bosom, and nearly ran from the kitchen.
“But I want to see what’s in that package!” Barnacle yelled from behind her.
She just laughed and ran all the way to the White Room, Thomas on her heels.
“I took it out of the wooden packing box,” Thomas said, standing against the wall watching her, his arms crossed over his chest. “You feel all right, Meggie?”
“I’m all right,” she said, not looking up from the paper she was tearing. “Really, no headache at all now. Oh goodness, my father must have sent this right after we left. What could it be? I just realized, he didn’t know where we were going, did he?”
“Well, yes, naturally I told him. I didn’t want him or your stepmother to worry.”
“But you wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“No, that’s the way it’s done.”
She pulled away the last bit of paper and lifted out a beautifully carved wooden cat. It was a perfect likeness of Mr. Cork, even the size. There was a plaque at the bottom with Mr. Cork’s name, his sire and dam, and the dates of his racing wins beautifully etched into the wood.
Meggie held it close, then burst into tears.
“Meggie! What’s wrong? It’s a statue of Mr. Cork. It’s a very nice statue, but tears? What is this?”
“I miss him so much, and Cleopatra, too. All the cats, Thomas, they would run and jump, meow their heads off, or sit there and tell you, without words, that they weren’t going to move a paw, no matter what you did.”
“I think,” he said slowly, watching her dance around the room clutching the wooden Mr. Cork to her chest, “that just maybe we should introduce cat racing to Pendragon. Did your father carve this exquisite piece?”
“No, Jeremy.”
“I see,” he said and wanted to howl. Couldn’t the mangy bastard just leave her alone?
After Thomas left her to go downstairs to see Paddy, Meggie was humming as she dusted off Mr. Cork’s fine statue. Suddenly she stopped cold. At least an hour had passed since she’d thought about the person who’d slammed whatever it had been down on her head. Just the thought of it now brought a flash of pain. Even when Thomas had mentioned it, she’d been too excited about her present and hadn’t heeded it.
She winced, walked slowly to the window, and looked at the breezy spring day. It was cloudy, but at least right now it wasn’t raining.
She picked up her father’s letter and read it through again. “My dearest girl, Jeremy sent this wedding present to me since he didn’t know where you would be. I am enclosing his letter.”
Meggie didn’t want to read Jeremy’s letter, she really didn’t, but nonetheless, now that Thomas was gone and she was alone, she slowly unfolded the single sheet of paper, pressed it out with her palm, and read, “Dear Almost Cousin Meggie, I wish you and your new husband the very best. Charlotte and I would welcome a visit from you. I hope you enjoy this rendition of Mr. Cork. It took me a while to carve it which is why it was late.” And it was signed just Jeremy. His direction was written on a separate piece of foolscap. Jeremy. Jeremy and Charlotte. She walked slowly to the fireplace and stood there, staring at the three stacked logs, bits of paper stuffed around them. She shredded the letter and tossed the pieces in amongst the kindling. Then she lit the fire and watched it burn. She heard Alvy moving about behind her, but didn’t move.
“Dr. Pritchart is here to see you, my lady.”
She frowned, not realizing at first why he would come to Pendragon. Oh, her head. She turned and smiled at Alvy. “I will see him shortly in the drawing room. Please let Barnacle know, Alvy.”
Ten minutes later Meggie, Thomas beside her, greeted Dr. Pritchart, who was sipping at a cup of Cook’s tea and scratching his ear.
“There is a rash on your ear, Dr. Pritchart,” Meggie said, walking to him. “Is it all right?”
He paused and looked at her, for a very long time, didn’t say anything, just looked. “You’ll do,” he said, snapped the cup into its saucer, and gave her a brief bow. He said to Thomas, “If she suffers a relapse, you will call me. Good day to you both. The rash comes twice a year, one of those times is right now, in April. It’s nothing at all.” And he was gone.
“Well,” Meggie said. “I wonder how much his bill will be for that visit.”
“He thinks you’re fine. That’s all I wanted to know. He’s had that rash twice a year since for as long as I can remember.” He crossed to her, pulled her against him, and kissed her.
Meggie was nothing loathe and kissed him back. She said into his mouth, “This is so much nicer than those dreadful things you did to me on our wedding night.” She pulled back and looked up into his face. “I know, you don’t want to talk about it.”
&nb
sp; “No,” he said against her ear, then stroked his thumb along her jawline. His hands were on her hips when there was a clearing voice from the doorway. Thomas slowly raised his head. “Damnation.”
He turned to see his mother standing there, and she didn’t look at all happy.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Lord Kipper has decided to take Libby for a ride in his curricle. He told her he had a very lovely spot to show her and that she would truly appreciate it, especially since it wasn’t raining. He told her how much he admired her. I told her he was lying, that he didn’t like women with as much flesh as she has. He was just going to drive her to this nice spot and bed her on a blanket just because there was no one else about for the moment, no one with less flesh than she has. She was merely a temporary convenience, I told her, surely she realized that. She called me horrid nasty names and slammed out of the castle. It was unforgivable. I’m thinking of having her live elsewhere.”
Thomas stared at his mother, then laughed.
Meggie, fascinated, said, “What did she call you, ma’am?”
“She had the absolute gall to call me a pernicious old tart. Can you imagine?”
“Well, no, I can’t,” Meggie said.
“Imagine calling me a tart. I never slept with any man other than your father and Lord Kipper, and who wouldn’t bed him if they had a chance? He was beautiful twenty years ago and he’s beautiful today, and ever so talented. I’ll wager that little wife of yours would take him to her bed in an instant if he crooked his finger at her.”
“Niles enjoys life too much to try that, Mother.”
“You would shoot him if your wife here were unfaithful to you?”
“In an instant.”
“And what, may I ask, would be her punishment?”
“Since this will never happen, then I really don’t have to think of one, do I?”
“I saw her looking at Lord Kipper, Thomas, just like Miss Crittenden looked at that bit of sea bass Cook served for dinner before you arrived.”
Thomas just smiled, but there was something in his eyes, something dark and hidden from her. Meggie frowned.
“I didn’t realize Libby knew such a deadly word as pernicious,” he said.
Madeleine said, “I didn’t either. Pernicious. I am here to look it up in that dictionary on your desk. I hope I have the spelling right. I ask you, what good is a dictionary if you don’t already now how to spell the word? Stand aside.”
Thomas took Meggie’s hand and led her from the estate room. They were half a dozen steps beyond the room when they heard his mother squawk.
“Let’s hurry,” Thomas said.
“Thank you, Thomas.”
He turned to smile down at her. “For what? Dragging you out of the room before she found pernicious?”
“For telling your mother that I wouldn’t ever betray you.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, turning away from her to look out over the Irish Sea, “I did say that, didn’t I?”
That night a storm blew in, rain slammed hard against the windows, and the black of the night was absolute.
“Oh God, Meggie,” he said against her mouth, felt the world tilt and every muscle in his body scream, and managed to pull out of her just in time. He hung over her, panting, so beyond himself, that for many moments it was very close.
“Thomas? What’s wrong?”
“You weren’t with me,” he said, low and harsh, and gave her his mouth.
When she arched her back and yelled to the ceiling, he came into her again, hard, deep and deeper still, and harder than he should have, but he just couldn’t help himself.
Some time later Thomas was lying on his back, his breathing slow and calm now, his wife’s breath warm against his bare chest. Suddenly he felt her jerk, and tightened his arm around her.
“Meggie,” he said against her hair, kissing her. “You’re dreaming. Come, wake up.”
She moaned quietly, pressing closer to him, and her breath was hot against his flesh, wheezing in and out. Something bad was happening. She sucked in a deep breath, shuddered. He started to shake her awake when she moaned, “Jeremy, no, no. Blessed Hell, no. Jeremy.”
He didn’t shake her. He didn’t do anything for a very long time, just let her thrash about and moan, deep in her throat.
When finally she was calm again, when she hadn’t moaned his name again for at least five minutes, Thomas eased away from his wife, and rolled off the side of the bed. He came up to stand over her. He couldn’t see her well because of the storm, the blanket of rain that obscured any outside light, the blackness of the room. But yet again he heard her moan his name; it wouldn’t leave his brain. Over and over he heard her say that bastard’s name: Jeremy. He wished he had the sod right here, right now. He wanted to choke the life out of him. He knew he wouldn’t hesitate a minute to kill him.
And she’d said his name, damn her. Said it again and yet again. Just as she’d spoken of Jeremy to her father, and she’d been married to him not more than two hours.
It was as he’d told his mother—Meggie would never betray him. He knew it all the way to his gut. No, Meggie would never make an assignation with another man and break her marriage vows.
But the fact was he also knew that she already had—in her mind, in her heart, and he believed to his soul that betrayal in the heart was the worse. She’d married him under false pretenses. He’d forgiven her, knowing she liked him, perhaps admired him, knowing he could make her love him, want him as he’d wanted her since the first time he ever saw her. She certainly liked bedding him. He’d let himself grow complacent, secure in her. He’d let it all fade from his mind. Until now. She’d dreamed about the bloody sod. He didn’t think he could bear it.
He didn’t leave her, although he wanted to. He couldn’t. There was a madman out there who wanted her dead. He couldn’t leave her alone.
But he wanted to. He wanted to hoard his misery, wallow in his misery by himself. He didn’t want to hear her breathing beside him, feel her body pressed against him and know that he would be hard in an instant, and know too that she could be dreaming of that bastard.
Then something happened, something hard and vicious and he recognized it. It was rage and it was what he’d felt on his wedding night.
He wouldn’t let his rage overwhelm him, he was a man who could control himself. He wouldn’t ravage her again like he had on their wedding night. But he itched to punish her, to hurt her the way she’d hurt him.
He took one of the blankets, carried a chair to the windows and watched the dawn break through the gray rain.
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 hav
e 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.
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