Pendragon (Sherbrooke Brides 7)

When he was breathing again, his eyes focused on her face, she said, “That was very nice, too, Thomas, very nice indeed.”

A vast understatement. He was too far gone to talk. How could she manage to speak coherently?

After some time, Thomas managed to lean over and douse the row of candles in the filthy silver holder. When it was dark, when she was lying on her back, staring up at the white ceiling which she now couldn’t see, she said, “I like children. I remember I was so pleased when Mary Rose birthed Alec and—”

“Go to sleep, Meggie.”

“The ten years—perhaps I can accomplish it in nine years.”

“What ten years? Nine years? What are you talking about?”

“To make you the perfect man.”

He laughed and pulled her against him. He felt her warm breath on his flesh. He was asleep long before she was. He didn’t snore.

The next morning when Meggie walked down to the small family dining room that Alvy told her about, in between more choice comments about the new earl, she heard a man’s voice. It wasn’t Thomas.

Barnacle said from behind her, “Ye didn’t walk on me back, milady, now did ye? Ye forgot.”

“I’m sorry, Barnacle. After breakfast I will meet you in the kitchen. I will walk on your back in there.”

He gave her a nod, a small salute, and staggered back to the front door.

She should have asked him who was in the dining room. She walked in the small dark room. What a dreadful room, what with the curtains drawn tightly over the two bay windows that gave onto something, what, she had no clue, and she found herself staring at a young man who looked a great deal like Aunt Libby.

He saw her, rose slowly from his chair, and said, “You are Thomas’s new wife.”

She nodded, walked to the draperies and pulled them open, fastening them with the wide golden ropes. Light flooded into the room. It made it look even worse, but at least now she could see outdoors.

She looked at the fine-looking young man. He was blond and fresh-faced, tall, not as tall as Thomas, but very nearly, and he was giving her a fat smile. “Yes, I’m Meggie Malcombe. And who are you?”

“Oh, I’m William Malcombe, Thomas’s half brother.”

He was, Meggie realized in that moment, as she looked across the table, Aunt Libby’s son. He was the young man who had impregnated Melissa Winters and let Thomas take the blame and the responsibility.

What was going on here?

23

“MY WILLIAM ARRIVED late last night,” Aunt Libby said, and patted his arm. “Sit down, my love, and let me serve you some nice bacon that’s just barely been waved over a flame, just as you like it. My, look at all the light in here. I had no idea there was even any sun to be had. Does it make me look wrinkled?”

“No, Mother, you look beautiful,” William said, and took his seat again beside her. “You always do.”

“What a sweet boy you are, William.”

“No one else ever says that to me, Mother.”

Meggie certainly believed that. She saw that Madeleine was eating at a fine clip, not paying any attention, and eased herself into the empty chair next to what she assumed was Thomas’s chair.

She said, “Does anyone mind that I opened the draperies?”

“You are doubtless trying to show us all that you are the important one here now,” Madeleine said, her mouth full of eggs.

“No, ma’am, I’m not, truly. It’s just that I would like to see who is at the breakfast table this morning and what is on my plate.”

Cook suddenly appeared out of the wall. No, it was a narrow door cut very cleverly into the wall, its seams fitted perfectly to the striped wallpaper, her arms filled with covered trays. “Och, the new countess. Hello, milady. It’s a fine breakfast I’ve made for you, now isn’t it?” And without another word, Cook broke into song as she served Meggie’s plate, piling it high with scrambled eggs with four nutty buns arranged around the eggs.

“Hey Ho—it’s a fine day for the nutty buns!