An Unexpected Pleasure (The Mad Morelands #4)(87)

“I would love to hear what they are saying to each other,” Megan mused, peering out past the edge of the curtain.

“Somehow, I suspect we could not sneak close enough to hear. But at least we know now that it was not merely Barchester lying. Either Coffey lied to him, or he and Coffey are in it together. There is no reason for him to go running to Coffey otherwise.”

“What shall we do now?”

“I think we certainly need to talk to Coffey. And another visit to Barchester might be in order.” Theo’s jaw tightened, and his green eyes grew cold and hard. “If it was Coffey who killed Dennis…All these years, and I did nothing….”

“You didn’t know.”

“I did not try hard enough to find out. I was too busy trying to escape my grief and guilt.”

“You are too hard on yourself.” Megan leaned forward and closed her hand over his.

His skin was warm beneath her palm, and suddenly she was very aware of the small, confined nature of the carriage. It was an intimate setting, shut away from the world by the closed curtains, cradled by the soft, buttery leather of the seats. Megan’s heart tripped in its beat.

Theo looked at her, his eyes dark and deep in the shuttered space. He turned his palm over, his hand curling around hers. Megan drew a shaky breath, reminding herself of all the reasons why nothing could ever happen between the two of them.

“I—we should probably go back,” she said quickly. “It is growing late.”

His eyes narrowed, but he released her hand slowly and said, “No doubt you are right. I think the best thing to do would be to set Tom Quick up to watch the museum—see if Coffey goes anywhere, what he does.”

Megan nodded. “Yes. No doubt.”

It was best not to think about what might have happened just then. Or why Theo had let the moment go so easily. Most of all, it was best not to consider why his letting it go engendered such a flat feeling of disappointment in her.

They rode home, speaking little, wrapped in their own thoughts. As Theo handed Megan down from the carriage in front of Broughton House, he clasped her hand for a moment longer than necessary.

“I did not hurt your brother,” he said fiercely. “Whatever it takes, I will prove it to you.”

Startled, Megan looked at him. “I know.”

“Do you? I wonder.”

“Yes,” Megan replied calmly. “I am certain of it.”

He gazed at her for a moment longer. “And if Coffey did, I promise you, he will pay for it.”

Taking her arm, he propelled her into the house.



*

MEGAN DREAMED that night.

She was in a cave, a vast, cavernous place with rough walls of stone. It was lit by torches shoved into iron braces spaced regularly around the walls. Torchlight flickered on the stone, uneven and gleaming with a dampness that had an almost satiny look. The ceiling of the cave was high, and if she looked up, she could see the faint glitter of rock that seemingly dripped down from the roof, barely touched by the light from the torches.

In the center of the room was a large stone, waist high, and so flat on top that it seemed almost a table. On this slab of rock lay a man. A sheet of white cloth covered his legs and torso, extending midway up his chest, which was bare. His hair was thick and black, shaggily falling almost to his shoulders, but swept back now from his face and spread over the gray rock.

His eyes were closed; she could not see their color. But she could see the handsome features—the full lower lip and high, wide cheekbones, the firm thrust of jaw and chin, the straight nose, the thick black sweep of eyebrows and eyelashes. His skin was darkened from the sun, but she could see the flush of blood beneath the tan. His flesh, damp with sweat, gleamed in the dim light.

There was a woman standing beside him, a small woman with delicate features and velvet-brown eyes. Thick black hair fell in a sweep down her back. She wore a white gown that fell straight from her shoulders, belted at the waist with plates of gold fastened end to end. A wide band of gold encircled her head, cutting across her forehead, and above it rose more narrow plates of gold, shorter at the ends and tapering to the longest plate in the center. Fastened behind the plates was a small fan of feathers, long, bright sweeps of yellow, red, blue and green. A gold armlet banded one upper arm, one end of it the stylized head of a snake, the body zigzagging to the other end, which was its tail.

She held her arms out, palms up, over the man on the slab, and her eyes were closed, her face raised. She chanted in a strange tongue, her words nonsense to Megan. A bowl lay on the table in front of her, beside the man, and next to it lay a cloth and a golden goblet. At either end of the table sat metal bowls, and in them incense burned, its pungent smoke curling up toward the ceiling and perfuming the air.

Megan was looking down upon the scene as if she were floating above the man and his companion. She stared, fascinated, as the woman ceased her chant and picked up the cloth, dipping it into the bowl and mopping his face and chest with it. The man stirred and muttered, then coughed, a long, wracking cough that shook his large frame.

The woman put her hand behind his neck and lifted his head a little, bringing the goblet to his lips and pouring some of its contents into his mouth. He drank a little, and she laid his head back down. Picking up his hand, she slipped something into his palm and curved his fingers around it. She inclined her head, her lips moving in prayer or incantation; Megan was not sure which.