WINDREAPER (21 page)

Conar's grin stretched wider. He hugged Meggie to him. "I know."

"Harry," she said, cocking her head. "The shirt and socks? The boy's getting cold."

"Oh, aye! Aye!" Harry continued laughing as he left the kitchen.

"You are a bad boy," she chided and tousled Conar's damp hair. "Hungry?"

He nodded. "What're you making?"

"Apple dumplings. Want some?" She walked to her work table where she had rolled out thick globs of buttery dough.

"Um, hum." He stretched out his legs, his toes wiggling in the heat from the roaring fire, and watched Meggie's expert hands rolling dough.

"Why ain't you at the party?" she asked, glancing at him.

"You've already asked that."

"I'm still awaiting an answer."

"I'd rather be here." His grin slipped to a tight smile.

She picked up her dumpling press and began to score circles in the dough. "Hiding, are you?"

His smile twitched, then disappeared. "No."

"Don't be giving me them sharp tones of yours, neither." She plopped a generous spoonful of apple filling into a circle of dough, then slapped another circle on top. "I know you, and I know when you're avoiding things."

"You do, do you?"

"Better than you do yourself, it seems, lad." Having filled a dozen pastries, Meggie placed them on a platter. She walked to a bubbling kettle of mulled apple cider and butter and lowered each dumpling into the cinnamon-smelling concoction.

"People don't understand me, Meg."

"That is a truth if I ever heard you tell it! You do things that make no sense at times." She pointed a finger at him. "Like running away from that party up to the keep."

"I didn't run away from the gods-be-damned party!"

"You didn't go, did you?" When he didn't answer, she came to him and nudged his foot with her slippered toe. "Did you?" When he continued to stare at her, refusing to speak, she leaned down to make her point. "You didn't even poke your head in to wish your men a merry evening, did you?"

His silence lengthened as he held her look.

"Nary a word to them to enjoy themselves after long and weary months of fighting, huh?"

"What are you hinting at, Meggie?"

She shrugged, lifting one thick shoulder high in the air. "Now, what would an old woman the likes of me be hinting at, Your Grace?" His instant frown at the use of his old title seemed to please her. "You had a duty to see to your men and you turned your back on them—ran away."

"I didn't run away!" he snapped, his face blazing with annoyance.

"Then what do you call it? You should have gone to the party, if only for a few minutes, just to let your men know you were there."

"They don't need me there to enjoy themselves," he mumbled, his gaze shifting away.

"Most likely not, considering the foul mood you be in this eve." Turning, she picked up a ladle to stir beef stew simmering in a cast iron pot.

Conar watched her for a moment, her silence weighing heavily on his conscience. He could tell she was put out with him by the way her large hands gripped the ladle. He was fairly sure she was wishing it were his neck.

"Don't be mad at me," he said, breaking the quiet. "Not you, too."

"I ain't," she countered, shaking pepper into her stew. "Disappointed, maybe, but not mad."

"Disappointed in what?"

"In knowing why you won't go to that party." She added a pinch of salt to the pot.

"And what is it you think you know?"

Harry entered the kitchen, shirt and socks in hand. His wide, merry grin was in sharp contrast to Conar's scowl. Ruck looked at his wife's unsmiling face and obviously knew to make himself scarce.

"They're clean, Milord," he said, handing the objects to Conar. "Keep 'em as long as you want." He spun around sharply, pushing open the door to the common room as fast as he could.

There was a long moment of silence as Meggie stirred her dumplings with infinite care. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg filled the steamy kitchen, and the soft bubbling of the pot combined to make the room a warm haven from the howling wind and pelting rain lashing against the window panes.

Meggie raised a ladle of thick syrup to her lips and tasted, beaming with pleasure. Cupping her free hand under the ladle, she carried the rest of the contents toward Conar. "Try it."

He drew in his legs and sat forward, carefully putting his lips to the steaming golden-white liquid. He sipped gingerly.

"Good?"

"Aye." He finished the rest of the spicy apple dumpling broth and licked his lips. With wariness, he looked at Meggie, trying to gauge her feelings.

She set the ladle on a counter and wiped her hands on her apron. "You look tired. Have you been taking care of yourself, lad?"

"I suppose," he answered, standing and padding away from her.

He scrounged about the kitchen tasting some foods, smelling others. He peered into a cupboard, lifted a lid on a cookie jar, and extracted a chocolate brownie. As he stuffed it in his mouth and pulled out a pitcher of milk, Meggie shook her head.

"There's rhubarb pie there," she said, pointing to the pie safe.

Conar opened the tin-punch door and took out the pie, cut a piece, then bit into it. A glob of thick filling oozed down the side of his hand. Meggie laughed out loud when he licked his palm and fingers before stuffing the remainder of the pie in his mouth.

"When was the last time you ate, boy?" she asked. At his shrug, she ordered him to sit at the table.

He obeyed, leaning back in the chair and stretching out his long legs while she ladled steaming stew into a bowl.

"I need someone to talk to, lady."

She nodded. "I thought as much."

"Someone I can trust."

"That goes without saying." She took the chair opposite him.

"Someone who won't scold me like I'm a child."

A frown formed on her wide face. "And what is it you've done for which you might need a scolding?"

His feelings immediately turned militant, but Meggie's honest, encouraging look softened them. He looked away, not knowing how to begin.

"Why aren't you at the party?" she asked again.

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his cords, refusing to look at her. "I've got better things to do than attend some useless party."

"Like traipsing about in the rain trying to catch your death of cold."

He looked up at her. "Don't—"

"Don't what?" she snapped back.

"I'm not a child, Meggie."

She made a rude sound with her lips. "You'd never prove it by me." She lifted her chin. "All children, especially little boys, tend to be selfish, and that's exactly what you're being."

"Selfish? Because I didn't want to go to the gods-be-damned party? Because I wanted to be alone?"

Her finger jabbed the tabletop, punctuating her words. "Seems to me you like being by yourself afar too much and afar too often for your own good! And where has that being alone got you, eh?"

"By myself!" he mumbled, picking up a spoon beside the stew.

"And you like that, do you?"

"Aye, I like it!" he shouted, shifting his gaze from her probing stare.

"The hell you do!" She reached across the table and cupped his chin, bringing his eyes back to hers. "You look this old woman in the eye and tell her you like the loneliness that goes with being alone!"

He tried to move his head, but her grip was surprisingly strong. A muscle jumped in his cheek, his teeth ground together, but he let her keep his face steady.

"You know what I think you need?" she asked, unperturbed.

"No, but you're going to tell me, aren't you?"

"Damn straight!" She let go of his face, pulled her chair around beside his, effectively blocking him from either getting up or ignoring her. "If you hadn't wanted to hear my advice, lad, you wouldn't have trudged through the storm to reach me, now would you?"

"I was going out anyway," he said in a voice that sounded childish even to his own ears. "I mistakenly thought you might like to see me."

"Why aren't you at the party?"

"Stop asking me that!" he shouted. He shoveled a spoonful of hot stew into his mouth, wincing as the vegetables scorched his tongue.

Meggie broke off a large section of cornbread from a platter. "Here."

He crammed the butter-dotted bread in his mouth and chewed.

"Did you know your eyes are turning brown?" she asked, peering closely at him.

"No, they're not." Washing down the cornbread with more milk, he looked up at her, wondering at the mean look on her face.

"They are, too. Must be because you're so full of shit."

He blinked.

Meggie ignored his astonishment. "You just can't go to that party, can you?"

"I could if I wanted to."

"I don't think so." She fused her gaze with his. "You're scared to face that little slip of a girl of yours."

"Amber-lea?"

"Your lady, lad. Our Queen."

"She's not my lady!" came his furious, violent outburst.

"Who are you trying to convince? Me or you?"

Wounded and hurt, his soul swimming, drowning, dying, moisture sprang from the corners of his eyes. "She doesn't…she won't…" He stopped, pushed away his food, and viciously shook his head. "Don't do this to me, Meggie."

"Do what, son?"

"Remind me of just how much…" He squeezed his eyelids shut. "How much I've lost!"

When he hunched forward, when his head dropped to his hands, she gathered him into her ample arms, cradling him against her shoulder.

"Ah, lad," she whispered as his sobs broke free, shaking the wide shoulder she patted. "What are we to do with you, eh?"

He clutched her around the waist, his face pressed to her bosom. He needed her, replaced her with the mother he had lost so long ago. He was once more a little boy, his ache being soothed by the only person in the world who understood his pain.

"Now, now," she crooned, stroking his hair. "You tell your Meggie what hurts you, son. You tell Meggie what she can do to help."

"Oh, god, Meggie," he sobbed, burrowing his face into the starched fabric of her apron. "I've messed everything up."

"And what is it you think you've done now? Seems to me you blame yourself far too much for things out of your control."

"Not this time," he said on a hitching breath. "This time I fucked everything up!"

"Watch your mouth." She lifted the edge of her apron, pushed back his head, and started to wipe his eyes. He would have turned away his head, but she anchored his chin in her free hand and ran the cotton under his nose.

"You don't know what I'm capable of doing," he said in a miserable voice, pleading with her to understand. "To other people. To myself."

"Whatever it is, it can be undone," she said emphatically, smoothing away a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

He pulled away from her and stood. "Not this time. This time, I've gone beyond help. No one can help me now."

Her brows drew together in obvious alarm. "What have you done?"

Again, he brought up his hands to cover his face. "I don't want you to know," he told her through the camouflage of his fingers. "I don't want anyone to know how low I've sank."

"And especially not the lady, eh?"

"No. Especially not Liza."

Meggie rose from her chair and took his hands in hers, bringing them away from his face. She placed his palms together and kissed the tips of his fingers. "Do you know I love you, lad?"

Surprised, he lowered his head, but was unable to look into the truth of her gaze.

"Do me the courtesy of looking at me when I talk to you. Do you, know that I love you, Conar?"

The use of his name made him flinch. Again, he tried to pull away, but she wouldn't let him. "Aye," he whispered, "I know that, Meg."

She lifted a work-reddened hand to his cheek. "And do you know that I would do anything for you?"

His head sank to his chest. "I don't deserve such loyalty."

"The hell you say!" Meggie snorted, her voice tight with anger. "Who put that stupid thought in your head?" She gathered him into her arms. "Oh, lad. What is it that hurts you so?"

For the first time in a long time, Conar felt safe, wanted, loved for who he was. He knew a moment's respite from the godawful agony that had been a part of his soul for so very long. He clasped her to him like a drowning man and felt the additional tears he'd been trying to hold back slip down his cheeks.

"You can't, Meg," he groaned, his arms bringing her closer to his madly beating heart. "No one can help me now."

She pushed him back so she could take his cheeks in her pudgy hands. "This is your Meggie you're talking to, son. I'd give my life for you because you are one of my own. If anyone can help, it will be me!" Her expression turned stern. "Now, you tell me what it is that ails you."

He felt unmanned, ashamed of his weakness before this beloved woman, and wanted to hide, but he knew she wouldn't let him. Instead, he bit his lip, letting his own face shut down.

"Don't you go stubborn on me, Conar McGregor! Yes, McGregor! Aye, my fine young warrior! You can be whosoever you want to be outside these old kitchen walls, but to me, to your Meggie, you are the same ornery lad who caused my Harry to burn two perfectly good chairs and a table! Who damned near gave my old man the consumption while running about in pouring rain as bad as we got outside tonight!" She cupped the back of his neck. "I've got me a good mind to turn your ornery hind end across my lap and smack that orneriness right out of you!"

His lips twitched in a smile, despite the control he tried to exercise over them. "Don't you think I'm a little too big for that?"

Her left eyebrow arched. "You're too big for your breeches, you are!" She let go his neck and reseated herself, folding her arms over her large bosom. "Well? I'm waiting."

"For what?"

Meggie's head cocked dangerously.

"Oh," he said, the word dropping like a rock into the silence. He sat down. "You want to know what I've done. Something really stupid."

"That's nothing new."

"Really stupid this time, Meg. I've gotten myself into a whole mess of trouble that I'm not sure I can get out of."