Catherine Coulter - Pendragon

"It's done," Thomas said when he and Meggie were finally alone some two hours later in the White Room, the door closed and locked. "It's been a very long day. Now, at last, I can concentrate on you. I've been thinking about this since this morning."

"Yes, it's done. Let me tell you, Thomas, Mrs. Black is thrilled about it. Your mother is chortling because Libby will have a low-born daughter-in-law and be a grandmother before she will. Really? Since this morning?"

"Remember when you were dancing down the corridor and I ran into you? Yes, since that moment when I saw exactly what you were thinking. Your eyes tell me everything, Meggie. Everything. Come here."

Meggie went, nearly skipping to him since she was so very eager. It was much a repeat of the previous night, but better, Meggie thought, grinning down at her husband, who looked nearly dead. She felt so good she wanted to sing, perhaps write a ditty for Mrs. Mullins about Mary Rose's stewed fish stew.

She whispered against her husband's ear, "Perhaps we could hold a cat race to celebrate the wedding."

Life, Thomas thought, would never be boring with Meggie in it. He kissed her temple and wondered what the future would bring. More lovemaking, that was what he wanted, much more.

"Should you like to go to Italy, Meggie?"

"I should love it above all things."

"Soon," he said. "Soon." He pressed his forehead against hers, breathed in her scent, unique to Meggie. "I was just wondering what life would bring us."

"Lots of good things, I hope," she said, and kissed his chin. "You know, Thomas, when I take you into my mouth like that and you-"

He jerked. He was hard that instant, something he'd sworn was beyond him for the next twelve hours. When she was moaning into his mouth, he was the one who wanted to sing with the pleasure of it.

MEGGIE WAS WALKING along the trail that led to the Pendragon cliffs, whistling, occasionally flinging a stick for Brutus to retrieve, which he did with great enthusiasm. "Too bad," she said, scrubbing behind his ears, "that there can't be dog racing, but it just isn't possible. Can you imagine racing, Brutus? No, you'd just sit there wagging your tail, wouldn't you, or rush to bring back sticks. Your brain just isn't fashioned for racing." And she'd throw the stick again. Brutus was one of Thomas's dogs, an exuberant terrier who looked more like a Clara, in truth, than a Brutus. One stick flew too close to the edge of the cliff. Brutus skidded at the edge and slunk down onto his haunches, whining softly. He would go no farther.

"What's the matter? Oh, I see, you're afraid the ground isn't steady and you'll go right over. You're right. I'm too strong in my throwing. Let me get this stick, Brutus, and I'll hurl it in the other direction." She leaned down to get the stick when she heard a snicker of sound right beside her. She turned, then there was another snicker of sound and this one landed in her shoulder, hurling her backward off the cliff.

She screamed, loud, wailing, and hit the water below. She struck the water flat on her back and sank like a stone. She was sure she'd broken her back. She hit the bottom, but thankfully not hard. Waves washed over her head, rocks and sand tore her clothes and scraped her skin. She swallowed water, gagged.

It was the gagging that brought her right back up. The water was just over her head, and even though her clothes were heavy, she managed to struggle to shore. She was wheezing, choking, gagging on the harsh salt water, trying to get her breath and ignore her back, which felt like a large sofa was sitting atop her from striking the water so hard. Think about now, just about now . She pulled herself out of the water and fell on her face onto the sand.

She vomited up all the seawater. She was shaking so badly that she could barely catch her breath. Then she realized that blood was dripping onto the wet sand.

She stared at the blood, at first not understanding. Blood, it was her blood. She hadn't seen her own blood since she'd gotten scratched by Tiny Tom. It was faded, all that blood, since is was mixed with water. It had turned the bodice of her blue muslin gown into a faint pink color, and now, it was oozing out of her, snaking downward. She swallowed, realizing now that the strange snicking sound-it had been a bullet and it had gone into her body, hurled her backward over the cliff and into the sea below.

Thank God it had been high tide, otherwise she would be dead now.

She didn't want to think about that.

She tried to straighten, to push herself back onto her knees, so she could stand up, but ferocious pain suddenly ripped through her shoulder, and she groaned with the shock of it, the unexpected clout of pain, and fell back onto her face. I've got to move, got to move. Someone tried to kill me and he can do it again. I've got to get away .

She heard Brutus barking his head off above her on the cliff edge.

She had to get up. She had to get back to Pendragon. She just couldn't remain here. Where was the person who should be close by protecting her?

Oh, God, the person who had shot her could simply walk down the cliff walk and shoot her again. This time, dead. She wouldn't stand a chance.

She couldn't, wouldn't, do that to Thomas.

Get up, get up.

Slowly, her chest blazing with such pain she was gasping with it, Meggie managed to come up onto her hands and knees. She looked up. There was someone up there, she felt it. Then she heard Brutus growling, then barking loud and louder still.

She saw movement, then a shadow through the bright morning sunlight, saw a gun, a hand was raising it, raising it and pointing it downward, toward her. Meggie crawled toward a boulder, managed to fall flat behind it. A chip of the rock flew off.

Oh God, he was going to kill her. At least he was up there and not down here.

Was it really a he?

She didn't know.

She lay there, panting, trying to control the pain, listening to Brutus barking louder and louder, then heard the dog cry out.

The bastard had hit Brutus.

Silence.

Where was he? Was he coming down that path? She had to move, she had to do something, but there was nowhere to go, just miles of beach strewn with heavy boulders, seaweed drying on chunks of driftwood. No place, no cave, where she could hide. She could arm herself, yes, that was it. She looked around to find a rock. Too small. No, that one she couldn't begin to lift even if she hadn't been injured.

There was one. She managed to pull herself within reach of a round black rock, sitting just beyond her fingertips, all by itself, as if waiting for her. She pulled herself toward that rock, then got her hand around it. It felt nice and heavy. She gripped it against herself, then managed to get back up onto her knees. She pressed against the boulder, then slowly, carefully, eased her face around to look toward the cliff path.

She didn't see anything, didn't hear anyone climbing down.

She didn't hear Brutus.

Time passed. She blinked, cursed herself, tried to hum a song, anything to stay alert, but it was hard, her shoulder hurt so badly. She felt tears trail down her cheeks, couldn't stop them. She tasted her tears mixed with the salt water.

More time passed.

She hurt, but she kept her eyes on the cliff trail. She ripped a long strip of wet material off her skirt and wrapped it as tightly as she could around her shoulder. It wasn't a very good job since she had only one hand, but it was the best she could do.

Where was Brutus? She prayed he hadn't been shot.

Then she heard a man's voice yelling her name. She nearly shattered from fear until she realized it was Thomas. She tried to call back to him, but just a very thin whisper came out of her mouth. It didn't matter. He would come to her. She smiled even as she sank down to rest her cheek against the wet sand.