Chapter 10
From the corner of her right eye, Meghan caught August ball his hands.
She waited.
And then counted.
One. Two. And three.
When August Archdale, the Earl of Culross, was distracted, annoyed, or uneasy, he formed fists with his hands and pulsed them three times.
Always three times.
Never just once.
Not four or five.
Only three.
Meghan’s discovery of that little detail about the earl came last year when Linnie sneaked off and left Meghan and August alone at a winter market.
He had been pleasant and polite, his smile easy. He took just the right interest in the fripperies and baubles while they perused.
Yes, there was so much Meghan knew about August Archdale, the Earl of Culross.
She knew, in addition to the pea-sized cleft in his chin, he had the faintest dimple in his left cheek—one he attempted to hide when he laughed.
She knew he could throw a snowball with his left and right hand—and with equal proficiency.
For everything she had discovered, there was even more she did not.
Meghan rested her cheek upon her knees and watched him.
At her side, August loosened his cravat the rest of the way and tugged it free. Climbing to his feet, he tossed the tie casually into the fire the same way he might discard kindling, without so much as glancing at the flames, and walked off.
Meghan stayed seated, studying the flames that licked the white corners black. August’s cravat curled into itself before the fire swallowed the last traces until it was no more.
“I upset you,” she murmured.
“I do not get upset.”
Everyone did, but this obstinate man was too proud to acknowledge any emotion less than absolute strength.
Even as they sat in their little wharf-side tavern, Meghan’s family scoured London and beyond. They would not cease until they found her—and when they did, they would find…
August.
Shivering, Meghan pulled herself closer to the fire’s warmth.
“They will understand, August,” she said calmly, reaching for several sticks in the nearby metal basket. She fed one old, dried branch to the fire.
Her nape prickled.
She glanced over.
August sat with his hip perched along the back of the moth-eaten armchair.
“What is it they will understand?”
He removed a cheroot from inside his waistcoat pocket and held the rolled paper to the nearest sconce. Red flared at the tip.
Only then did he glance back at her.
“Your ruin?”
Your ruin…
He took a long pull and released a plume of white.
Meghan frowned.
She would have the security of his name, but there would be scandal. Not that she cared about that. Nothing was more important than love.
But August should care about her reputation because it was her, and if he—
At her silence, August winged an eyebrow upward.
“You should not be so casual about my reputation, August,” she chided, tossing another stick into the fire before returning her attention to the flames.
Because you cannot look at him…
Something sinister and dark hung about him like a cloak.
He studied her a moment, as though confirming something only he could see.
“Madam, I will not marry you.”
The twig snapped in Meghan’s fingers.
Crack.
For a moment, Meghan thought she misheard him.
Madam, I will not marry you…
The blood rushed through her ears in a whoosh, muffling sound, blurring reality.
Meghan attended her broken stick. Dull grey lichen grew within a split in the wood. The scent of pine filled her nose.
She tipped her head.
How strange that something that appeared dead should carry such a vibrant sign of life.
Meghan stared a moment longer and then tossed the small stick to join the ashes of the others.
The branch exploded into sparks and ash.
Meghan gasped.
Her heart hammering, she edged farther from the hearth.
She waited for the blaze to lessen, and only then did she rise to her feet and face him.
Casual as a summer breeze, he smoked his cheroot and watched her the way he might regard some oddity he could not quite puzzle out.
A panicked sensation built in her breast.
He could not figure Meghan out?
What was she missing here?
“I don’t understand, August,” she asked haltingly.
“When I said I won’t marry you?” he answered and clarified at the same time. “It means I will not marry you.”
August raised the cheroot to his lips.
Meghan thrust her shoulders back.
“Whatever game this is, August, it is not funny.”
From the corner of his mouth, he exhaled smoke.
“No game.”
A terrible tremor began in her toes and spread swiftly through Meghan. Her teeth began to chatter.
How terribly ironic. She’d feared the unknown, dangerous highwayman, but it was ultimately August who had plunged a blade into her heart.
“I trusted you.”
He jammed his cheroot into the rim of a pewter plate.
“Based on what, Meghan?” he said flatly.
“On… On…”
“Trust alone?” he finished for her.
The pressure in her chest was so great she hunched forward in a bid to ease the tightening.
I am dying…
If she took a full breath, her chest would explode.
“Based on our friendship,” she whispered, hating the shake in her voice.
“Our friendship?”
His dimples appeared, as though the notion amused him.
“Men and women cannot be friends.”
Meghan narrowed her eyes.
Now he would smile.
Now.
“Yes. They. Can.” She gave each of those words their due.
“If you believe that,” he said, shrugging out of his waistcoat. This one he tossed upon the back of the chair rather than with their other garments, and there seemed something important in that distinction, though she could not sort out what it was—
Her brothers had failed her greatly, which likely accounted for why he and Meghan…
She rushed over, a hand outstretched.
“We were.”
But then caught herself.
Culross glanced around for the “we” in question—in vain.
“When?”
Her neck recoiled, the muscles wrenching, burning with such pain that she gasped.
“When you…” Her lips trembled. “Courted L-Linnie.”
Tears wound down her cheek.
Through the icy armor, there came a crack, and the glimpse inside of insupportable pity—was so much worse.
“That is all it was, Meghan,” he said quietly. “I courted your sister and—”
You were nothing.
Meghan clamped her hands over her ears.
“Mm-mm.”
She didn’t want to hear anymore. Not one single word from his lips.
She couldn’t.
Anything more would break her.
Culross sat on the faded green velvet armchair. Looping his left ankle over his opposite knee, he tugged several times. The mud-stained black leather Wellington came off.
He tossed it to the corner.
Thump.
While he wrestled free the other, he glanced over at an ashen-faced Meghan. She stood as still as death.
Meghan’s reaction was the expected one of a young lady who had just discovered her reputation was in tatters and her marriage prospects forever destroyed.
Culross had ruined her.
He waited for tears. Hysterics.
There would be no match between her and Hartwell. And just as likely, no other gentleman either.
Perversely, Culross relished the fact the pompous Hartwell would never have her now. The duke would never lie between her legs or run his hands over her sleek, supple frame.
If he had not already been destined for hell for a thousand other offenses just as grave, ruining a respectable young lady—and relishing the fact no one would have her after him—would surely land him there.
He launched his other Wellington so it landed perfectly, heel down beside its counterpart.
“This is not personal, Meghan. There are matters between your family and mine that have been settled this day.”
“Not personal?” Incredulity crept into the lady’s echo. “What matters, August?”
Strength, not sadness.
He could address her when she was like this.
“What matters, August?” she demanded again.
“Your family is powerful. I’m merely ensuring they don’t become even more so.”
He shrugged.
Meghan drew back. “This is a game to you, my lord?”
“Not a game,” he answered automatically. “War.”
“You bloody, pathetic man.” She hurled that last word like it scorched her tongue. “You and your ships and battles and the ruins you make of people’s lives. Your wars are nothing more than games. You think nothing of taking lives. Hurting people. Destroying lives.”
“My life?”
Meghan slapped a palm hard against her chest. The crack resonated through the room.
“You destroyed my life.”
His chest shifted. He appealed to her reason.
“I did you a favor,” he said quietly. His act, though selfish, had been merciful in its own right.
Meghan stared at him as if he had sprouted four heads.
“Hartwell would have made you miserable.”
“He will make me miserable? Hartwell?” Meghan threw her hands up. “You abducted me on my way to my wedding!” she cried. “In the middle of a snowstorm and—”
She stopped mid-sentence.
“You sabotaged my carriage.”
She was a clever thing.
“A question?” he drawled. He had always enjoyed sparring with her.
“I could have been killed!”
Her voice rang around the room.
His eyebrows dipped together.
His men were skilled. He had not worried, but the lady was right. His stomach knotted uncomfortably. Anything could have gone—
“You dragged me to God knows which wharf we are at. All that I know is it’s dark, damp, and clearly dangerous.”
As if to punctuate the accuracy of her words, violent shouting and the shattering of glass erupted in the taproom downstairs.
Meghan’s voice climbed, quivering in a way that unsettled him.
He reached her in two long strides.
The rest of Meghan’s tirade ended on a gasp.
Culross caught her lightly by the forearms and hauled her upright.
Her eyes filled with fear.
She feared him.
His nostrils flared. A white flame of fury licked at the edge of his vision.
“As long as you are in my care,” he whispered, “no harm will befall you.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“What do you call destroying my happiness and future, August?”
He lowered his forehead to hers.
“Your happiness as in Hartwell?”
Her silence stood stark. Her answer.
Culross’s muscles coiled tight. He released her quickly.