Chapter 12
A cold river mist spilled across the Town of Ramsgate courtyard. Cobblestones cleared of snow had already begun to show the grime and mud left by dockworkers long at work.
An errant cry from seagulls and the intermittent call of watermen signaled the beginning of a busy wharf day.
Waiting beside his mount for Meghan’s arrival, Culross stood with his hands clasped at his back and his gaze fixed on the tall brick pub. They had not exchanged another word since their volatile exchange.
Thick, dark grey clouds hung in a low blanket over the London skyline, hinting at only a temporary lull in the storm. A crisp, earthy scent promised further snow and lent an unnatural quiet to the back court.
When Culross rose for the day and saw to his ablutions, he had let Meghan pretend she was sleeping—and left.
His comforts came first. Always.
Last night marked the exception.
He had given Meghan the bed.
The generosity he’d shown was one he had never granted to another person. While she slept, Culross lay on a pallet at the hearth.
The same exact place where he and Meghan had sat just after he’d bathed her and—
The muscles along the base of his skull throbbed. He rolled his shoulders against the pain.
Culross snatched his watch fob from his greatcoat and consulted the time.
Still early yet.
He returned the chain to his pocket.
There had been no sleep last night for either of them. Her on account of her unceasing crying, and he—well—also on account of her weeping.
They had not been noisy, theatrical tears. If they had been, Culross could have slept through them.
After an hour, he began to think she would eventually stop.
That she would tire herself out.
She had not.
Culross rubbed the tight tendons along the sides of his neck.
The lady no doubt still believed her acting skills something of note, but her muffled weeping throughout the night—throughout the entire unceasing, infernal night—had reached him.
If he climbed into that bed and simply dragged her into his arms until she stopped, everything would be imperiled.
And so he had sat with her sorrow.
Made himself immune.
He curled his hands into fists and squeezed them several times.
That had been his intention anyway.
A sleepless night had confirmed what he had already known—Culross could not let himself grow soft. It would destroy him.
Once he was at the helm of his ship and had the roll of the ocean beneath his feet, everything would be set to rights. He would be occupied running his vessel, the fresh sea air against his face.
It cleared a man’s head in the way only the sea could.
Culross snatched out his watch again and checked the time.
Twenty minutes until they were scheduled to leave.
By now Meghan would have met Lord Greyhold—the man assigned to her.
Culross returned the watch to his pocket.
He frowned.
With Lord Kerr’s brother having spent more years at war than in London, Culross knew little of the man beyond his sterling reputation.
He took Kerr at his word and Greyhold at his reputation, and left Meghan in his second-in-command’s hands. After all, her care would fall largely to the former second captain of the Royal Marines.
But Boney’s naval fleet had possessed nothing on Miss Meghan McQuoid-Smith.
Sensing his master’s restlessness, Kraken threw his head back and whinnied.
Cursing, Culross doubled back across the recently cleared cobblestones at a light jog. Waving off a stablehand who came to open the door, Culross let himself inside and took the stairs quickly.
He had his foot on the first step when a full-bodied, snorting, bell-like laugh rang down from the halls above.
That exuberant mirth he knew well.
Better than the tears of last night…and infinitely more dangerous.
Sharpening his gaze like a cutlass, Culross climbed the stairs quickly and stopped mid-step.
“A Wilton would be fine,” Meghan said, merriment filling her voice.
“The Axminster is superior.”
Kerr’s brother, Greyhold, might have been delivering battle plans with the steady flatness of his tone.
“That is true. If you arrived with a drugget, then I fear you would—”
Culross entered the room.
His brows dipped.
He took quick inventory.
Something primal stirred to life inside him.
Jealousy flared sharp and hot.
Meghan and the brute-like Lord Greyhold bent over a pale pink rug, examining it the way a happy couple might inspect carpet bolts for a new household.
The sight hit Culross like a fist to the gut.
And he knew precisely what the flesh and blood man saw.
Because Culross saw it too. Had always seen it.
The streak of fire in her eyes. The way her silk gown clung to her hips. The generous smile on her plump lips—And then the flat line it faded to when she caught sight of Culross.
Something dark and ugly stirred in Culross’s chest.
She used to laugh like that with him…
“Get out,” he ordered before the viscount could give him a meaningless bow. “Shut the door.”
As the other man left, Culross did not take his eyes off Meghan.
The same could not be said of the vexing vixen. She followed Greyhold’s retreat with the regret of someone watching a party end too soon.
Culross curled his hands. His fingers, of their own volition, pulsed.
“Is this some kind of plan you’ve hatched? Do you think to weaken my man’s defenses?”
“Weaken—” Meghan stopped. She tried again. “Weaken his defenses. August, do you even know Lord Greyhold?”
Actually, he did not.
Neither did she.
Yet she spoke with the confidence of one who had known the man her entire life.
Culross rolled his jaw.
He already resented the disadvantage of not knowing a man on a vital mission.
Her gaze lingered on his face.
“You shaved,” she blurted.
Brought up short, Culross touched a cheek.
“You sound surprised, sweetheart,” Culross drawled.
He began sweeping the room to be certain no evidence remained of their presence.
“You are likely wondering when, no doubt,” he said, feeling beneath the vanity. “As when I left, Miss Smith—”
Culross squatted and ran his hands beneath the crude chair.
“—you were very much awake.”
Her cheeks pinkened.
She did not otherwise take the bait.
Culross straightened.
“I found separate rooms,” he said, heading toward the bed—rumpled, the blankets still warm from the heat of her body.
Misery should not have been the lady’s bedmate.
It should have been Culross between her legs, making her cry entirely different tears.
“Separate rooms,” she repeated.
Barely registering through the rasp of his breath, Culross turned the pillows over.
He flipped one.
Then the other.
He glanced up.
Meghan’s expression had gone pale.
Culross bent and did a quick search beneath the bed.
Straightening, he shook out the blankets one at a time.
“You did not sleep a wink,” he said. “Which means I did not sleep a wink either.”
Color returned to the bold slashes of her cheeks.
“If my tears were so bothersome, my lord, you should have found quarters elsewhere.”
Fire flashed in her eyes.
Culross slowly filled his lungs.
God, he reveled in her like this.
All fierce defiance and a spirit that refused to be contained.
“I was certainly extended that offer.”
Meghan drew back.
Her lips parted.
She found her voice.
“Then you should have taken it.”
He curved his lips into a wolf’s smile. “Who says I did not?”
Meghan recoiled.
The lady was jealous.
Interesting.
Petty bastard that he was, he relished her distress. It offset the strange madness that had struck him seeing her red-cheeked and laughing with the viscount.
The laugh Meghan would give if he told her the truth.
The moment he left his room that morning, Scarlet had found him and offered more than a shave.
In the end, he had sent the entertaining maid away.
“Ah.” Culross folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door. “You are wondering who.”
“No,” she said softly. “It was obviously the maid, Scarlet.”
“She is very taken with you,” Meghan remarked. “I did not take you for one who liked the clingy sort—”
His eyes narrowed. “Did she offend you?”
Meghan’s mouth tightened at the corners.
She gave a small shake of her head. “No.”
She lied as poorly as she feigned sleep. How convenient. He would always know how this woman thought, what she felt.
Culross sharpened his gaze further. “Say the word and I will—”
“She did not offend me, my lord.”
His scowl deepened. “Why are you ‘my lording’ me?”
“We are not friends, and I am your captive,” she said calmly, like a governess instructing a pupil. “As such, it is the only suitable form of address.” Meghan lifted her palms.
Lifted her palms? Like a goddamned, bloody maid.
“Well, I bloody despise it,” he snapped. “I instruct you to stop. I said we aren’t friends. I did not say we are nothing.”
“What else is there?” A sad smile touched her lips. “Aside from enemies.”
His jaw worked.
For a moment, his control slipped. Heat crawled up the back of his neck.
He saw what she was doing…
Or what she attempted to do.
“It is time to leave,” Culross said.
He stiffened, prepared for her fight, welcoming it.
“Yes. Lord Greyhold informed me.”
Greyhold certainly had not mentioned how Meghan would leave this establishment—wrapped in a carpet and carried aboard Culross’s ship.
“Where is your fight?”
“He insisted I be concealed aboard the ship for my safety. That made sense.”
Meghan lifted one eyebrow.
That slight auburn arch that highlighted her red-rimmed eye.
“Do you want me to fight you?” She sounded amused.
Culross locked every muscle rigid with restraint.
“If you do,” he said silkily, “you will regret it.”
Meghan lifted her chin. “When this is said and done, the only one who will regret anything, August, is you.”
“Who will make me pay, Meghan?” He weaponized his grin. “The duke?”
Her shoulders squared.
“The same devoted chap you crawled across the floor to avoid at Rutland’s?”
Meghan gasped. “How dare—”