Chapter 13
Curled up, alone in August’s bed, Meghan stared at the cabin walls as they dipped and rose, dipped and rose again, and marveled at how close she had come to having everything.
So very, very close.
August Archdale. The Earl of Culross.
Her almost-husband.
Granted, he had ruined her.
He could easily have left it at that, too. Could have done precisely as Meghan insisted and simply allowed her to borrow his name long enough to protect her passage aboard his ship.
But he hadn’t.
He had asked her to marry him.
Then he had kissed her.
Not merely a kiss either—but the kind her sisters and cousins whispered about in secret corners. The kind that left a woman breathless and trembling and forever altered.
The kind Meghan had secretly, desperately longed to know.
“…What did it matter when I was in love with a man who loved my sister and never even noticed me…?”
Now she knew his kiss and would have to accept that it was all he could give.
It should be enough.
But it wasn’t.
Meghan was selfish, selfish, selfish.
After confessing how impossible it had been knowing she was Linnie’s second, she had handed her heart over to him…and he…
“…If you’ll excuse me. There is a matter of great urgency…”
At least, he had said excuse me.
Tears filled her tired eyes.
Another wild pitch of the ship wrenched an angry moan from her lips. Curling onto her side, she drew her knees to her chest and glared resentfully at the ceiling as the vessel climbed another steep swell and then plunged down again, precipitous and merciless.
Just like that, apparently, she would perish.
But then, all the best gothic novels ended with one of the characters tragically cut down. Usually it was a blade or a pistol.
For Meghan, it would be the sea.
Linnie had not perished so. Thank God. Meghan would hand Satan her soul for her sister’s happiness—she had done that very thing last year. But the fact Meghan was her sister’s second in every way, worth noting.
Another tear sneaked free. She dashed it away.
August had stolen her heart.
This was a fitting end for their story.
In fact, that would be a perfect title for her almost-love-story.
The Earl Who Stole Her Heart and the Sea That Killed Her.
Yes. Very dramatic.
She sniffed miserably.
Oh God.
There was no hope.
Knock.
One knock.
August.
Oh, she wanted it to be August.
August who, after seeing her settled in their quarters—as he referred to them—had reluctantly returned to the deck where—
Knock—knock.
Two knocks.
August again.
Just in case she had not heard the first.
She stared hopefully at the door.
But she also did not want it to be him.
Not when she looked like this.
Not when she felt like this.
Knock—knock—knock—knock.
Four knocks.
Lord Greyhold.
Lord Greyhold, who was a bit of a curmudgeon and rather a great deal of a pest.
Meghan made herself crawl out from under the blankets. The effort alone left her breathless. She smoothed her damp, wrinkled garments—to no avail—and stole a glance toward the mirror across the room.
Death.
She looked like death.
“E–enter,” she called weakly.
The effort cost her.
The viscount stepped inside, several deckhands trailing behind him carrying stacks of towels and pitchers of water.
Meghan managed a wan smile that held only until the pair of young lads scurried out.
Then she gagged.
Swallowing again and again, she fought desperately to keep the bile down.
Lord Greyhold crossed the cabin with startling speed.
Giving thanks for his long legs, Meghan grabbed the basin just as her stomach revolted.
She heaved the last bitter remnants into it.
Her entire body sagged afterward, strength draining from her limbs.
Surely that was the last of it.
Surely.
Tiredly, Meghan collapsed onto the edge of the bed.
The viscount exchanged the warm cloth in his hand for the ruined basin.
Closing her eyes, Meghan wiped her mouth and face.
This—this—was what all the fighting had been about?
Sweet Jee-zus.
The true prize should have been awarded to the poor soul who never had to board this unholy vessel in these even more unholy seas.
Registering the viscount’s looming presence, she forced her eyes open.
She found his gleaming boots and briefly went cross-eyed looking at them.
Meghan rubbed the back of her neck.
Lord Greyhold stood at military attention.
“Is there something you would like to say, Lord Greyhold?” she rasped.
“His Lordship asked whether you would like a tray brought—”
He reached for the basin.
Meghan snatched it back with sweaty, shaking fingers.
Bending over, she retched again. She was getting close to the end. She felt—
“Perhaps a meal—”
She shot one hand up in warning. “Do not!” she moaned into the bucket.
Not another word was what she would have said, if she did not fear embarrassing herself further.
Had she ever truly believed there existed an emotion called pride?
She had spent more than a year believing she possessed none where August was concerned.
Yet she had felt like a bloody queen compared to this humbling ordeal.
Not all McQuoid lasses were poor sailors. The family whispered endlessly about Linnie’s ease at sea.
They called her the pride of the McQuoid men for the way she took to the ocean.
But no one spoke of those days in front of Linnie.
Not after Linnie had been caught in a bloody battle and nearly died.
Yet another experience August shared with Linnie.
Terrible. I am the very worst. That she would trade anything to have shared even that with August.
Tears formed in Meghan’s throat.
She gagged on them.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up, raw and painful against her throat already scraped raw from hours of tossing her biscuits.
“I am getting the captain,” Lord Greyhold announced.
Not for the first time.
Nor even the fifth.
Meghan had long since lost count of how many times he had suggested that particular disaster.
Still sprawled on the bed, Meghan shot him a bleary glare.
“Unless you wish to be rolled into that same carpet you attempted to roll me into,” she rasped, “I suggest you reconsider.”
Wonder of wonders.
Lord Greyhold smiled.
If she were not dying, she might have joined him. The very last thing she wanted was for August to see what a pathetic excuse for a sailor she was. Linnie resurfaced.
“I trust the captain is otherwise occupied keeping this ship from sinking,” Meghan muttered.
Strangely, despite the violence of the storm and the misery twisting her insides, Meghan felt a peculiar calm knowing August commanded the vessel. A man so fully in command, so ruthless and capable, surely possessed the power to take on—and defeat—Poseidon himself.
The timbers groaned as the ship climbed another monstrous swell. The lantern on the wall swung wildly, spilling erratic shadows across the cramped cabin. The air smelled of brine, sickness, and damp wood.
Lord Greyhold anticipated her next need.
Steady despite the chaos, he exchanged one bowl for another as the ship pitched again.
Without looking, she reached for the fresh one.
Just as she had every other time…but this time, her stomach held firm.
Meghan managed her first smile. “We have gotten quite good at this, have we not?” she muttered.
Her reluctant nursemaid busied himself nearby.
Meghan could easily imagine what August might say.
We have had a great deal of practice, love.
There is fair room to improve.
Greyhold returned.
This time, however, he extended something different.
“There is no shame in being seasick.”
Her temples pounded. Her throat burned. Her eyes felt too heavy to lift.
She could not look at him—not from embarrassment anymore.
She was simply too tired.
A low groan shuddered through the hull.
Meghan tensed.
The lantern swayed harder.
Then, unexpectedly—
A cool cloth pressed gently against the back of her damp neck.
A small moan escaped her.
How could something so simple feel so heavenly?
“That feels so g—”
“What is the meaning of this?”
The damp cloth slipped from her skin and fell to the floor with a wet smack.
Her limbs aching, she slowly turned toward the doorway.
And froze.
Culross filled the entrance.
Salt spray clung to his cloak and darkened the shoulders of it. Those loose golden curls the angels envied him were wind-tossed, damp at the temples. A lone lock lay across his brow.
Meghan’s breath caught.
It was as if the tempest itself had tried and failed to tame the unconquerable August Archdale.
He had never looked more devastating.
Or more terrifying.
His handsome features were twisted into a mask of cold, unrelenting fury.
His eyes burned hotter than the Devil’s own, promising a swift and ugly death meted out by the long fingers curled into fists at his sides.
His burning gaze did not fall on her.
It speared past her.
Straight to Lord Greyhold.
Her eyes widened on August’s gloved hands.
One. Two. Three.
Oh, dear. Three pumps.
August.
Only…
August as she had never seen him.
At least, not on her account. Not on any account.
And she had been present the day he and Captain Tremaine had nearly come to blows.
It was almost as if—
Her heart began to pound.
He was angry.
Angry at the other man for helping her? Surely not. Why should that matter to him? Unless he resented the gentleman’s familiarity with Meghan.
But that would mean…he cared—in some way. Even if it was a small one.
He did care.
The realization swept through the fragile tangle of her emotions like wildfire.