Chapter 14 #2
Another one of those anguish-filled moans. Small like before, but this one slightly strained and a credit to the lady’s poor acting skills.
It turns out he had part of a heart after all, and that bothersome thing insisted Culross not shatter the lady’s illusion of some grand performance.
Culross gritted his back molars. “See a fresh bath, hot water, linens and mint is delivered,” he said in less stern tones for the second-in-command. “Fresh bedding. You are to steer, Greyhold.”
The quartermaster bowed and left.
What had happened to his iron-clad restraint? What in Culross had weakened to the point that he would bend as she begged him for another?
He took a breath—for her benefit.
And his.
It cost him everything to lay her down upon the Chippendale sofa. “Bloody hell, Meghan,” he said, shrugging out of his cloak with care so as not to spray water at her. “You look like death.”
She waggled her eyebrows. “It is a wonder I was never a Diamond of the First Water.”
“You are the damn sun to them.” His features grew dark; Culross hung his cloak on the nearest wall hook.
Meghan curled on her side and rested her cheek on the arm of the sofa so she could watch him. “I can’t be the sun and death, August. You must choose.”
“Sun,” he said thickly. Not even for her could he erase fear’s grip.
Realizing he still wore a single glove, he removed the snug material.
Culross let the article fall with a sad little plop and stared at it where it lay.
This was too much.
Wanting to possess her and her body so no other could was primal. It was an animal emotion meant for men like Culross. Being overcome was for dandies and weak rogues, like the McQuoids.
He wasn’t built for this hungering to have her in every way. Body. Mind. Soul.
Maybe this was their ultimate triumph over him—Culross losing his damned wits for their sister.
Caring for her. And having to confront with her on land the evil he had done—against all their women.
Before they had departed Wapping, he had sent two of his men with orders to whip their mounts to death if needed to reach his brother and Lord Kerr.
Meghan had forgiven him once, but the McQuoid loyalty rang truer than the King’s crest.
His own stomach pitched.
Meghan lay her palm over his. “Is this where you bring all your captives?” she asked, her voice so damned weak.
The reminder of his sins wrought further havoc—his just rewards. No, those came when he confessed all.
“You are making jests,” he said thickly. She is sick and seeks to spare my worrying.
Meghan gave him a smile. “Not a good one.”
A good one…
She was a good one. All that was good.
Certainly too pure for Culross. He knew it with a blackguard’s heart because he wanted her anyway, and he chose not to tell her everything.
“Tsk, tsk.” Meghan’s clucking brought his eyes on her. “I am disappointed.”
You don’t know the half of it, love.
“A gentleman I once knew said the Earl of Culross was the best quipper in all the Land of Quipdomville.”
The memory intruded—in a place where it absolutely belonged.
“…Why is the sea the most trustworthy companion at sea…Miss Smith?”
Meghan’s eyes twinkled. “…Why…?”
“…Because it never fails to blow the truth…”
Against his will, a wistful smile claimed his lips. “The fellow was an arrogant bufflehead.”
“Be that as it may, he would know how to make your captive smile.”
Insanity was hating the former version of himself who had made her laugh and wanting to one-up the bastard.
“I don’t have a captive,” he said gravely. “I have a betrothed.”
The emotion that blazed from the glassy sheen of her eyes caused a shifting in his chest.
Meghan’s throat moved, same as his. “It is not a quip, but I will allow it.”
“I will sleep easy again.” He lied through his bloody teeth.
He would not rest again until they were on land, and she was curled up in his bed, wearing nothing but Culross and his name.
Will you have any of that?
“Are we almost through it?”
He cast her a peculiar look. “What?”
“Oh my God. Are we sinking?”
Lost in his sins, Culross could not keep up with her.
“It’s something worse.” She sat up and swung her legs over to stand.
“No,” he said calmly. Culross pulled himself together. She deserved his strength. This was her first voyage at sea. “There is no storm, love,” he murmured.
Meghan scrambled away. “No storm?” Her voice was a threadbare whisper.
This he could reassure her on. August stood, went back to the windows, and threw them open. Blinding sunlight poured in. “See. Clear blue skies. Not even a—”
“No. No. No.” That single word rolled from her lips like a litany.
Lost, Culross pivoted his gaze between the view outside and Meghan.
“Do you want a storm?” he asked, his voice strained, as if she answered in the affirmative he’d swirl his ship until the sea churned up the tempest she wanted.
Sniffling, Meghan drew her knees up to her chest. “Why would I want a storm?”
The minx could talk circles around him on his steadiest day, even when he hadn’t been flipped on his ear by her.
“I am the worst sailor, August,” she whispered.
“Then you won’t sail,” he answered instantly. Anything that hurt her, he would remove. Even every last salt drop in the sea.
Meghan’s mouth trembled.
The sight cut through him.
“I’m getting the damned surgeon,” he gritted out. He didn’t care what she wanted. What she needed came before everything.
“I am not sick.”
That stopped him at the door.
Culross re-faced her.
“I was, but I am feeling b-better—”
A sound of impatience rumbled in his chest.
“That is not why I’m g-going to cry.”
“Then what is it, Meghan?” Those pleading tones were his?
He certainly didn’t recognize them as his own.
Because he had never before now had leave to use them, to beg.
“You do not want to sail with me.”
He opened his mouth. “When did I say that?”
“You didn’t.” Meghan paused, her lower lip quavering. “You suggested it. It is because I am the worst sailor, August,” she whispered.
“I suggested it because you are bloody ill, Meghan, and I will not have you this way,” he said sharply, anger whipping through him.
At her for failing to understand, at himself for being unraveled.
Tears fell. Hers. Unlike the ones she had wept last night, these she kept in silence.
Somehow, they struck worse; pain leavened in his chest.
No, they all made him feel like he’d rather take a bullet to his breastbone. “Why are you crying now?” he demanded.
“You believe I am the worst sailor.”
Cursing, he yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and stalked over, angrily waving the fabric as he went. “You will not cry, madam.”
Defiant to the very marrow of her being, Meghan lifted her chin and cried more silent tears. She let him in and kept him out of her grief—all at the same time. Only this contrary, obstinate minx managed the feat.
“You said that, Meghan,” he implored. It would be helpful if she remembered that important detail.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “But you did not correct m-me.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or launch himself overboard for having fallen so damned hard.
Culross reeled.
This was what love was then. The abandonment of all logic and reason, and a complete surrender to the incomprehensible.
“You will not have me sick, August. You will not allow me to cry?” Meghan demanded. “In what way will you have me?”
Culross stared at Meghan, seeing her again for the first time. Seeing himself for the first time.
“Happy,” he whispered. “I would see you happy.”
Meghan’s red-rimmed eyes rounded. “Oh.”
His own wonderment was reflected back in those depths. He had been sent to sea as so many lads were. The experience had thrilled. It had taught Culross everything he knew about order. It had taught him what mattered—but within that confined world. He had built his life on things. Power. The sea.
Never before on a person.
A knot in his throat moved. “Meghan—”
Knock. Knock. Kno—.
The moment was shattered.
At bloody last. “Enter!” he thundered before the third fist fully fell.
By God, it was he who had bloody summoned them. Culross dragged another hand through his hair. Did he think he needed the fourth announcing anyone other than himself? Even if it had been his command.
Six of his lads streamed in with buckets of water and a tub between them.
Culross clasped his hands at his back and scrutinized their every move.
“It is important to go out and walk around deck,” August explained while the small crew attended their work.
Not once did either glance at her. They did not look Meghan’s way once. They knew he’d cut their eyes out.
“You are not a sailor yet, Meghan. But you will be,” he said, assuaging her fears.
“But what if I don’t take to it?”
She wanted to know if he would still sail without her.
It was a question he couldn’t answer. Not in front of his crew. Not even to himself.
After his men left, August locked the door and leaned against it.
He saw the worry in her eyes. He saw the question form again on her lips.
“Meghan, why do sailors prefer bad weather?”
She shook her head.
“Because in bad weather, they are expected to behave like gentlemen.” Culross curved his lips into a wolfish smile. “Now, stand.” He ran his knuckles along her cheek. “I am going to bathe you.”