They were in Lord and Lady Rutland’s ballroom; a gallopade played.
“…Are you familiar with the tune, my lord…”
—turning him around, until August whirled to face Meghan.
“…I am not, my lady…”
Until they met full circle in the middle; Meghan’s gaze met August’s.
His right eye puffed and bleeding, but…with sorrow. Regret.
From his lips—his beautiful lips that had just brought her more exquisite bliss than she had ever believed possible—trembled a single word.
“Sorr—”
Her brothers would not even allow him that.
Brone punched August. He went flying against the opposite wall, hitting cheek first before sliding to the floor.
Her body jerked; that blow ran through her.
“Stop,” Meghan rasped.
But no one heard. No one listened.
“Stop. Stop. Stop.”
Half mad, Meghan pivoted between her brother and cousin, darting to each, grabbing at them, shaking them.
Groaning, August lay limp, lifeless against the wall.
Gripping her hair at the scalp, Meghan wrenched the strands, tearing hard. Her body absorbed his hurt, her chest aching.
I am dying.
Half mad, she flew to her brother and grabbed his arm on the backswing of his fist.
“You cannot do this, Brone!” she rasped.
Meghan motioned toward August. “He is not evenfighting.”
She made the mistake of looking at him.
His eyes closed, her impossibly powerful August improbably broken, and he slumped against the wall.
Tears burned her eyes. Furious, she dashed them away.
“He is not fighting because he’s a bloody coward,” Brone said with bone-chilling cheer.
She shivered, not recognizing her brother.
Brone nodded to one of the McQuoids behind her.
Anticipating the move, Meghan took a sprinting step in August’s direction, but Arran and Campbell had her fastened by the arms.
Bending low, Brone grabbed August’s arm, raised him from the wall, and stuck his splotched red face near August’s bloodied one.
“You fucking dog,” he snarled, spitting in his face.
