Snarling, Meghan surged onto her haunches and waved wildly, warding them off with her arms alone.
Madness held her in its grip.
And they must have seen it.
They must have seen she was prepared to die for August this day. That she would make them carry her away—and that when they separated her from August, she would come right back to whatever place he was.
A faint caress down the back of her heel cut through the blind insanity.
Gasping, she spun back.
Moaning, she sank onto the floor beside August so they were face to face.
“I-I’m here,” she whispered.
She raised her fingers between them to clear the blood, to touch his nose…but hovered there.
There was no place safe to touch. Not without bringing him more pain.
“Meghan,” Campbell beseeched. “Where is your pride? Where is your loyalty?”
Was he mad?
Her pride? Loyalty?
What did those matter when there was love?
“Oh God, your n-nose,” she whispered, forgetting her brother’s meaningless questions.
A bend in the previously sharp, chiseled blade of flesh.
August lifted his head with difficulty. He leveraged himself up onto his elbow.
Unbowed. Unbroken.
“No. No. No,” she soothed, stroking his sweaty hair and wailing.
Ignoring her, August—like a knight of old returned from years of war—wrestled himself upright until he rose to his feet.
Heat suffused her as he laid a stake-claiming hand out.
When she placed hers trustingly in his, sounds of disgust went up from her family.
“By God,” Campbell snapped, “have you no shred of honor, Culross? Any decency?”
August stood at her side.
“What should I do? Leave her on the floor as you have done?”
Her breath hitched.
God, he was magnificent.
“Desuf,” August whispered.
“Wh-what?” She scrubbed the back of her sleeve across the tears and snot streaking her face. “I don’t understand y-you.”
Because they had mangled his beautiful mouth. The lips she had traced and learned the feel of.
