“What have you done with the crew?” Meghan demanded.
That question caught every man present off guard.
“Are you referring to Culross’s crew?” McQuoid narrowed his eyes.
This was who she was.
She was a woman who would go into battle against her own family.
She was a woman who would have stood shoulder to shoulder beside him.
A wife.
A partner.
A…friend.
If his soul wasn’t dying and his lips weren’t broken, he would have allowed himself a smile.
“They have been disarmed, bound, and confined,” Mr. Campbell Smith confirmed for his sister’s benefit. “A skeleton crew for such an important undertaking, Culross?”
His crew had been spared.
Culross gave the men a grateful nod.
Meghan slid beside him.
Color splotched the younger Mr. Smith’s cheeks.
“What are you doing, Meghan?” he bit out.
Meghan twined her hand with Culross’s.
“I told you, Brone.” She shrugged. “I love him.”
Holding his eyes, Meghan pulsed. Once. Twice. Three times.
Three times.
Culross stared into her eyes and then down at their joined hands.
I could have had this…
A love that transcends time and fits in the lore that had left Meghan and hers romantics—believers in happily-ever-afters and…
My God.
She had been breathtaking in her fight.
And she had been breathtaking for him.
Culross’s throat moved rhythmically.
And it would be the last time.
Because he didn’t deserve her.
Because he had wronged her.
