Because he had made all the mistakes where Meghan was concerned.
He squeezed his eyes shut—forgot about his blackening eye—winced. And then welcomed the pain.
Any physical pain—a knocked tooth, his shattered nose, his battered eye—was preferable to the agony tearing up his seizing heart.
“You love him,” Campbell repeated.
Meghan nodded.
Culross stood stiffly at her side. He let it play out the way Meghan’s brother wanted, all the while coming apart bit by bit.
He knew what was coming.
Inflict maximum suffering.
He would make sure, after this, that Meghan could never love Culross.
“What do you know about Culross exactly, Meghan?”
“I know I love him.”
The ship gave a long, ominous creak.
The walls were closing in.
“Are you aware he only wanted to ruin you?” Mr. Smith’s chest moved hard from his earlier exertions. “That is the reason he stopped your wedding to Hartwell.”
“I am,” she said, solemnly.
That admission caught Mr. Smith off guard.
“Because if you know as much as you say you do, and you stand before me—your bloody brother—swearing your love for him…”
He slid a stare filled with such hate at August that it stole Meghan’s breath.
“Then you are no sister of mine.”
Ashen, Meghan swung a desperate gaze to Culross.
“What is he talking about?”
I am going to be ill…
Culross stood with his shoulders back, his gaze on Meghan.
His swollen mouth moved, and he tried to speak.
Meghan looked to her brother for help.
“What… I don’t…?”
The eldest Mr. Smith ignored Meghan.
“Does she know?”
God, she deserved better than men who spoke through her and around her and about her.
Culross would have made her his queen and treated her thusly—seated her on a throne beside him.
