Wishing her blows landed with the force to hurt and punish.
His loyal defender.
God, how he loved her.
And how he had loved when she defended his worthless arse with that same fervor and courage.
She could stone him until he faded into eternal sleep, and if it brought her even a scrap of comfort, he would sacrifice himself.
Abruptly, Meghan stopped.
“I have hurt you.”
“No. No. No. I am fine,” he promised. “Look.”
Except Meghan did look.
At her family’s handiwork.
Her lower lip trembled.
She would still cry for his rotten soul…
Behind them, McQuoid groaned.
“He does not deserve your pity, Meghan.”
“He is right, Meghan,” Culross said, his throat buckling.
Meghan took a step.
And another.
She made a perfect little circle, only to end up right in front of Culross.
“But I love him,” she answered her cousin.
She gave that brokenhearted confession entirely to Culross.
Culross stilled.
“I called it off,” he implored, dropping to his knees at her feet.
Her lips parted.
“You…did?”
Hope stirred.
Crawling on his knees, he lifted his palms.
“I called it off before we left. I need you to understand—I am not the same.”
He thumped his fist against his own chest with each word of that avowal.
“It has been less than two days,” McQuoid said with the same cool logic Culross once possessed.
Or had possessed.
