Flattening his mouth, he nodded toward the fire.
“It will dry faster.”
Seated at the foot of the hearth, Culross toweled the excess moisture from Meghan’s blonde-brown strands. Then he collected the porcelain-handled brush and dragged it slowly through her hair.
“You are very good at this,” she remarked, her tone peevish.
He paused mid-stroke, then resumed.
A reluctant grin tugged at the corners of his lips.
“You sound disappointed.”
“I find I don’t prefer to think about how you’ve become so proficient in a lady’s ablutions.”
Culross paused again, his stare fixed on the crown of her head. Her thick tresses had already begun curling back to life.
To the conclusion she had reached—that this was something he did, playing lady’s maid—he offered no correction.
Culross had relieved enough women of pins to be a master. Doing so was a rote part of sex. Hair came down. Indecent gowns and garters came off.
The rest of this?
Helping a lady into a bath and serving as a servant was something he had never undertaken.
A role that would otherwise repel him.
He bowed to no one—neither man nor woman.
He was not certain what he called this attentiveness to Meghan Smith—other than perhaps guilt.
Culross had been reared as an earl first.
When finished, August and Meghan sat shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip before the hearth. The flames danced gently.
His mind should have been on the sailing ahead of him.
Instead, it remained back in that bathtub.
And on his beautiful captive.
“What now?”
Culross slanted a glance at Meghan.
She sat with her knees drawn close, her arms draped loosely around them.
A log shifted, setting off a series of hisses and pops.
Meghan rested her head against his shoulder. She stared pensively at the flames.
“I expect you intend to take me to Gretna Green,” she murmured.
Gretna Green.
He stilled.
“You will not make it there, August.” She shook her head. “Wewill not. My family will anticipate that is where you intend to take me.”
