That was where Meghan believed they were bound.
Snippets of things she had said earlier now stitched themselves together in his mind.
She assumed her ruin ended in marriage to him.
Bloody hell.
Chapter 10
From the corner of her right eye, Meghan caught August ball his hands.
She waited.
And then counted.
One. Two. And three.
When August Archdale, the Earl of Culross, was distracted, annoyed, or uneasy, he formed fists with his hands and pulsed them three times.
Always three times.
Never just once.
Not four or five.
Only three.
Meghan’s discovery of that little detail about the earl came last year when Linnie sneaked off and left Meghan and August alone at a winter market.
He had been pleasant and polite, his smile easy. He took just the right interest in the fripperies and baubles while they perused.
Yes, there was so much Meghan knew about August Archdale, the Earl of Culross.
She knew, in addition to the pea-sized cleft in his chin, he had the faintest dimple in his left cheek—one he attempted to hide when he laughed.
She knew he could throw a snowball with his leftandright hand—and with equal proficiency.
For everything she had discovered, there was even more she did not.
Meghan rested her cheek upon her knees and watched him.
At her side, August loosened his cravat the rest of the way and tugged it free. Climbing to his feet, he tossed the tie casuallyinto the fire the same way he might discard kindling, without so much as glancing at the flames, and walked off.
Meghan stayed seated, studying the flames that licked the white corners black. August’s cravat curled into itself before the fire swallowed the last traces until it was no more.
“I upset you,” she murmured.
“I do not get upset.”
Everyone did, but this obstinate man was too proud to acknowledge any emotion less than absolute strength.
Even as they sat in their little wharf-side tavern, Meghan’s family scoured London and beyond. They would not cease until they found her—and when they did, they would find…
August.
Shivering, Meghan pulled herself closer to the fire’s warmth.
“They will understand, August,” she said calmly, reaching for several sticks in the nearby metal basket. She fed one old, dried branch to the fire.
