He narrowed his eyes.
“Tell me, Meghan—how does it feel to be the only McQuoid not to have a love match?”
Meghan’s hand shot out.
Crack.
The force of her slap sent August’s head flying back. The sound lingered in the air.
A numb tingling radiated where she’d struck him.
Her chest heaved with every sharp inhalation. Indignant fury painted her cheeks red, but her eyes bled hurt.
Something tightened in his chest, hard and sudden.
August flexed his jaw experimentally, testing the level of his pain—and her offense.
“Impressive.”
He expected more of her rage.
He received her stoic strength.
“Return me to my family.”
“Do you mean Hartwell?”
Ice slithered through him.
“Hartwell won’t have me,” she said.
As if she would still marry the bloody prig if he would have her.
That—and the sad quality of her voice—set his teeth on edge.
Hartwell might. Meghan was his brother’s sister-in-law.
A fresh wave of annoyance tethered itself to his chest.
He mentally noted the need to extend their time at sea.
“You will be returned in due time,” he said, tugging his shirt free from the waistband of his trousers.
“When?”
He gritted his teeth.
So eager to be rid of him, was she?
“After there are certainties about your wedding to Hartwell.”
Bloody Hartwell.
“In the event the whole world doesn’t know by now?” she asked on another bitter laugh. “There was a church full of guests, August,” she called as he headed for the bath.
He shucked his shirt as he went.
“Trust me, they—”
