Culross shoved his trousers down.
“—know.”
Meghan’s words ended on a breathy little squeak.
Hiding a smile, he stepped into the still-warm water.
While he bathed, he felt Meghan’s eyes on him.
Soaping an arm, he angled a glance.
The lady remained in the same place she had been. Her hair hung beautifully wild about her waist. Shadows played along her eyes and the sharp planes of her cheeks.
Culross switched to wash his other arm when she spoke.
“The duke will never marry me now.”
This again.
He stopped mid-motion.
“Oh, please,” he clipped out. “Do you think Hartwell was ever truly going to love you?”
“You are a bastard,” she said quietly.
“In every way but name, yes.”
The floorboards groaned.
“Do not think to leave, Meghan. I have men stationed out—”
The rest of his warning died.
Meghan had sat on the edge of the bed with her hands curled in her lap, forlorn in a way he had never seen her.
At the sight of her, something twisted tight in his stomach.
What did you expect? You robbed her of everything she accused you of taking.
It was all in the name of his mission.
That was all that mattered.
All that had ever mattered.
So why then did the sight of her sitting there tear something inside him he hadn’t known could be torn?
Eachdrip, drip, dripof water as he moved punctuated the heaviness surrounding her.
Her voice rose softly in the quiet. “I thought you were going to marry me.”
Culross went very still.
The words landed somewhere beneath his ribs.
There was something in her tone—something he couldn’t place and didn’t like.
“I thought—” She stared down at her fingers.
