He took Kerr at his word and Greyhold at his reputation, and left Meghan in his second-in-command’s hands. After all, her care would fall largely to the former second captain of the Royal Marines.
But Boney’s naval fleet had possessed nothing on Miss Meghan McQuoid-Smith.
Sensing his master’s restlessness, Kraken threw his head back and whinnied.
Cursing, Culross doubled back across the recently cleared cobblestones at a light jog. Waving off a stablehand who came to open the door, Culross let himself inside and took the stairs quickly.
He had his foot on the first step when a full-bodied, snorting, bell-like laugh rang down from the halls above.
That exuberant mirth he knew well.
Better than the tears of last night…and infinitely more dangerous.
Sharpening his gaze like a cutlass, Culross climbed the stairs quickly and stopped mid-step.
“A Wilton would be fine,” Meghan said, merriment filling her voice.
“The Axminster is superior.”
Kerr’s brother, Greyhold, might have been delivering battle plans with the steady flatness of his tone.
“That is true. If you arrived with a drugget, then I fear you would—”
Culross entered the room.
His brows dipped.
He took quick inventory.
Something primal stirred to life inside him.
Jealousy flared sharp and hot.
Meghan and the brute-like Lord Greyhold bent over a pale pink rug, examining it the way a happy couple might inspect carpet bolts for a new household.
The sight hit Culross like a fist to the gut.
And he knew precisely what the flesh and blood man saw.
Because Culross saw it too. Had always seen it.
The streak of fire in her eyes. The way her silk gown clung to her hips. The generous smile on her plump lips—And then the flat line it faded to when she caught sight of Culross.
Something dark and ugly stirred in Culross’s chest.
She used to laugh like that with him…
“Get out,” he ordered before the viscount could give him a meaningless bow. “Shut the door.”
As the other man left, Culross did not take his eyes off Meghan.
The same could not be said of the vexing vixen. She followed Greyhold’s retreat with the regret of someone watching a party end too soon.
Culross curled his hands. His fingers, of their own volition, pulsed.
“Is this some kind of plan you’ve hatched? Do you think to weaken my man’s defenses?”
“Weaken—” Meghan stopped. She tried again. “Weaken his defenses. August, do you even know Lord Greyhold?”
