Fire flashed in her eyes.
Culross slowly filled his lungs.
God, he reveled in her like this.
All fierce defiance and a spirit that refused to be contained.
“I was certainly extended that offer.”
Meghan drew back.
Her lips parted.
She found her voice.
“Then you should have taken it.”
He curved his lips into a wolf’s smile. “Who says I did not?”
Meghan recoiled.
The lady was jealous.
Interesting.
Petty bastard that he was, he relished her distress. It offset the strange madness that had struck him seeing her red-cheeked and laughing with the viscount.
The laugh Meghan would give if he told her the truth.
The moment he left his room that morning, Scarlet had found him and offered more than a shave.
In the end, he had sent the entertaining maid away.
“Ah.” Culross folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door. “You are wondering who.”
“No,” she said softly. “It was obviously the maid, Scarlet.”
“She is very taken with you,” Meghan remarked. “I did not take you for one who liked the clingy sort—”
His eyes narrowed. “Did she offend you?”
Meghan’s mouth tightened at the corners.
She gave a small shake of her head. “No.”
She lied as poorly as she feigned sleep. How convenient. He would always know how this woman thought, what she felt.
Culross sharpened his gaze further. “Say the word and I will—”
“She did not offend me, my lord.”
His scowl deepened. “Why are you ‘my lording’ me?”
“We are not friends, and I am your captive,” she said calmly, like a governess instructing a pupil. “As such, it is the only suitable form of address.” Meghan lifted her palms.
Lifted her palms? Like a goddamned, bloody maid.
“Well, I bloody despise it,” he snapped. “I instruct you to stop. I said we aren’t friends. I did not say we are nothing.”
