August.
Oh, she wanted it to be August.
August who, after seeing her settled in their quarters—as he referred to them—had reluctantly returned to the deck where—
Knock—knock.
Two knocks.
August again.
Just in case she had not heard the first.
She stared hopefully at the door.
But she also did not want it to be him.
Not when she looked like this.
Not when she felt like this.
Knock—knock—knock—knock.
Four knocks.
Lord Greyhold.
Lord Greyhold, who was a bit of a curmudgeon and rather a great deal of a pest.
Meghan made herself crawl out from under the blankets. The effort alone left her breathless. She smoothed her damp, wrinkled garments—to no avail—and stole a glance toward the mirror across the room.
Death.
She looked like death.
“E–enter,” she called weakly.
The effort cost her.
The viscount stepped inside, several deckhands trailing behind him carrying stacks of towels and pitchers of water.
Meghan managed a wan smile that held only until the pair of young lads scurried out.
Then she gagged.
Swallowing again and again, she fought desperately to keep the bile down.
Lord Greyhold crossed the cabin with startling speed.
Giving thanks for his long legs, Meghan grabbed the basin just as her stomach revolted.
She heaved the last bitter remnants into it.
Her entire body sagged afterward, strength draining from her limbs.
Surely that was the last of it.
Surely.
