Meghan had long since lost count of how many times he had suggested that particular disaster.
Still sprawled on the bed, Meghan shot him a bleary glare.
“Unless you wish to be rolled into that same carpet you attempted to roll me into,” she rasped, “I suggest you reconsider.”
Wonder of wonders.
Lord Greyhold smiled.
If she were not dying, she might have joined him. The very last thing she wanted was for August to see what a pathetic excuse for a sailor she was. Linnie resurfaced.
“I trust the captain is otherwise occupied keeping this ship from sinking,” Meghan muttered.
Strangely, despite the violence of the storm and the misery twisting her insides, Meghan felt a peculiar calm knowing August commanded the vessel. A man so fully in command, so ruthless and capable, surely possessed the power to take on—and defeat—Poseidon himself.
The timbers groaned as the ship climbed another monstrous swell. The lantern on the wall swung wildly, spilling erratic shadows across the cramped cabin. The air smelled of brine, sickness, and damp wood.
Lord Greyhold anticipated her next need.
Steady despite the chaos, he exchanged one bowl for another as the ship pitched again.
Without looking, she reached for the fresh one.
Just as she had every other time…but this time, her stomach held firm.
Meghan managed her first smile. “We have gotten quite good at this, have we not?” she muttered.
Her reluctant nursemaid busied himself nearby.
Meghan could easily imagine what August might say.
We have had a great deal of practice, love.
There is fair room to improve.
Greyhold returned.
This time, however, he extended something different.
“There is no shame in being seasick.”
Her temples pounded. Her throat burned. Her eyes felt too heavy to lift.
She could not look at him—not from embarrassment anymore.
She was simply too tired.
A low groan shuddered through the hull.
Meghan tensed.
The lantern swayed harder.
Then, unexpectedly—
A cool cloth pressed gently against the back of her damp neck.
A small moan escaped her.
