“You dare speak, Greyhold?” Culross let the steel that would seal the sailor’s fate thread through his command.
The other man’s latest transgression.
The fact the other man even breathed the same air as Meghan was a crime for which a lash would be added.
When Culross trusted himself not to kill in Meghan’s presence, and in the quarters where he and she would sleep, he looked fully on Lord Kerr’s not-so-little brother.
The viscount kept his gaze just over the top of Culross’s head. This time, he knew to stay silent.
It was a lesson learned too late. The damage had already been done.
He ignored Meghan; he did not trust himself to speak, lest he lay himself bare and exposed in ways he had never been before. Not for any woman. Not for anything. Not his entire fleet of ships.
A tiny, misery-laced moan filled the quarters. “August.”
Culross whipped his attention over to Meghan. His nostrils flared. She would take umbrage on the other man’s behalf? He dared her with his gaze to speak.Look at me, he silently raged. Lift that confident, fearless head.
He craved her defense of Greyhold even more than he needed the air in his lungs. Only then could Culross turn the weight of his resentment uponher.
How dare she. How dare she make himfeel.
It was bitter, insupportable. Unforgiveable.
Oh, his contrary Meghan did not oblige, even in this. She did the next worst thing.
She crept trembling fingers around the bedpost knob—she squeezed it as she would fingers—until her knuckles whitened.
Culross sucked his nostrils in.
His bed.Now his and Meghan’s bed…and she had been in here alone with Greyhold.
Fire scorched his veins. It blistered through Culross’s chest, a conflagration of rage—laced with a cancerous jealousy that had him consumed, eating him up and leaving only insanity in its place.
This was why men did not harbor women aboard their ships. Mutinies were born of far less. It mattered naught that with no female servants about, men would be required to interact with Meghan in this space.
Culross added the worn article to his pocket and smoothed the folds of his cloak.
When he trusted himself to be composed enough to speak without committing murder—in front of Meghan—he leveled his attention on the big man.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Meghan chose then to make her voice heard—her very threadbare voice.
“August,” she said weakly. “Lord Greyhold h-has been m-most…”
Most?
Mostwhat?
Gallant?
Charming?
Devoted?
Whatever the rest her defense might be trembled into silence.
Nay. Not silence.
