Culross kept a sharp glare on the fool who’d dared lay a finger upon her. “Rest assured, madam, the quartermaster can answer for—”
Through the haze of bitter, insupportable jealousy, Culross froze.
And then Culross truly saw her.
Her face, pale as parchment, glistened with sweat. Her freckles that fascinated him stood stark against her skin. The rank scent of sickness clung to the air. The sight of her hit him like a fist to the gut. A sharp hiss sailed between Culross’s clenched teeth.
Greyhold cleared his throat. “Her Ladyship has been hit with seasickness.”
Culross glared at the other man. “Yes, I see thatnow.”
The impenetrable wall of rage and jealousy found its chink. Worry—over her. This woman who had upended his world.
“Christ, Meghan.” His throat moved uncomfortably. “You look like hell.”Worse.
Clinging to that knob, like it was the line that kept her from being dragged out to sea, Meghan lifted her head.
She gave him a tired smile. “Sir, you turn a lady’s head.”
Panic pumped his heart faster. “I am not trying to turn your head, madam.I am trying to keep you bloody alive.”
“I know, August,” Meghan said with a sigh filled with as much disappointment as the ocean was water. She lifted her fingers and waggled them his way. “Sadly, I live.”
His eyebrows shot to his hairline.
She would make jokes? Now? Looking like this? Feeling like this? His strides ate up the space he had kept between them. “Do not even jest so, madam,” he raged. With a forearm that shook, Culross folded an arm gently at her waist to guide her into the bed.
He scoured the rumpled sheets—a bed not fit for a beggar, let alone the queen who would be his wife.
Cursing, Culross swept her into his arms. Her auburn and gold curls fell like a waterfall over his shoulders. She curled so trustingly up against him, a kitten in search of warmth.
Sweat beaded his brow.
Why in hell had he sailed them to Scotland?Because her family would expect them by land. The McQuoids would have soldiers on every road. He and Meghan would never make Scotland. Culross scraped an unsteady hand through his damp hair.
That was why he had taken the longer route. The safer route.
But safer forwhom?
He pointed that rage within himself on the only suitable outlet. “At what point did you intend to tell me the lady suffered?”
Greyhold kept silent.
Damn the man’s infernal soul to hell. Culross wanted him to fight back. Wanted an excuse to smash his hand into something. To make someone else suffer, so that maybe the vengeful God of the sea would be sated and spare Meghan.
Meghan tugged at Culross’s collar. Heat blazed up from under it and hit his cheeks.
“He will not answer you,” she said.
Did her voice sound stronger? Or did he hear what he needed to?
She tapped his cheek.
His muscle jumped under her fingers.
“He will not.”
From over the slight burden in his arms, he glowered at the man who, with his silence, asked for another lash. “He will if he wants to live,” Culross gritted out.
