Culross lifted a bunched fist.
“I wish it had been you,” he whispered harshly. “But it wasn’t.”
And that could not be changed.
Meghan rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“Because then there would be no war.”
He dropped a kiss atop her mountain of curls.
“Because then there would not be a ghost between us, Meghan, and right now—”
There would be no diabolical plot that left her sister and cousin hurt and would eventually eviscerate Meghan.
He wanted to start over. Wanted to go back to a casual business conversation where—
His chest heaved.
“And right now, Meghan,” he said raggedly, “it would be only me and you and this moment.”
Culross fisted his hands and squeezed them—
A satin-soft palm covered his.
“Three times,” Meghan murmured.
He stared at her.
“You know that,” he said.
“I wondered if you knew that.”
His chest ached. To know she had seen him, and he had failed to know what he wanted most was right before him.
Culross caught Meghan’s fingers and drew her around, bringing her to face him.
“I love you.”
Her breath caught.
“I love you so damned much.”
Meghan’s breath hitched. Her eyes slid shut, but not before the light in them touched Culross all the way to his soul.
Meghan went onto her knees, turned his face, and kissed him.
Look at that. Culross had delivered her back to the clouds with nothing more than three words.
“I love you,” he repeated, his voice hoarse.
He guided her under him.
Her beautiful face gleamed from the loving he had already shown her.
Meghan searched his face.
“Why do you always look at me as though I am going somewhere?” he murmured.
