“Time is a gift we do not have, Colonel Sinclair.” The soft pad of her boots was almost silent as she moved into his line of sight. “The general and I have consulted. We’ve decided the moment has come to join forces before Neuvarvaan is used again.”
He braced his hands upon the arms of his chair. Tired of being played for a fool. “And who are you? What forces could you possibly bring to this? Some kind of ladies’ aid society? A bevy of matrons armed with teacups and chicken skin fans?”
“Sinclair!” Pendergast barked.
Eddis smirked, the scarred side of his face twisting his smile into a grotesque mask.
“General.” The woman spoke over him. Still frustratingly calm. Unfazed. “It is all right. He is Duinedon—mortal. He does not understand.” Then her gaze swung to him, and if he hadn’t been sitting, his knees would have buckled at the weight and power in her limitless black eyes. I know you hear me. And I know in your heart you see the truth of my words. The men of Caithness have long been friends of the Fey.
Cam almost bolted out of his chair. It was her voice. But in his head. He looked wildly from the general to Eddis. Neither one seemed the least bit concerned. Couldn’t they hear her? Or was she poking into his brain alone. This can’t be happening. I’m losing my mind.
No, not your mind. But you do walk a razor-thin path that will lead you further into darkness do you not turn aside.
Had this woman been talking to his aunt and uncle? He’d had enough carping from them to last a lifetime. Sober up, boy. Look at yourself. Remember your name. Your position.
His gaze narrowed, anger making him face her without flinching. Don’t talk to me of things you know nothing about.
She is dead, Sinclair. And the war is over. You can begin again. Or is that what you fear?
This was crazy. He tried ignoring the voice, but it was insistent. He’d swear it was a drunken hallucination except he was stone-cold sober. Unfortunately.
He shook his head, trying to clear the snaky feeling of having her there. Seeing things he’d hidden from everyone. But fighting it only made his temples throb. A sharp pain lanced the space behind his eyes.
“Scathach, why don’t you tell the lack-wit what’s going on?” The general’s voice when it came—overloud after the soft vibration of the mind-speech Cam had been focused on—startled him back to the present. “He mayn’t believe, but he’ll sit for it”—he shot Cam a warning glance—“if I have to bind him to his chair.”
Shaken and still refusing to acknowledge the woman’s power, Cam decided to humor the general. The man had suffered enough in the last few months. Not one but two sons killed in Belgium. Another lost in the early days of the war. It was no wonder he’d cracked.
Mayhap Cam had cracked as well. He’d been riding close to the edge for months now, he’d not be surprised if he’d started to hear voices.
The woman—Scathach the general called her—closed her eyes as if summoning patience before she spoke. “Have you heard of the Other, a race of mortals bearing Fey and human traits?”
“My grandfather told me stories.”
Your seanair knew the old ways. It is not his fault he could not make you accept them as true. Times have changed. And the mortal world has moved beyond us. And we have let them.
There she was again. This time, he gave in. Let the words wash over him. It didn’t hurt so much that way.
“They are more than stories,” she said aloud. “The Order of Amhas-draoi is home to many of these. Men and women trained in weapons and magic. Bound to protect both realms; Fey and Duinedon.”
“Does anyone else realize how insane this sounds?” He looked around for support.
“You would not be the first to deny our existence. But belief will make your task easier.”
“And what is my task? Dragon slaying? Virgin rescuing? Mayhap pulling a sword from a stone?” Cam looked from Pendergast to Eddis waiting for them to laugh and begin the real meeting. But both men were grim-faced. Not a chuckle between them.
She ignored his mocking tone. “You know of Neuvarvaan, the great sword belonging to the warrior-goddess Andraste.”
Cam shrugged. “I know the legend. The sword’s touch gives immortality.”
“The tale has been twisted like so much of our history. It requires more than a touch to gain the gift of undying. Neuvarvaan must deliver the ending stroke. The wound that kills. And it must be done in accordance with the laws of the Fey. But ’tis not just undying the sword bestows, but great strength. Agility. Speed. All skills a soldier would covet. Any army would long for.”
“You’re telling me the soldiers were killed with this sword?”
“Aye. Someone wields it. Someone who knows the truth of its power but does not fully understand how to harness it. These deaths were his attempts at mastering the weapon. Experiments, to put it crudely.”
“It’s Fey legend,” Cam argued. “A faery story.” He stood up. Enough was enough. “If this is your way of showing your displeasure at my work, General, I’ve got it.”
“General Pendergast,” the woman snapped. Her first hint of annoyance. Her first hint of any emotion, for that matter, “you told me this man would do what we asked. No questions.”
“He questions everything. But he knows his duty. And he’ll do what the army asks of him. For king and country.”
Sinclair felt the sting of the general’s reprimand even through his anger.
For king and country.
Words he’d lived by for over fifteen years. Words he’d clung to for the last seven when everything else had gone to hell.
Eddis stepped up, his expression as infuriatingly pompous as his voice. “Sir, may I—”
The door opened. “I apologize for being late. They didn’t want to show me up here at first.”
Cam knew that voice. He spun in his chair, the wind kicked out of him.
Great. God. Damn. It was her.
Miss Morgan Fucking Bligh.
Morgan had prepared herself.
When Scathach had ordered her to London, the head of the Amhas-draoi warned Morgan who awaited her. But the sight of Cam still caught her off guard. Punched through the defenses she’d thought she’d built up over the last few months.
Her first thought was he looked like hell. Still too damned gorgeous, but definitely lacking the Adonis quality she remembered.
He was pale as if he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. Tight lines strained the corners of his mouth. Hollows shadowed his red-rimmed eyes. And he’d lost weight. Probably not noticeable to someone who didn’t know him well, but she could tell. The hard soldier’s body had softened. Lost its edge.
She was glad. Served him right. She hoped it was fatal.
That last thought checked her. Drew her up short. Gods, was she becoming one of those women? Sour? Spiteful? Angry at the world? Bitterness only sapped energy better used for more important tasks. Cam Sinclair was not important.
Not anymore.
“Forgive me for being late. The sentries stopped me downstairs. It took a bit of persuading for them to let me pass.”
“No problem, Miss Bligh,” the general said. “We were just telling Sinclair what we know to date.”
Scathach caught and held Morgan’s eye. A telling look, letting her know the Fey hadn’t revealed everything. Doran Buchanan’s treachery remained a secret known only to the Amhas-draoi. Morgan meant to keep it that way.
She shot a quick glance at Cam. He was trying hard to keep the surprise from his face. But she knew. His shock vibrated in the air like a plucked wire. “By the looks of him, you hadn’t gotten as far as explaining me.”
“Miss Bligh will be joining you on this assignment.” General Pendergast put up a hand, cutting off Cam’s sputtered outrage. “I know it’s unusual. But the Amhas-draoi don’t work under the same restrictions as the British Army. And I’ve seen firsthand what they can do. As an Other and as an Amhas-draoi, Miss Bligh is well up to the task.”
Morgan straightened
. She’d better be. She’d been training for this moment since she was eighteen and realized she’d rather be wielding a sword than a needle. And she was a damn sight better with the sword.
“Amhas-draoi? Sir, please. No disrespect intended, but, sir, she’s a female. And she and I…we…” Cam’s confusion would have been funny if it hadn’t been at her expense. She almost felt sorry for him. “We’ve met before.”
“Good,” Pendergast said. “That will make introductions unnecessary.”
“How can she possibly help? And how will we travel? She’s unmarried. She’d be ruined within a day of being with me unchaperoned.”
What a bloody hypocrite. He certainly hadn’t been concerned over her reputation last winter. “You worry about your own skin, Colonel,” she snapped. “I can take care of myself.”
Pendergast rubbed the side of his nose. Adjusted his spectacles. “But that does bring up a problem. Despite the freedoms women enjoy among the Amhas-draoi, normal society does not look kindly on single young females gallivanting alone across the country. Major Eddis has solved this problem in a simple, if unorthodox, fashion.”
The major stepped forward. Morgan had barely noticed him up to now. She’d been so busy not noticing Cam.
“It’s easy enough,” Eddis explained. “The two of you will travel as a couple—a married couple.” His pale, clever eyes raked her over. Made her want to give him a taste of the steel hidden by the fith-fath she’d woven around it. If the men downstairs had thought a woman entering the Horse Guards was strange, one with a scabbard strapped to her side would have really set the cat among the pigeons.
Cam shook his head. “Won’t work. Everyone knows my wife just died. I’m still officially in mourning.”
Eddis sniffed his disapproval. “Those same people also know you’re no grieving widower. They’ll simply believe you’ve hitched yourself to another in an indecent span of time.”
Scathach had also explained this part of the plan to her. She hadn’t liked it any better than Cam. But she knew better than to fight it. She’d been entrusted with this mission. She’d do whatever it took. No matter how much she hated the thought of being within two counties of Cameron Sinclair.
“So it’s settled, then.” The general straightened his papers. “You’ll leave for Devonshire tomorrow.”
“Devonshire?” Cam asked.
“We got word this morning of another victim. That makes ten.”
“The list showed nine dead, sir.”
“I didn’t say this victim had died. He’s alive and hopefully will remain so until you get there. Perhaps he can give you something to go on. Anything. We need to find that sword, Colonel. We need to locate it. And return it to the Fey. And we need to do it soon. If its mysteries are solved before we find it, we could have a far larger problem on our hands.”
“Sir?”
“They aren’t called Undying for nothing.”
Chapter 3
They’d barely hit the corridor outside the general’s office before Cam grabbed Morgan’s arm. Spun her around to face him. He’d forgotten how tall she was. How her eyes could flay you with one scathing glance. “Is this some kind of joke?”
She yanked her arm away. “Do I look like I’m having fun?” She straightened the short crisp jacket she wore—a far cry from the sheer silks and bodice-hugging muslins he remembered. “I don’t like this pairing any better than you, but there’s nothing to be gained by snarling at me like a rabid animal.”
“And I’m supposed to credit you’re some kind of Amazon? Damn it, Morgan. What’s going on?”
“Scathach and Pendergast explained.”
“No. They gave me some cock-and-bull story about swords and magic and Fey and mysterious military societies who accept women as if they were the equal of men.”
“As if they were equal?” She sniffed her contempt. Motioned toward the stairs. “Come. There’s a pub across the way. We can get something to eat.” When he raised a skeptical brow, she offered him a cool smile. “Don’t get too excited. I haven’t eaten yet today. And just so you know, I’m letting you pay.”
The pub was quiet. Few customers this early in the afternoon. In the light of such normal surroundings, it was hard to believe what had just occurred. If it hadn’t been for that voice in his head he’d have discounted the whole episode. But no matter how he tried, Scathach’s words remained. Echoing into corners of his mind he’d slammed shut long ago—and for good reason.
Cam waited as Morgan ordered before he followed it up with a call for beer. The pint when it came slid into his stomach, easing the anxious tension banding his shoulders. Tightening his back. He ordered a second.
She watched him over the top of her own glass. “When did you start drinking so much?”
“Well, you’ve got the wifely nagging down already,” he grumbled.
She glared back at him. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
He put the beer down. Pushed it away, no longer thirsty. “I tried to apologize. I came to see you after Charlotte’s death to explain. You wouldn’t listen.”
She sighed. “I didn’t want your excuses, Cam. I don’t want them now. Let’s just pretend last winter never happened. Move forward.”
“Can you do that?”
“Do what?” She offered him a confused look.
“Forget last winter?”
Her brow wrinkled. “What happened last winter?”
“We…” He smiled. “Ah, very nice.”
“You see? Easy as falling off a log.”
She dug into her meal with relish when it arrived. The aroma of fried potatoes, steak, and steaming wheat bread slathered in butter made him realize how long it had been since his own breakfast, but too much had happened. Food could wait.
He rested his elbows on the table. Settled in. “All right, if that’s out of the way, you can tell me what’s going on.”
“What do you want to know?” The worst of her hunger obviously sated, she sat back. Crossed her arms matter-of-factly on her chest. All business. This Morgan was so different it was almost easy to forget what they’d shared in Scotland. Almost.
He plowed an impatient hand through his hair. “In the general’s office…while we were talking…that woman—”
“Scathach.”
“Right. She spoke to me.”
“I know. I was there.”
“No. I mean here”—he tapped his temples—“like she was in my brain. Can you do that?” God, that was a thought. Morgan plucking thoughts right out of his head. He polished off the end of his beer on that frightening image.
“No, I can’t mind-speak. Only the true Fey have that ability.”
“Then what can you do?”
She leaned forward, her whiskey-gold stare fired with hostility. “I can separate your head from your shoulders before you have time to blink. And I can track. That’s why Scathach chose me for this mission. I can track magic. What’s known as a mage chaser. It’s a gift. If they use Neuvarvaan and I’m close enough, I’ll feel it.”
He snorted. “Magic. Right.”
She offered him a thin smirk. “A nonbeliever?” She looked around. “See the two men over there in the corner? Keep your eye on the man in the blue coat. He’s going to spill his drink.”
Morgan focused her gaze on her chosen victim. Her lips moved in a silent whisper.
The man across the way raised his pint to his lips, but before he’d taken a swallow, his arm jerked. The tankard sloshed. Fell to the floor.
Cam flashed back to Morgan. “Keep watching,” she urged. “Now the man in gray is going to order fish. Wait for it.”
Again came her whispered words. Again he watched.
The man’s laughing companion waved for the barmaid. She hurried over with a towel. As she wiped up the mess, he said, “Cod if you have it. And another beer for my friend.”
Cam’s stomach rolled. It wasn’t possible. But he’d seen it with his own eyes. The evidence was piling up. Pointin
g toward a conclusion that made no sense.
Morgan laughed. “I added that last bit spur of the moment. I felt sorry for the blighter who’d lost his beer to prove my point.”
“That was your doing?” His throat was dry, his heart thudding at a strange galloping pace.
She gave him a sympathetic look. “There’s a whole world out there you know nothing about. And you don’t have to believe, Cam. I don’t blame you. As Other, I’ve lived with magic my whole life. It’s second nature. Like breathing. I forget not all mortals understand.”
“Scathach used that term—Other. My grandfather told me tales of half mortal/half Fey, but is it true? They exist?”
“You’re staring at one—rather rudely, if you must know.”
He blinked. Dropped his gaze.
“We’re not monsters, Cam. Or freaks. The Fey blood can manifest itself in any of a thousand ways. Sometimes so subtly, the talent isn’t even realized.” She grimaced. “Or in my case, it’s just who you are.”
“I thought I knew who you were.”
“You didn’t know anything about me.” She shook her head, shadows hovering at the corners of her gaze. “We were both pretending, Cam. It just caught up with us in the end.”
He clutched his empty tankard.
How right she was.
They stopped when the rain grew so heavy it was impossible to see. The toll road was a swamp of mud and debris, the rutted lane branching off toward the inn, even worse. Morgan had vague ideas of shaming Cam into pushing on through the worst of it. But even that seemed too much effort after hours of huddling in the saddle, her hands slippery on the reins, her eyes scratchy and heavy from trying to peer through the gloom.
She pulled the oilskin boat cloak tighter around her—thank you, Ruan. Her older brother had given it to her for her last birthday. An odd present, but Ruan knew her better than anyone. And cared less for convention than she did. It was just what she’d wanted.
The yard was packed. A heavy coach sat unharnessed in a corner. Gentlemen’s phaetons and curricles had been pulled willy-nilly wherever there was room, crushed against smaller gigs and even a few wagons. Ostlers hung at the stable doors, just out of the rain. Others moved up and down the aisles checking on the horses, fretful in the storm. She grimaced. Perfect. A crowded yard meant a crowded inn. She’d hoped for the luxury of her own room. Not completely out of the question, even for a married couple. But hope was fading fast.
Dangerous As Sin Page 2