“That’s why I’m late. I’ve had Traverse moved and posted a guard. The major didn’t like me commandeering his men, but mention of General Pendergast’s authority didn’t leave him a lot of choice.”
“How is he?”
“The ensign? Holding his own. He’s tough. He’s needed to be.”
Was he trying to make her feel worse? “I told you I wrote, you can’t ask more—”
“Morgan,” he interrupted. His steel-blade gaze softened. “I said thank you.” There was no attitude behind the words. He meant it. And that confused her more than anything that had gone on before.
Her stomach did that uncomfortable tumbling again. She felt as if she’d passed a test. Gained his approval. But when had Cam’s good opinion become so important? And what would he think of her when he found she’d been lying to him? Keeping secrets?
Cam’s hand rested on the table. Close enough that she could brush it if she wanted and it would look like an accident. The long, clever fingers, absent of any adornment—not even a signet ring. The faint scar across three knuckles he’d told her he got from a fishhook when he was nine.
There was strength in those hands. There had to have been to fight and survive as he had on the bloody heights around Toulouse. Salamanca. Badajoz. And dozens of other battlefields through six long years. And yet those same hands could bring her to climax with the gentlest of touches. Play her body until she cried for release.
She shifted in her seat. Wished she had something as strong in her glass as Cam’s whiskey. She needed to get a hold of herself. Cam was just using her. Like he’d done last winter. Like he’d do again in a heartbeat. But she was ready this time. On her guard.
And there was no way in this world—or any other—that Cam was going to sneak his way back into her bed—or her life. They’d find Neuvarvaan. Restore it to the Fey and go their separate ways. Period.
She snatched another look at him, but this time he caught her. And she couldn’t look away. His face held a wistful, faraway expression, but his eyes had grown dark as slate. A purpose in them lost to even her powers.
She threw herself to her feet. Left the table, Cam’s intense gaze boring into her back.
Distance, her final refuge.
Cam pushed his way to a table past a crowd of soldiers. And whores. And those who enjoyed the company of both.
The public tap of The Forlorn Hope reeked of smoke and sweat and male bravado. The tavern’s private parlors offered space for gambling. Other chambers, even more private, offered sex. Women wove their way between the tables, serving drinks. Advertising what could be had for a price. And vice here came at a premium. This was no run-down gin shop. Nor was it a posh officers-only gentlemen’s club. The owner had carried off his establishment with style, keeping his high-class guests as happy as the lowest privates. If there was information to be gathered, it would be found here.
And though Cam tried not to dwell on it, it had the added benefit of being away from Morgan. The long days of constant confrontation and endless nights spent in enforced proximity wore on his already frayed nerves. He’d even begun dreaming again. Fragments of memories he’d locked away when he’d stepped off the boat in Portsmouth. Things he’d done. Things he hadn’t. Both haunted him on occasion.
He drowned his regrets with shot after shot until he went numb. Until the hollow ache of guilt didn’t bother him anymore. He felt as if he’d tumbled into one of his nightmares. That same sense of unreality. Of impending doom. As if somewhere normal had taken a horribly wrong turn and ended up in a place where he was pretending marriage with a woman he’d slept with and lied to—and, oh, by the way, she came armed and dangerous.
He needed another drink. Or barring that—something to take his mind from the churning confusion. Get him back on solid ground. He focused on the tangible. The rational. A mysterious soldier. A missing weapon. Find one, the other, or both, and he could go home to Strathconon. Put this whole bloody awful mess behind him.
He stood, his whiskey binge making itself felt in the swaying of the room. The sudden unevenness of the floorboards. The new attractiveness of the women.
One peeled herself away from a nearby table of officers. Sauntered his way, her body brushing suggestively against him. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, her voice a gravelly whisper.
As things were shaping up, not an impossibility.
“Not interested, but I appreciate the concern,” he said, squaring his shoulders.
He squinted. Tried concentrating on one spot to keep the rest of the world from spinning. It helped. He knew if he could just make it outside, he’d feel better. Fresh air. A long walk. Both would dilute the worst of the alcohol. Always had before.
The woman followed, coiling herself against him, her body soft, her face decent, her morals nonexistent.
Without quite understanding how it had occurred, by the time they’d hit the door, he’d wrapped an arm around her waist and she’d giggled her assent, her breath hot against his neck. “Name’s Lucy. And I can make you forget she ever existed.”
He frowned. “How do you know I want to forget?”
Her lip curled in a pouty smile. “Because if you didn’t, you’d never have come with me.”
The street was dark, the sharp breeze like a slap in the face.
Lucy pulled him toward an alley running between the pub and a tall, narrow stone house. A set of stairs climbed the outside of the building to a landing and a door on the second floor. She glanced up, but instead of heading to the stairs, tugged him behind the building with anxious, greedy hands. “I’ve a room next door, but I share it with another girl. She’s using it. We’ll have to make do. But don’t worry. I’ll cut you a deal on the price.”
Pushing him back against the wall, she fumbled at his breeks.
Cam closed his eyes. Tried to forget everything that had led him to this place tonight.
His tortured memories dredged up Morgan. Not as she was now, sulky and ill-tempered, but as she’d been in Scotland. Laughing up at him, her hair spilling across her naked shoulders. Her eyes—the exact shade of his family’s malt whiskey—bright with lust and joy.
The world tilted out from under him, and he groped to find purchase on the wall. As he stumbled, the back of his head connected with the bricks. Lights burst in front of his eyes.
Lucy sidled against him, her breasts pushed up into his face, as she untucked his shirt. Her smell of stale smoke and greasy food turned his stomach. Exploded through his pathetic imaginings like black powder.
What the hell was he doing? Had he gone mad? Sunk to the point where a quick bang in an alley was necessary to keep body and soul together? “No,” he said, grabbing her arms.
She ignored him. Knelt.
“I said no.” This time louder. Stronger. “Get off me.” He yanked her to her feet, repulsed at the fear in her eyes.
She backed away, her alarm swiftly becoming anger when she realized he wasn’t going to come after her. “Where’s my money? You owe me.” Her earlier sultry murmur had risen to a fishwife screech.
Cam dug in his pocket. Tossed her the first coin that came to hand. She caught it. Dropped the half crown into her apron with a mingled look of surprise and disgust. She shook her head. “You stupid prat! You asked me out here. Remember?”
He didn’t, but that didn’t matter. He plowed a hand through his hair. Took a steadying breath. “You told me I wanted to forget. You were wrong. There are some things I want very much to remember.”
Chapter 6
Morgan had been sitting in the taproom for an hour. By now she was certain. The man at the corner table watched them.
He sat far from the fire to hide his features. And alone, although men had invited him to share in a drink or a game of draughts. He’d turned all offers down—using his untasted pint as little more than a prop. He’d already waved the barmaid aside twice.
She wasn’t certain what had alerted her first. The inn’s taproom had been ful
l and there had been nothing to distinguish him as odd. But she’d been on edge since this morning. Looking for trouble. And so she’d remained alert. Watchful. Picking up on signs and signals until she’d narrowed it down to him. It must have been the precision of his movements. The careful way he handled himself. It spoke of training. And ability. Cam had that same quality. Though in his case, it was honed to diamond perfection. Buffed to a high shine.
At least it had been.
She snuck a glance at him. Frowned. He’d been drinking again. A lot. She’d known it was bad as soon as she’d seen him come into the room. But she’d bitten her tongue this time. If he wanted to pickle his liver, so be it. So long as he didn’t get in her way while she retrieved the Fey sword. But damn it, did he have to look so god-awful miserable and vulnerable and good enough to eat all at the same time?
It plucked at a long-buried maternal part of her that wanted to smooth the lines from his face, take him in her arms, and let him know everything would be all right. Even if it wasn’t. Not a part of her she wanted to explore too closely. Or get too comfortable with. She returned to watching the man in the corner. Kept her eyes and her mind firmly off Cam Sinclair.
But in the seconds she’d been mooning, the man had disappeared. The table stood empty. She scanned the room, but there was no sign of him.
“Cam. He’s gone.”
“Probably gone out back to take a piss.”
That was a possibility, but she doubted it. He hadn’t taken more than half a dozen sips from his beer. “No. He’s gone. I’m going to follow him.”
“Morgan. Wait. I need to say something…. I…” Cam grabbed her wrist. Met her gaze. And for a moment, it was the man she remembered. The silver blue chill in his eyes like tempered steel. The determination in the chiseled angles of his face. She swallowed around the lump that sprang into her throat.
She paused. Waited.
And then he opened his mouth. “Don’t be daft. You can’t go wandering out by yourself. It’s not safe for a woman alone.” And the moment passed.
She shook him off. Pushed back her chair. “Coming?”
His hesitation told her everything. She couldn’t say she was surprised. But she was disappointed.
She didn’t wait. Grabbing her cloak, she left him behind. Stepped into the dark. And didn’t look back to see if he followed.
The streets were almost deserted. Low clouds covered the moon, and a brisk wind plucked at her cloak. Morgan slid from shadow to shadow, keeping no more than twenty paces between her and the man. He crossed through the market square, making no attempt to evade any followers. He obviously didn’t realize she’d noticed him. That was good. It was tempting to conceal herself within the invisible security of the feth-fiada, but she didn’t want to use magic if she didn’t have to. If she was dealing with Doran or one of his men, they might sense the mage energy released. Know she was on to them.
Rain began, a sprinkle at first that grew to a downpour, shielding her footsteps, but also making it hard to track her quarry. His pace quickened as he moved farther from the inn. Was he on to her? Or was he just impatient to reach his destination?
She followed him into a rabbit warren of alleys, each one more filthy, cramped, and crooked than the last. The dark buildings leaned drunkenly over the streets. A cat lurked by a stack of broken crates.
She paused. Listening. Hoping for a betraying footstep telling her which way he’d gone. A flash caught the corner of her eye. Lamplight. A torch.
Hurrying after him, she vaulted a low stone wall, ducked down a narrow lane close to the river. Dank fetid air rose from the mudflats, and she caught the scrape of a boat against a piling. Wiping the rain from her eyes, she broke into a jog, slamming to a halt at the end of an alley. A dead end. But just beyond was the river where her man was obviously making his escape. How had he arrived there?
She whipped around. Of course. She knew where she was. She’d been here before during her earlier scouting. She was behind Church Lane, the river no more than a few hundred yards beyond. High walls ran the length of the cramped passageway. Above could just be seen the roofs of sheds, outbuildings. The spire of a church. Gates studded the wall, giving access to the yards and enclosures. She dashed back up, trying every one. Rattling the latches. All locked.
“Damn.”
Reaching the gate that led into the churchyard, she pushed on it. A sharp tingle zinged up her arm as if she’d hit her funny bone. Her fingers went numb. “Magic,” she ground out through clenched teeth.
Someone knew they were on the hunt for Doran. Someone with knowledge about the traitorous Amhas-draoi and Neuvarvaan.
And he was getting away.
She put her shoulder to the gate, slammed it open in her haste to catch her target before the river carried him beyond her sight. If he put in farther downshore, she wanted to see where.
As she raced across the church grounds toward the river gate, long grass dragged at her wet skirts. A low branch whiplashed her cheek. She dodged a headstone, her breathing overloud in her ears. Surely she’d be heard.
She reached the river gate. Tried it. Locked.
“Shit.”
How had he escaped? She backtracked, but by now it was pointless. He was long gone.
“Hello, pet. Lost yer way, have ya?”
Figures melted out of the shadows. Street thugs by the coarse, half wild look about them. Unpredictable. Overconfident. “It’s not wise fer a pretty young thing to wander alone.”
She counted five or six of them, cutting off her escape. No weapons in sight, but doubtless they were hoping sheer terror would be enough to quell any fight in her. An easy mark.
She smiled. Their mistake.
“I’m safe enough,” she answered, drawing herself up. Weighing her options.
The heaviest of the group gave her a gap-toothed leer. “You’ve a sharp tongue.”
“You should feel my blade.” She flung her cloak away, revealing her dagger.
It was a game of who bluffs best. She had a weapon, but didn’t want to use it unless forced to. Dead bodies meant questions she didn’t have time to answer. A fireworks display of mage energy was equally chancy. Meant a whole different set of questions she couldn’t answer. But perhaps a more subtle show of power would be enough. Now that her target had escaped, she didn’t have to worry about giving herself away.
“I don’t want to tangle with you.” She pitched her voice to the correct key. Allowed the persuasive magic of the leveryas to infuse her words. Suggestion would become compulsion, would become an irresistible command. “Let me pass and go on about my business.”
The men hesitated. Some fought the spell, their eyes darting, their limbs twitching. Others—more pliable—simply gave up. Stepped out of her way.
She slid past, keeping up a steady stream of quiet talk, nothing to rouse them out of their stupor. Just enough to hold them within the leveryas’ grip. “I’m no threat to you. I’ll disappear. You won’t remember I was even among you.”
She’d not gone more than ten paces when one of them—stronger than the others—broke free. He straightened in lethal challenge. “What tricks are you playin’, bitch?” he growled, reaching for his weapon.
A shout drowned out her response. Someone ran toward them. “Get the hell away from her!” The dark figure materialized into Cam. He flung himself among the crowd, his sword drawn. Ready for any of them to make an impetuous move. “Go, Morgan. While you can.”
Her concentration broken, the spell dissolved. “What the blazes are you doing?” she hissed.
“Thank you is the usual response,” he snapped.
The villains stirred and regrouped. Wary but instantly on guard. Weapons appeared. Restraint vanished. One of them advanced, fisting a crude knife.
Cam, surprisingly agile despite the alcohol, parried with a twist of his blade that disarmed the attacker.
The others had hung back as if waiting to see how the feint would be met. But no longer. She had to adm
it, numbers were on their side. Six on two made odds pretty good. But then, they were assuming she was a typical female and Cam—indistinguishable out of uniform—more bravado than skill.
As the gang closed around them, training took over, and thought became instinct. It would be so easy. Just a slight draw on her gifts and she and Cam could be free and clear. No looking back. But no. Battle magic was out. Nothing to bring attention to themselves. Nothing to delay their ultimate goal. She hated it, but so it must be.
She ducked a dagger strike. Swung with a fist, connecting with her attacker’s jaw. He howled, spitting blood and a broken tooth. Spinning on her heel, she slid her dagger through another’s shoulder. Screaming and clutching his wound, he splashed back up the alley. Lost himself in the downpour.
Cam shouted for her, but she couldn’t speak. Breath clogged her throat. Her lungs burned. He was in trouble, cornered against a wall. He fought well, but there were too many.
Rage screamed through her veins. She dove amid them, her dagger a silver arc of steel that wounded when a bit more strength would kill. They wouldn’t appreciate the mercy, but it might keep her from the questions a pack of corpses would require.
Cam was down, a hand to his chest.
Oh gods. He was down.
Blood and rain soaked his shirt. His eyes stared through her, shock and pain whitening his face. He looked at the growing scarlet bib spreading across his front as if confused.
It’s not serious. It’s not serious. She kept the refrain going in her head. Forced herself to look away. Pushed the panic deep where it wouldn’t distract.
Two men remained between her and safety. Fighting to keep her voice steady, she drew once more on the leveryas. Faltered when she glanced at Cam’s slumped body. Then gathering herself together, she let the magic take hold. Used her words to calm the situation to manageable.
They retreated, their slack jaws and mesmerized gazes evidence that this time, she’d succeeded in gaining full control.
Dangerous As Sin Page 5