She dropped to her haunches beside Cam. “Can you walk?” she asked, hating the frightened waver in her voice.
He nodded, his jaw clenched tight. His eyes closed.
Looping her arm under him, she let his rest across her shoulder. Struggled to her feet, bent under his weight. “Don’t you die on me, Cameron Sinclair.”
For a split second, mischief sparkled in his pale face. “I’d have thought you’d be glad to see me go to the devil.”
Afraid to admit the fear that weighted her stomach like lead, Morgan sniffed. “Oh no. If anyone sends you to hell, it gets to be me.”
A strangled laugh was his only answer.
Cam hissed as Morgan peeled off his blood-soaked shirt, exposing the jagged, torn flesh left by the villain’s knife.
He felt a complete fool. What the hell had he been thinking charging into that brawl like some green recruit? Acting the reckless swashbuckler when the situation called for the stealth of the assassin?
He glanced up at Morgan, rummaging through her bag, her back to him. There stood his reason. He’d seen her surrounded, and every instinct had flown. This wasn’t a clinical kill. Not a planned execution. This was Morgan. And all his effort had been to get between her and them. Not the smartest of ideas, as it turned out.
“An inch or two lower and you’d have bled to death in that alley,” was her grateful comment.
“Sorry to have disappointed,” he replied, taking the cloth she handed him. Gritting his teeth as he pressed it against the gash to stanch the blood.
His whole shoulder throbbed where the knife had bounced off his collarbone. Nausea rolled his belly, and the room wavered like water on glass. He bit his lip, refusing to pass out. Morgan would never let him hear the end of it. She was bad enough now. After the momentary truce when she thought he’d been dying—and wasn’t that interesting?—she’d returned to being surly as a badger.
“The next time I rescue you,” he said, “I’ll try to get it right.”
She threw up her head at that remark, a dangerous flash in her eyes. “You rescue me? If you hadn’t come blundering in like a drunken bull in a china shop, I’d have been away without a memory to mark my passing. I had the situation under control. It was only your meddling that nearly got us killed.”
His startled reaction sent a spasm of pain from his shoulder down his right side. Threw pinwheels of light across his field of vision. “And how did you expect to get away from a gang of cutthroats? Turn them into toads?”
She’d discarded her skirt. She stood now, hands on hips, in leather breeks. Tall boots. Her hair bundled into a loose braid. He’d be appalled—or excited—at her appearance if he didn’t hurt so damned much.
“I’ve told you before, Cam. I’m not some simpering miss who can’t break a nail without fainting. And you should be glad of my strength. You’d be dead otherwise.”
“So you’re saying you rescued me?”
The flash in her eyes had become a red-hot boil. She looked ready to explode. “You deserved to get hurt. Mayhap it’ll knock some sense into you. Look at yourself. You’re worthless to this investigation like this.”
The accusations slammed into him like bullets. And hurt all the worse because she was right. He drank too much. Slept too little. Had done so for months. Drinking had been the easiest way to forget how much he’d lost.
At least it had been.
Until tonight.
Tonight had marked his ultimate low. A dingy alley. A whore on her knees. With him too full of self-pity to care.
He tried meeting Morgan’s scowl, but couldn’t hold it. It was as if she knew his thoughts. And despised him for them. It was just as well he’d kept his mouth shut in the taproom earlier. He could just imagine the scorn she’d have heaped on him for that moment of sentimentality.
Her point made, she spun away to rummage in her bags.
Resentment mingled with his pain. Why did he care what Morgan Bligh thought of him? She was everything he hated in a woman. Brash. Willful. Pushy. Arrogant.
And worst of all—right.
He watched her with growing anger as she worked. Grabbing up a leather drawstring bag from her traveling case. Pouring out a small amount of red powder into a cup. Adding water from the basin on the washstand. Every action abrupt. Meant to show her displeasure and her scorn.
Well, fuck that. It was her fault. She shouldn’t have wandered off alone. If she’d stayed put like he’d told her, he wouldn’t have had to chase after her. Wouldn’t have had to take on an entire damned gang of thieves to save her skin. It was her fault. Not his. And he’d be damned if he’d play the chastened schoolboy for her.
Rescued? By Morgan? Not bloody likely.
“Here. Drink this.” She shoved the cup of thick, viscous liquid at him.
He wrinkled his nose. “What is it?”
“Trust me. You don’t want to know.” She tipped it up, making him swallow. “But it will speed the healing charm.”
He gagged, his fragile stomach revolting at the smoky-chalky-pepper taste of whatever she’d just forced down his throat. It was worse than Brodie’s hair-of-the-dog elixir, and that was saying something.
“Lie back. This may hurt before it’s over. Now, let me see the wound.” She pushed his hand away. Moved aside his necklace chain. As her fingers brushed the cross, she jumped, her eyes widening in surprise.
“What’s wrong?”
She pursed her lips, her eyes staring beyond him for a moment, and then she was back. “Hmm? What? It was nothing. Just a…” She fumbled, obviously troubled. “I thought I saw…It was nothing.” She frowned. Once more all business.
He shivered. When had the room grown so cold? And when had the lights gone so dim?
She examined the stab wound. Smelled it. Ran her fingers around the flesh where the knife had penetrated before striking bone.
Clenching the blood-soaked rag in his hand, he fought the sudden urge to vomit. “A surgeon too?”
She shot him a long-suffering look. “I have a little healing ability. Enough to do what needs to be done.”
He waited for the scathing words to follow, but she’d passed through fury and come out cold and contained. He wasn’t sure he liked this version better.
He let himself relax under her slow, steady scrutiny. In fact, it was hard not to. Lethargy weighted his limbs. His chill was gone. Replaced by a warmth spreading outward from his shoulder. Penetrating through his system. He closed his eyes, letting the pain recede into the background. Whatever she’d given him to drink was potent stuff.
“Airmid gwithyas a’n fenten. Ev sawya. Dian Cecht medhyk a’n spryon. Ev sawya.”
“What did you say?” His words came out slurred and thready.
“Shhhh.” Her voice was low and soft and captured the memory of past times. Lost moments. His body reacted with ridiculous ease, his groin tightening in instant arousal. If he weren’t floating in a drug-induced haze, he’d have been embarrassed as hell.
A sultry-sexy laugh met his ears. “You must not be hurt as badly as I thought.”
He tried grabbing her wrist. Pulling her down next to him. She smelled so good. And he’d missed her so much. If only she’d waited for him to explain. If only he’d been able to. But she’d run. And he’d let her go. And the chance for the two of them had slipped away—if it had ever been.
She yanked her arm away. “Lie still. I told you this might hurt before it’s over. And you may feel sick and dizzy after. It takes some people that way.”
The warmth increased. Grew hot. Intensified into a cauterizing burn that started deep in the injured tissue and muscle. He grimaced. Bit his lip. Groaned. Chills and fever swamped him simultaneously. The burning became unbearable as if she held an open flame to his skin. He refused to cry out, but his back arched off the bed. His nails dug into his palms.
She held him down. Kneeled across his thighs to keep him steady. And still the words kept going. “Leuvyow. Hwythow.” A drone that went on and on, sh
ooting slashes of agony into him at every syllable. “Goes. Keher.” Far worse than the pain of the actual stabbing. “Ev sawya.”
And then it ended.
His limbs trembled as if palsied. His breathing came rapid and shallow.
She rose, shoving her hair off her face with the back of her arm. Walked to the basin to pour him a second cup of water. This time with no added hallucinogens. “Drink it all. And then sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
A few drops made it past his lips before exhaustion overcame him. His last dismal thought—she was right. He’d failed.
Chapter 7
Cam slept. His wounded shoulder still swathed in the bandages of last night; the arm held protectively across his chest. His other arm he’d flung over his face against the morning sun.
He’d thrown off the covers, exposing his lean, muscled torso. His long, powerful legs. But like his face, months of drink and self-destruction had left their mark. Had he cared for his wife so much that her death had wrought such a change? Or did something more account for his devastating free fall?
She should turn away. Just walk out. Instead, she knelt beside him, feeling his forehead. Checking the bandage. Naught but a pink, angry scar to mark the passing of the villain’s blade. And even that would fade in time. Like the others.
She’d seen the scars the first time they’d lain together. A long puckered weal of raised tissue marking his upper back. Another ugly slash scoring his upper thigh. Mementos of the war, he’d told her. No spinning of a heroic battle story. No recounting of miraculous derring-do meant to impress. He’d shrugged them off. Dismissed them. And so had she.
Until today.
Around his neck hung a cross upon a chain. Simple. Well worn. But a recent acquisition. He’d not had it when they’d lain together last winter. She’d have remembered. Would have felt its power. And power, it had. She’d barely touched it last night and the images had burst in her head like fireworks. It would take little on her part to see what memories lay stored within the shards of jet. What else Cam had hidden from her their few short weeks together.
She cupped the cross in the palm of her hand, the thin gold chain draped across her fingers. Closing her eyes, she let the rippling power of the scrying deepen. Take hold of her. Show her what she might see.
Mage energy sparked up her arm. Stung her neck. Set her scalp tingling.
As if drawn up through deep waters, objects swam into view. Dim and murky at first, the scene emerged, gilded with a hazy afterglow. Emotional echoes. Distorted reflections of the past.
A sea or a lake, so clear it mirrored the sky and the snowcapped mountains ringing it to the north and east. She was Cam. Seeing the moment through his eyes. The sleek perfection of a racing yacht’s tiller beneath his hand as it cut through the water.
A boy of ten or eleven scurried with lines and sails while a young girl sat tucked in an enormous waterproof, her hand outstretched to catch the spray off the creaming waves, licking the water from her fingers. Hugh. Euna. Their names fell into Morgan’s mind as if they’d always been there.
The wind kicked round, sending the boat heeling on its side, the shoreline whipping past in a blur of green and brown and gray. Hugh laughed, pointing skyward as they raced a V of geese.
Cam threw his head back. Shouted into the wind. He was alive and in his element. The freedom from books and tutors and school and authority made his heart leap in his chest. Any minute he might soar skyward to join the birds.
Father and Mother were coming home today. They’d have one whole week together before Cam had to leave. Before he was forced to return to the civilizing influence of the south.
Hugh frowned. Gestured at the growing swells. The darkening skies. A storm approached, drawn like a curtain across the body of the loch.
Needles of rain stung Cam’s face. Slicked his hands, making his grip on the tiller unsure. The sailboat wasn’t made for this weather. It tossed and pitched as he fought for control, urging it back to shore. He squinted, looking for lights from the house. Tried to judge his distance. Gauge the crosswinds. He gripped his cross—whispered a quick prayer to the god of his faith. Another softer one to the Good Folk like Gran-da always did.
Tears and water slid down Euna’s face, her terror palpable. Yet she did as ordered. Scrambled across the deck to catch a runaway line. Caught and tied down a lashing sail.
Uncle Josh would kill him for taking his new yacht out. Probably a week of pottage and eels for punishment. Made his stomach turn just thinking about it.
The wind screamed through the rigging, pushing them farther away from shore, as whitecaps crested over the gunwales. Broke in rivers across the deck. Hugh slipped and fell, coming up hard against the railing, saved from washing overboard by a hairsbreadth.
Fear knotted Cam’s insides, but he refused to let it take him over. It had been his idea to launch the boat without permission. He would see them safe.
“When did you get back?” The tired voice tore through Morgan.
As if she’d been pulled into the water beneath the boat, she felt herself falling. Sucked back into the present. The vision no more than a raging headache.
“What are you doing?” Cam’s hand closed over hers. Eased the cross from her grip, the chain sliding free. “Morgan?”
She hid her purpose behind a bland smile. “How’s the arm?”
“It’s—”
“Here.” She took him by the elbow…
“Wait!”
…shook his arm up and down.
Pulling free, Cam grimaced as he massaged his shoulder. “Could you give me some warning before you torture me?”
She tossed him a wicked smile. “You’re fine. Naught but a scar.”
At his look of disbelief, she laughed. “See for yourself.” She unwound the bandage. Dropped it on the floor.
Cam’s eyes rounded at the ugly, pink weal. “Incredible.”
“Not really. You’ll still be sore for a few weeks. I’m not an expert at healing. My gifts don’t run that way, and it’s hard to perfect a talent that doesn’t come naturally.”
He shoved himself higher on his pillows. Ran a hand through sleep-tousled hair, the barest hint of a smile in his eyes. “I thought you just wiggled your nose or crossed your arms and nodded your head. I’d no idea magic was so complicated.”
She’d grown up with brothers so she recognized a barbed comment when she heard one. Cam teased, but this time not in a mean way. More to see what he could get away with. Even so, it caught her off guard. Cam was supposed to remain taciturn and unpleasant. Not charming. Or amusing.
Not in a way that might make her start to like him.
Unsure of how to respond, she let his remark slide. “We, Other, keep to ourselves. Most of us hide our abilities and our Fey heritage. Or use it in a way that the mortal world would never suspect the truth. Like a dark family secret. The mad aunt in the attic no one talks about.”
“And your family?”
A shallow grief passed over her heart. “In our case the mad aunt actually lived in a comfortable set of apartments. But that’s another story.”
“I meant how do they handle their…Fey-ness?”
She’d forgotten he’d met her family once. In the spring. He’d been investigating the fifth death at a tomb near Lands End. And she’d been horrified by his invasion into what she’d always thought of as a sanctuary. The one place she could truly let her hair down. With his unexpected appearance, the world of Other and mortal collided head-on in one bloody awful mess.
It had collided again in General Pendergast’s office, but at least she’d had some warning. Time to prepare against the pain of seeing him again.
Or so she’d thought.
She shrugged. “My family’s a bit of both. My brother Ruan’s always hated his Fey blood.”
She paused, unable to tell whether Cam was really interested or whether he was just being polite. He’d never asked about her past before. As if their lives before
meeting hadn’t mattered once they’d found each other. Or—the more cynical side chided—as if he’d never meant for it to last long enough to bother.
Still, he asked now. That counted for something.
“And your other brother?” he pressed.
She shot him a look, but saw nothing but open curiosity in his question. “He’s more like my grandmother. Jamys studied to become a physician, but left university before finishing. Now he tends to the health of the tenants and the villagers and those who’ve heard of his luck with even the most stubborn illnesses.”
Cam shifted his shoulder. “No doubt.”
She twisted the wolf-head ring—her family’s emblem—on her finger, the citrine eyes of the beast winking up at her. Ridiculous, but she missed them. She’d fought her whole life to get away from her family’s overwhelming, in-your-business closeness, and now when she’d finally won her independence, she wished she could curl up with Gram for a long heart-to-heart. Trade good-natured insults with Ruan and Jamys. Or fling her arms around her father and bury her face into the warm, pipe smell of his jacket.
And it wasn’t just her family she ached for. She missed rambling Daggerfell’s woods. Watching the ships pass east through the Channel. Rounding the last turn of the drive to have the rambling old house appear out of the trees as if conjured there, its lamplit windows beckoning her home.
“What about you?” she ventured, heading off a surprising wave of homesickness.
He went still, his eyes trained on some distant past. “My aunt and uncle had the raising of us after our parents died. They’d no children of their own, you see. As the oldest, I was supposed to follow into the family business. Marry the woman they’d picked for me. Raise a passel of little Sinclairs. Grow fat and respectable.”
“I take it you didn’t exactly fall in with the family plan.” She could sympathize. She’d bucked tradition as well. First, by spending more time tagging after her brothers and cousins than attending to the proper pursuits of a young woman of quality. Later, when she’d made it known she wished to journey to Skye rather than London for the Season they’d planned for her.
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