She tilted her face to his. Fell into the gleaming flicker of his firelit eyes. She’d take what she could while she could. Tomorrow she’d gather up the mantles of duty and responsibility. But not tonight. Tonight she would revel in her wickedness. Drown in the intoxicating, sinful pleasure.
He found the hem of her shift, gathered it to her thighs, slid it over her hips and then up over her head. She lay naked beneath him, excitement shivering through her. Settling deep in her center until she was ready for anything he offered.
His mouth found her breasts. Tongued and sucked the ripe flesh until she moaned. Flames devoured her. A spark touched off by his mouth and the rough stubble of his jaw until it grew to a desperate blaze.
He dropped lower, his teeth skimming her stomach, her thighs. Grazing her sensitive flesh. Setting her stomach tumbling. He pushed her legs wide, dipping to tease the soft folds there, lapping the hot, wet center of her. She moaned, arching into him. Wanting him to end the sweet torture.
He chuckled, lifting his head. Filling her with his fingers. Pushing deep into her before withdrawing. Filling her again and again until she bucked against the spasms that spiraled through her. But he refused to give in, toying with her, holding her captive beneath him as he brought her ever closer to the edge. Sliding out of her, he allowed her space to gather her thoughts. Rolled her up and on top. Let her straddle him, the erect bulge of his cock nestled between her legs.
It was her turn to taste his masculine, sweat and sex-scented skin. To fall into his fathomless, azure blue eyes. She melted into him. Lowering herself onto his shaft. Watching his eyes blacken with need, the shudder ripple through his body as she closed around him. Already she felt the first tremors of climax twisting their way through her. Originating at the junction of their bodies. Racing through her at lightning speed.
She moved, let the slow steady friction build. Let her desire and his hunger grow and tighten like silken cords around both of them. The tempo of each thrust increased. The rhythm of their bodies growing like a rising tide until, crying out, the pleasure-pain ecstasy of joining crashed over her. Pulled her under with the same whirlpool force of a scrying.
Sex with Cam—potent as any magic.
As each successive wave dashed her under, he flipped her onto her back. Thrust into her again and again. Brutal. Angry. Staking a claim. The riptide of climax hit her fresh, and she bucked and cried out. He met her shout for shout, his whole body alive and quivering like a plucked chord.
Collapsing on top of her, his body and her body a tangle of limbs and heat and racing, pounding blood, she looked for regret. For guilt. For shame. And found only joy and a sweet satisfaction she’d not experienced since Edinburgh. All the better because this time she was Morgan. He was Cam.
No lies in bed between them.
They were alone together.
And complete.
Cam woke to darkness, but instead of a cold, empty room and a lonely bed, Morgan lay sprawled beside him, one hand thrown across his chest, her breath tickling his neck.
He pulled her close, resting his chin on top of her head. Savored the solid weight of her against him. No softness here. She had the lean muscles of a warrior. The curves of a courtesan.
Tracing her breasts, he felt himself go hard. He couldn’t get enough of her. Like with an addict, giving in only made the yearning that much greater.
She chuckled, her hand capturing him beneath the covers. Making every sense come to painful life. “Already?”
“Mmmm,” he grunted. “I’m like a starving man. Not sure when or if I’ll feast again.”
Her hand slid the length of him. The cool deftness of her fingers a little too sure. A little too tempting. She rested her head on one elbow. Looked down into his face.
In the purple, predawn shadows, her eyes glowed smoky bronze. Almost feral in the way they pinned him in place. Picked out every hidden thought.
With movements as fluid as a cat’s, she rolled herself on top of him, took him deep inside her.
He gasped, letting her control what came next.
She straddled him. Relaxed. Smiling. Infuriatingly unmoving. Closing her eyes, she withdrew until he wanted to scream in frustration, then slid home again, letting him fill every inch of her. Her neck muscles taut, her face delicious in its rapture.
He lay still while she rode him, caressing the long beauty of her torso, adjusting to this new and passionate Morgan. Then just like that, her inner muscles spasmed around him as she clutched his shoulders, dug her nails into his skin.
He came, exploding inside her, the mind-blowing crash of sensations like being struck by lightning.
He reached up, pushing the heavy braid back over her shoulder. How had he found someone so utterly perfect? And how had he managed to bungle it so incredibly? He wouldn’t look too hard. With the sun, his dream lover would vanish. He knew it. And he’d live with it. He had to.
Chapter 17
Using the honed skills of the hunter, Morgan slid into the house through the kitchen, snagging a biscuit from a tray on the worktable, Susan none the wiser as she banged her way through breakfast preparations. It was easier than facing the pointed looks and unspoken questions that marked every interaction with the housekeeper.
After last night, she probably didn’t need to ask. Every answer was clear on Morgan’s guilty face.
Crossing into the front rooms, she shook out her hair, drops curling cold and shivery down her neck. Wished for the hundredth time she’d not lost her treasured boat cloak in the fire.
Even though Morgan had awoken before dawn, Cam had been up before her, his side of the bed empty. Hoping to escape unnoticed, she’d crept from his room, down the stairs, and out into the cool, enveloping fog and rain.
Despite the gray, drizzly weather, she’d walked with no attention to direction or distance. Using the time to sort her scattered thoughts. To digest Cam’s revelations. To wrestle her time with him into the proper box.
A life with the Amhas-draoi? A life with Cam?
No competition.
She’d come too far. Worked too hard. She wouldn’t abandon her dream of a lifetime for one night’s passion. All right, a lot of nights of passion, but it still wasn’t enough to sway her.
Only when her stomach had begun growling and her sore muscles had grown wobbly did she turn her steps back toward the fashionable neighborhood of Cam’s town house.
The warmth of a fire drew her into the study, though she knew who’d be waiting. Avoiding Susan was one thing. Avoiding Cam was impossible. She might not like it, but she had to face him sooner or later. Get past the awkward morning-after conversation. The second such in as many weeks. How pathetic was that? All it took was Cam crooking a finger and she fell into sex with him—again.
He raised his eyes from a piece of paper. The frown marring his features relaxing into a slow, lazy smile that spelled instant trouble.
She called on every ounce of willpower to keep the mental box where Cam and sex lived locked.
“I’ve had Susan make you a pot of coffee. It’s on the sideboard,” he said, motioning toward a table by the window.
“The surest way to my heart,” she answered glibly. But she moved to pour herself a cup. Let the jolt of heat and flavor break the spell of rain-washed streets, cozy rooms, and gorgeous man.
He placed the paper on the desk. “Did your walk help?”
And she knew he understood. Everything.
“About last night, Cam…it was…I’m not sorry it happened, but…we can’t…I can’t…” She was making a complete mess of this. Awkward fast approaching humiliating.
He saved her. “If you think I’m looking for marriage or some kind of life commitment, then you weren’t listening.”
Heat flushed her cheeks, a twinge of pain at his words mixed with relief that he’d made it so easy. “I’m sorry, I know I’ve confused things, but—” she began, needing to explain herself. Needing to ease the hurt crowding the corners of his brilliant blue ga
ze.
He interrupted. Held up a hand. “Morgan, we’re good in bed. No more, no less. That’s enough for me if it’s enough for you.”
She looked around her at the culture and taste. The atmosphere of class that defined the house, the neighborhood. Hell, even Cam’s family, despite the bluster, had oozed blue-blood refinement. She didn’t have a refined bone in her body. Just ask anyone she’d grown up with. Any of the elegant mothers and their fashionable daughters who’d spurned her clumsy attempts at being one of them. Any of the young men who’d been scared away by her bold manner and frank speech. No, with the Amhas-draoi she’d found acceptance. With Cam she’d found pleasure.
She didn’t need love.
She met his gaze. Let him see the truth of her words. “It’s enough for me.”
Cam dropped his uncle’s letter on the fire. Watched the guilt-inducing words blacken and wither and turn to ash. Nothing he hadn’t heard before. He only wondered why Sir Joshua kept up the barrage of thinly veiled disappointment and disapproval. At this point, bitter disdain would be welcome. It would give him the freedom to feel something more than the slow, soul-gnawing remorse that drained him of energy.
Why didn’t Uncle Josh just write him off and move on?
Hadn’t it been spelled out for him over and over—Cam was not the respectable up-and-coming officer his uncle had dreamed of? Charlotte’s vindictive rumors coupled with the revelations of his less-than-savory war work had soured any hopes of a return to society’s bosom. Fine with him. He’d never wanted to be there in the first place. It had been Charlotte’s desire to remain in the circle of friends and family that had tied him to London and this house. He’d yearned for the pine forests and rocky crags of Scotland. The empty open sky, the silence, the freedom.
Near-death experiences had a way of focusing one’s priorities. Waking on a Tavistock dung heap feeling as if his body had been crushed organ by organ, he’d felt a plan taking shape.
He’d find this damned sword. Kill the whoreson Doran.
Then disappear.
Back to Scotland. To Caithness. To Strathconon and the holding he’d inherited from his grandfather. A dot on the map. A place where he could breathe. Finally be Cam Sinclair. Not a dutiful colonel. Not a respectful nephew. Definitely not a cold-blooded assassin. Just a man.
He’d once dreamed of taking Morgan to the cottage. Showing her the place where he’d been happiest and most comfortable.
That part of the dream wouldn’t happen now. But the rest of it?
He couldn’t wait.
“Ah, the new bridegroom. I hear congratulations are in order.”
Cam didn’t exactly jump—Morgan had warned him that MacKay promised to return—but his heart did leap in his chest. He’d been too bound up with his own thoughts. Hadn’t heard Brodie’s approach until the deep voice rumbled behind him.
“Go to hell. You know damn well I’m not married.” Cam’s words came sharper than intended, Morgan’s easy dismissal of him still rankling.
Brodie held up a hand. “Easy, old man. A little touchy, aren’t ye?” He dropped into a chair, stretching his long legs out to the fire. “What’s the story? Miss Bligh wasn’t very forthcoming after the initial bombshell. She’s your redhead, isn’t she?”
Cam wished once more for the serenity of that distant farm. How had he ever thought he’d be able to hide here? Why not just put an advertisement in the paper?
Doran, we’re here. Come and get us.
“You want the truth?”
“Talk about a teaser. Of course. Tell me everything.”
Cam gave a grim smile. He’d hit Brodie with the truth. See what he did with it. How quick he ran. “Very well. Morgan’s a sorceress. What’s known as an Other. A real blood-and-bone witch. We’re searching for a sword stolen from the Fey that can impart immortality to any poor bastard skewered with it. We’ve tracked the thief to London. To the area around the London Docks. I’m getting ready to head down there now. Scout around and see what I can discover.”
Brodie glanced over at the desk and the pistol there. The open cartridge box. The powder bag. Then back to the knife at Cam’s waist. His face dropped into stern lines. The responsibility-challenged scoundrel becoming the hard-bitten soldier. “When do we leave?”
He should have known. With Brodie it had always been that easy. The tension tightening his skull, twisting down his neck to clamp viselike on his shoulders relaxed. “You haven’t told me I’m crazy.”
“Ye haven’t told me anything I can’t get my head around yet.”
“You believe me?”
“Ye weren’t the only one raised on your gran-da’s stories. And I never said anything, but once…” He waved it away. “Well, never mind, it’s not important, but aye, I believe ye. It certainly makes more sense than ye marrying again. That was the tale that had me thinking you’d lost your mind.”
Cam gave a gallows laugh. “No worries of a marriage with Morgan. She only wants me for my body.”
Brodie’s brows shot up. “Some men have all the luck.”
Luck? Was that what it was? Knowing that no matter how he touched Morgan’s body, he’d never reach her soul?
It felt more like one enormous cosmic fist to the jaw.
The man struggled against his bonds. They all did in the end. Definitely an example of being careful what you asked for.
Lester had agreed to join Doran months ago, lured by the prospect of invincibility. Power. A chance to live forever. Now he fought, screaming and crying, snot running down his nose, blubbering tearful pleas for mercy.
This was a mercy.
Doran had seen the wrenching violence of war. Had known the blood-searing agony and pain of battle. Both as soldier and as one left behind to bury his dead. He wasn’t sure which was worse. But either way, Sergeant Lester would be spared that grief. He’d become a child of the sword. A creature of unnatural speed, unnatural strength. And unkillable.
A perfect soldier. A perfect weapon.
The man sank back upon himself, his face gone gray, mouthing inane prayers to some long-ignored childhood god.
Doran snorted his contempt. “You’ll secure no help from that quarter, friend. Any deity listening is more likely to kill us both and leave the sorting to the devils.”
Ignoring the animal moans from Lester, he turned his mind inward, forming a picture in his mind of the haze of magic that hung like fog over the city. Though instead of the putrid green funk that burned the lungs and stung the eyes, this fog remained pearly silver, sparkled like diamonds shot through with gold and green, crimson and deepest amethyst. So many Other living within London’s limits. So much concentrated power. None would notice should he draw on such a deep well.
Gathering the power to him as if he inhaled a deep breath before plunging beneath cold waters, the mage energy settled over him. Sank beneath his skin, his muscles, his tissues. It drifted into his bloodstream, burning its way through his body. He felt it as a white-hot wire pulled inch by inch through each individual vein. He cried out, his eyes widening at the pain, the excruciating slow stab of heat.
Unsheathing the goddess blade, he gripped the worn pommel. Focused on the ridges where others had pressed their own fingers before him. Used it to keep his grip on sanity. This had to be the way. Surely this time Neuvarvaan would reveal its darkest secret. The sword recognized its name. Came alive in his hand, a living article of Morkoth hatred and corruption.
Voices called to him. Instructed him in the ways of Undying, even as others contradicted. Jeered. Taunted. Then offered their own secrets. Which voice to heed? Which words were real and which were meant to confuse? With no way to know, Doran chose the loudest voice. And plunged the blade hilt deep through Lester’s heart.
The man let out a high, girlish scream that went on and on. Drowned away the voices. Echoed through Doran’s head, the room. Hell, the whole city heard the keening as Lester sank against his bonds, his body caving in on itself, dark hair going instantly gray. Fin
gers shriveling into arthritic knobs, muscle wasting from his body.
Doran swung the sword again, this time severing the ropes. Lester fell to the floor, death already bluing his lips, glazing his eyes.
Morkoth laughter filled Doran’s head, the black chorus of a million demons.
He’d listened to the wrong voice. And failed again.
Morgan slammed into the study, shock vivid in her pale face, her eyes flashing between Cam and Brodie.
Cam’s gut kicked into his throat. “What?”
She slid to a stop. Hesitated in the presence of the captain.
Cam sensed her reluctance. “It’s all right. Brodie knows.”
She threw the captain a wide-eyed look of surprise, but nodded. “I felt Neuvarvaan. I know it was the goddess blade. Doran’s used it again.”
Ignoring Brodie and the questions he sensed his best friend longed to ask, he took Morgan by the arms. Her eyes shone pale yellow in a face flushed with worry.
“Calm down. What did you feel? How do you know it was Doran? You said you couldn’t pick out any one source of magic among so many.”
She took a shaky breath. But when she spoke again, her words came clear and sharp. “I didn’t think I could. But the pressure of the city’s Other increased. Like the smash of a wave against the inside of my skull. Or the scream of a million people all at once. Every Other drawing on his powers at the same instant. Even I felt a tug, right here.” She put a hand just under her ribs. “Doran’s using us. He’s harnessing our powers to focus his own. That’s why he came to London. Not just to hide, but because the population of Other is better than any standing stone. We’re a living source of mage energy.”
It made sense. In a senseless sort of way. And that surprised him most of all. “Could you pick out Doran? Could you track him if you tried?”
“Not with certainty. But I can try to trace the mage energy back to its source. Like tracking the ripples in a pond back to the dropped stone.”
With defiance burning in her clear gold gaze, the sexy-sultry, hot-blooded lover of his morning morphed into the cold, determined warrior-queen. No attempts to shock him. No in-the-face challenges to gauge his reaction. Her transformation was seamless and complete and just about the most erotic thing he’d ever witnessed. His groin tightened in instant arousal.
Dangerous As Sin Page 15