Dangerous As Sin

by Alix Rickloff

  “I’M SORRY, MORGAN”

  He lay back against the headboard. Stared up at the ceiling, an unreadable expression in his distant gaze.

  She sensed his turmoil. And his pain. And a whirling storm of confusion too tangled for her to unravel. His emotions pressed like a weight upon her chest.

  Her heart fluttered queerly just imagining that knife blade entering a few inches lower. A few inches deeper.

  “I’m getting damned tired of apologizing,” he said, breaking into the awkward silence. “Damned tired. Especially when you won’t believe me.” He swung around to face her, his eyes as angry as the storm-tossed loch. He lifted a hand as if he might caress her cheek. Pull her close.

  She swept to her feet, away from the tantalizing heat of a body she knew too well. Hands that knew her every secret place. Lips that could tease a scream from her.

  Away from a man that could love her until she shattered into a million pieces or hurt her more deeply than any other person alive.

  Dangerous As Sin

  Alix Rickloff

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  For Mom & Dad

  They always believed

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 1

  Somewhere in Wiltshire, March 1815

  He came to with a jerk as the sack was ripped from his head. Still groggy, he peered through the dark, but he may as well have been blind. He couldn’t see a damn thing. Not where he was. Not who had cracked him over the head in the alley and brought him here.

  He shifted, coming up hard against his bonds. Rope, thick and rasping, bound his wrists. Another cord lashed him at chest and ankles upright against a wall or a building. The stones bit into his back. Dug into the flesh of his thighs.

  “Ha, ha, chaps. Very funny,” he called out. “Joke’s over.” This was just like Geordie and Rolf. He’d only been late for parade once, and they hadn’t gotten into that much trouble. “Point’s made. Now untie me.”

  No one answered, but he sensed them watching.

  “I’m waiting,” he shouted. He deserved it. Fine. But enough was enough. He was stiff. The goose egg at the back of his skull hurt like hell. And it was cold without his jacket. He struggled against the rope.

  “If all goes as planned, Private, you’ll be able to tear those ropes loose yourself.”

  A voice, but not Rolf or Hughie. Not anyone he knew. For the first time, fear prickled his spine.

  A man stepped into his line of sight. Four or five companions ranged behind him. All of them dressed in regimentals, their faces hidden behind white greasepaint.

  Only the leader remained unmasked.

  He’d seen him before. He couldn’t remember where, but he’d recognize him again. He was sure of it. And when he did…

  The moon chose that moment to break through the clouds. Now he knew where he was. The Stones. Only three miles from camp. But the moon also revealed the glitter of unsheathed steel. The inhuman shine of the man’s eyes.

  “Look long and well at the Morkoth blade. Like a mother, Neuvarvaan will create you anew. You’ll become a child of the sword. An Undying.”

  What the hell? He struggled harder. But it was worse than useless. He was trussed like a pig for slaughter. “Who are you?” He hated that his voice cracked on a sob.

  “A soldier like you.” The man held his sword at his side. It seemed to glow with a cloudy gray light. “Someone who knows intimately the terrible price that comes of war. But spear point and rifle will be nothing to a new generation of warriors. All of you christened in blood by Neuvarvaan, the goddess blade.”

  Sweat poured off him. Terror soured his stomach. Closed his throat. He tasted it in the bile gagging him. Heard it in the rush of his breathing.

  “Prepare for strength unchallenged. Agility unmatched. Immortality rivaling the Fey themselves. You’ll find all these things within the blade’s cut.”

  The man brought the sword up in front of him.

  He fought. Screamed. Pleaded. This was insanity. He wasn’t about to be skewered on a hilltop not half a league from his billet. Not by soldiers of his own army. This was a dream. A drunken nightmare. A hallucination.

  The other men remained like statues, their hollowed eyes unmoved. Emotionless. Were they really going to stand there and let this madman murder him?

  Piss drenched his breeches. He swallowed over and over.

  Only the leader moved. Raised the sword high. Drew it back. “You’ll be the first among my army of heroes. Be proud.”

  And with a mighty thrust, the sword flashed forward.

  Slammed home.

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Cam stepped off the stair, everything about him gleaming. From his guinea-gold hair to the dazzling swath of braid across his uniformed chest to the champagne shine of his cavalry boots. Even the hilt of his dress sword twinkled in the lights from a thousand candles.

  Admiration prompted Morgan to catch his eye. Impudence made her hold his gaze longer than proper.

  Cam never batted an eye. A flicker of recognition, and then he moved on to be swallowed by the crowd.

  Just as if they hadn’t been in bed together only hours earlier.

  He’d gleamed then too. But then it had been the bronzed sheen of his muscled body, damp from lovemaking. The flash of white teeth as he rolled off her, laughing, before he pulled her against him. The spark of desire in his eyes as he took her once more into his arms.

  She snapped her fan up and open, flapping it in a sad attempt to cool the heat just the memory of him created.

  All around her, comments buzzed and swirled like a spriggan’s wind.

  An elderly gentleman in conversation with two older matrons. “…heard he made quite a name for himself…”

  Two giggling girls in virginal white muslin. “…dashing. Mother says he’s just home from the wars…wounded at Toulouse…a hero…”

  Three young bucks watching him with envious eyes. “…helps to have the Sinclair fortune behind you…”

  And the words that doused her flaming cheeks like a bucket of ice water spoken by an insipid, spinsterly woman amid a crowd of similar pinch-nosed females. “…scandalous…say his wife’s a prisoner while he beds a string of mistresses…”

  Wife. The word screamed in her ears. Drowned out everything else.

  Wife.

  Oh Gods, what had she done?

  For the briefest of moments, Cam’s head surfaced, and he sought her out. Gave her a conspiratorial wink. Conspiratorial as in conspiring. Plotting. Conniving. Against a wife. A woman who until this moment, Morgan hadn’t even known existed. She forced herself to smile back even though it felt like her cheeks would crack.

  “Pardon me,” she mumbled, diving back into the safety of the swarm of guests.

  They obliged, curling back around her like an inrushing wave. Anonymous among so many in the ballroom. Although in this scandal of a dress, she doubted she’
d remain anonymous for long. The fabric clung to every curve—hampering her usual ground-eating stride—and the smoky blue silk wasn’t exactly lost amid the sea of bland pastels. She’d worn it for Cam. Wanting him to see her as he thought she was. Elegant. Daring. Beautiful. But it had been just as much an illusion as his desire. His freedom.

  They’d both been pretending.

  She tore the combs from her hair as she went. Let the heavy fall mask her humiliation and her fury.

  He followed. Not far behind. But the blinding attractiveness that had dazzled her hindered him. He was caught. Held. There was conversation. Introductions. His adoring admirers would keep him busy while she made her escape.

  The terraces were quiet. The party hadn’t progressed this far yet. Flambeaus guttered and smoked. Lanterns bobbed in the trees on the lawn. But the benches were empty. The arches and summerhouse waiting.

  A sweep of the gardens revealed the paths to the park beyond. And once there, she knew her way off the grounds. Had marked the routes as she entered. The professional at work, even then.

  She rushed down the stairs. Pretended she didn’t hear Cam call out. Beg her to stop.

  There was nothing he could say that would make her feel less like a fool. It was her fault she’d fallen for the gloss and ignored the rot beneath. And it was her fault she’d dared to dream. Because, after all, he’d never promised anything. And too infatuated, she’d never asked.

  He called out once more. But by now, she’d concealed herself among the trees. Swift and silent as the wolf, she sped. The gown tore. She reached down, barely drawing breath, and ripped it farther up the side. Immediately, her stride lengthened.

  But he was still too close. And a part of her ached to turn around and let him explain.

  So she did the forbidden. She murmured the words. Felt the power shiver through her. And dropping the feth-fiada around her like a cloak, she vanished.

  Chapter 2

  Strathconon, Scotland, six months later

  “Wake up, Cam. Time to return to the land of the living.”

  A cold blast of air and a nudge at his shoulder jarred him awake. Or at least back into semiconsciousness. He rolled over. Threw up into a slops jar he’d kept handy—this wasn’t the first night hammering himself into oblivion. Wiped his mouth with the back of one sleeve.

  “Go away, Brodie,” he snarled. “Don’t you know it’s sacrilege to disturb a corpse?”

  “If it were up to me, I’d let ye sleep it off, but a messenger’s come from General Pendergast.”

  The chipper matter-of-factness of Brodie’s voice grated on Cam’s nerves.

  “You’re to be scraped off the floor, poured into your uniform, and driven to London by the end of the week. Big meeting at the Horse Guards. Very hush-hush.”

  Cam thought of heaving a boot in his direction, but his brain and body weren’t cooperating yet. Too much Sinclair whiskey. On top of too much Sinclair whiskey. On top of…well, he couldn’t remember quite that far back. But, no doubt, it had been something equally potent. “You said Pendergast?”

  The general had put in an appearance at Charlotte’s funeral. Offered his gruff condolences and immediately moved on to the subject of Napoleon’s return to France, Wellington’s strategy, and the prospect for renewed war.

  Cam could have kissed him for his lack of sympathy.

  It was bad enough he’d felt nothing at his wife’s death but relief. As if he’d been sprung from prison after a sentence of seven long years. But the weepy, emotional grief he’d been showered with only made him feel worse.

  Cam sat up, instantly regretting the impulse. His head throbbed, and his mouth tasted like vomit and alcohol.

  “Have ye been sober at all since ye got home?” Brodie pushed a glass into his face. It smelled disgusting. “I’d say it was Charlotte’s death had ye depressed, but I ken she only set ye to drinking when she was alive.”

  Cam gulped the drink down without stopping. He’d learned the hard way if you came up for air, so did everything else.

  He finished it. Threw his wobbly legs over the bed. Waited for the room to steady. “You know too much for your own good.”

  “What are friends for?” Brodie banged through the room. Throwing a clean shirt onto the bed. Fussing. It was like having a really efficient, really annoying valet. “So what has got ye searching for the bottom of every bottle ye pick up?”

  “Friends. Hmmph.” Cam yanked his soiled shirt over his head. Sniffed himself. A bath was definitely in order. “Let’s say it was a poor choice on my part.”

  Brodie finally dropped into a seat, his frenzied mother-hen behavior apparently at an end. “Was it the blonde or the brunette poor choice? Ye make a habit of them.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Oh, aye.” Brodie MacKay flashed that devilish smile that misled so many women into thinking he was a sweet young man. How wrong they were. “But it’s all right. So many of your poor choices end up being consoled by your understanding best friend.”

  Cam stood up. Brodie’s mystery elixir was doing its work. His stomach had the squashy fragility of a gelatin, but the whirling room had settled. He squinted. Now if only his eyes would focus. “She was a redhead. But you didn’t have the chance to console her. You were in London.”

  “So it is a woman that’s got ye crying in your whiskey. I thought you’d had your fill with Charlotte.”

  “I had. I have.” Just mentioning her name tightened his stomach into new spasms. As if any moment she’d come through that door. The eternal martyr. The deserted wife. She had the act perfected. What a load of shit. “Stop pestering. You think you’ll get me to spill my guts. But it won’t happen. And it doesn’t matter anyway. She’s long gone.”

  Cam stripped out of his breeks. Kicked them into a corner next to the shirt. Even in high summer, the breeze off the loch was cool. Beyond the window, it glittered icy blue and clear as glass. And breath-stealingly frigid. But that was all the better. One plunge into the water would cure the last of the whiskey fog from his brain.

  Brodie threw himself to his feet. Made for the door. “Well, the reprieve is over. So finish getting dressed and meet me downstairs. We need to be on the road by noon.”

  “Gone responsible on me?”

  Brodie looked over his shoulder and laughed. “Bite your bluidy tongue.”

  London, England

  As he shifted in his seat, Cam caught the woman watching him.

  It was an unnerving stare from an unnerving figure. Ornately dressed in a silver-girdled robe of royal blue, she was tall—well over six feet—and with the sturdy, muscled build of a wrestler. It was almost possible to forget the leather breeks peeking from the slit skirt or the long hip boots or the dagger’s hilt Cam swore he glimpsed as she sat.

  But surely he’d mistaken that.

  With the exception of a white streak, her hair was black as sin. Black as her eyes. Eyes that flicked from him to General Pendergast to the door to the general’s adjutant, Major Eddis. Never resting for more than a moment on any of them as if they were beneath her notice. As if she were running this interview and not the general.

  Cam had arrived in London before dawn this morning. Taken rooms at Stephen’s Hotel long enough to rinse off the grime of the road, change clothes, and catch a catnap of minutes before heading here to the Horse Guards. It hadn’t been nearly enough. As he waited patiently for the start of the general’s meeting, he fought the cotton-headed feeling that came with lack of sleep. Only the disturbing presence of the strange woman kept him alert and on edge.

  “We should fill the colonel in, General Pendergast,” she said, breaking into the long awkward silence. “My…representative has already been briefed.”

  Her voice was as unsettling as her stare. Deep and throaty. It seemed to echo off the walls of the office. Reverberate through his skull as if it were made of paper. After his last bender, not an impossibility.

  Pendergast cleared his throat. Shuffled his papers. “
Yes, of course.”

  Mayhap she was in charge. The general certainly jumped at the crook of her finger.

  Cam leaned forward. “I assume it has to do with the deaths I’ve been investigating.”

  “Is that what you call it, Colonel?” Major Eddis interrupted. “It’s been five months and you’ve learned nothing more than we knew after the first soldier turned up dead.”

  The taunt was obvious, but Cam refused to rise to the bait. Eddis was entitled to be a pain in the ass. The disfigured face, the empty boot—the man had paid his dues.

  The general pushed a paper across the desk toward Cam. “The latest list of victims. The last one just two weeks ago.”

  He read the names, but he already knew all nine by heart. All but for the last. Sergeant Tucker. Thirty-fourth Foot. There was nothing linking these men. No commonalities. No ties between them. Nothing but the manner of their deaths. A grim bond, for sure. But it had led him nowhere.

  “Whispers are beginning among the ranks. Rumors of an evil infecting the army. Napoleon’s curse on the soldiers who destroyed him,” the general told him.

  Cam looked up. “That’s madness. The first deaths were months before Waterloo.”

  Pendergast steepled his fingers, his eyes solemn. “You’re right. It has nothing to do with the little emperor or any outside enemy. This cancer eats us from within.”

  The woman’s gaze was upon Cam. Even without looking over his shoulder, he knew she watched him. Sized him up. Who the hell did she think she was? And for that matter, why was she here? The army hadn’t begun admitting women to the ranks, had it? God, that was a thought to make him shudder. “Sir, I just need more time.”