Cam grimaced. “Wrong woman. Wrong profession—”
Morgan’s gaze fell on the powerful muscles of his arms. The broad chest. “And nowhere near fat or respectable.”
That drew a laugh. “Uncle Josh tried to understand, but…well, let’s just say I’ve spent my life disappointing him.”
“I’m sorry.” A ridiculous response, but the only words that sprang to mind.
He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
The regret in those few words was more convincing than any long-winded rant. And more powerful because she’d seen his family. Hugh. Euna. Memories of Cam’s childhood in the Highlands of Scotland. It was plain they’d been close. As it was equally plain he’d been the wild one. Reckless. Bold. Foolish.
Nothing had changed.
Her thoughts trained inward, she started when he spoke.
“You did say you’d fixed it.” Cam tested his shoulder, wincing as he lifted it over his head. Made a fist.
She shook off her musings, aware of their treacherous course. “Horrid man. You should be grateful I didn’t let you bleed to death. It was your fault. All of it.”
Prepared for a fight, she didn’t expect the sullen “You’re right” that followed.
“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.
Morgan flung her bag onto the bed. Wiped her forehead with the back of a sleeve. She was a mess. Skirts sopping and muddy to the knees. Jacket torn and streaked with dust. And still she managed to look sexy.
Cam caught himself staring. Quickly refocused on working his stiff arm.
“Where have you been?” he asked, trying to keep the concern from his voice. If he hadn’t known it before, this morning had shown him the ease with which he could slip into making himself believe he and Morgan were good again. That the past six months never happened.
“I’ve been down at the riverfront.” She pulled the combs from her hair. Shook it out. Plucked a stray leaf or two from her head. She wasn’t making this not-staring business easy. “I wanted to retrace my steps from last night.”
“And did you find anything?”
He pulled his shirt on, careful not to jar his shoulder. Morgan swore he was fine, but it sure as hell didn’t feel like it. His collarbone throbbed, and any quick movement sent slashes of pain on a straight path from his arm to his brain.
“I found traces of mage energy,” she said. He must have looked confused, because she heaved a long-suffering sigh before continuing. “The energy used by Fey and Other—magic for want of a better term. When we draw on mage energy, residue is left behind. It can be used to track. Like a footprint. A blood trail. That’s my expertise.” She frowned. “The man I tailed last night was Other. No doubt of it. Someone knows we’re here. And why. They’re not taking any chances.”
“How about the gang in the alley?”
“I’d like to say they were a coincidence. They couldn’t have known we’d be there.” She seemed indecisive as if an unexpected problem had arisen. Her glance swept over him, a thoughtful look upon her face. Finally, she shrugged. Took off her soiled jacket.
“Unless that’s why he showed himself,” Cam suggested. “To entice us into following. A teaser to draw us out.”
She cocked one more reluctant look at him and then—holy shit—began unbuttoning her gown. Neatly. Quickly. As if he weren’t sitting two feet away. With his tongue hanging out.
“What the hell are you doing?” He threw himself to his feet, the pain from that ill-thought move almost enough to overwhelm the screaming blast of instant lust he was experiencing.
“My clothes are filthy. I have to change,” she replied matter-of-factly, although challenge lit her burnished bronze gaze. “You’re my husband. Get used to it.” Letting the gown fall to the floor, she stepped out of it, clad in nothing but a shift. Skin he’d last seen months ago much too close for comfort. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.”
“But that was…and now…shit, Morgan. You know as well as I do it’s different now.” He tried looking everywhere but at her. Failed miserably.
“Don’t think about it. Pretend I’m a man.”
Like that could happen.
“To answer your question, the men in the alley were no more than they seemed. A rabble of thieves. The leveryas worked too easily for them to be Other.”
He concentrated. Pretended she was Brodie.
He could do this. He just had to ignore the hard-on that had him shifting uncomfortably, and pray she didn’t realize what she was doing to him, although by that smug look in her eye, she knew exactly. In fact, she counted on it. “How do you know the men were waiting for you?” he asked.
She fumbled with the fresh gown she’d pulled out. Shot him a curious look. “For you?”
“Don’t look so shocked.” He forced himself to watch as she dressed, his gaze as calm as if this sort of thing happened every day.
In his dreams.
Long-since-discarded dreams.
“And they succeeded in that, didn’t they? They stabbed me. Would have killed me.”
“Only because…”
“Only because I jumped without looking. You can say it. I…” He shook his head. “Stupid me. I thought you needed my help.”
She took a seat at a dressing table. Began violently brushing her hair until it crackled. Her face in the mirror was grim. As if he’d annoyed her. “Well, next time think before you act the hero,” she snipped. “As you saw, I’m not helpless.”
Here he was, trying to apologize and she was still carping at him. What did she want? A full groveling confession? Well, damned if he was going to give it to her. He didn’t care how hard she made him. He clenched his jaw. Began working his arm again.
“No. I can see you do very well on your own.”
Morgan avoided it as long as possible. But it had to be done.
She’d hoped to be alone. Hoped Cam would use the excuse of his injury to stay lounging in comfort at the inn. But he’d surprised her. Gritted his teeth. Shrugged into his clothes. And ridden the three miles with almost no complaining.
She would scry the stones. Pull the memories stored within the Giant’s Fist and pray they showed her Doran. She needed to see his face. Or rather the glamorie he’d woven to conceal himself. He wouldn’t keep to his true form. Not when he knew he was being hunted.
She’d last seen the rogue Amhas-draoi in Skye two years ago. A tall, barrel-chested man, he’d been polite, but distant. Holding himself apart from the daily life of the school. Spending long weeks away, or alone in his chambers. Yet when asked, he did what was demanded of him. And did it well. He was a skilled mage. An amazing fighter.
He’d been a man to respect. Now he was a man to fear.
Why? What change had occurred within the Amhas-draoi to send him down this path? Or had he always planned for this? Had his time with Scathach simply been a way to gain access to the knowledge he needed? She couldn’t believe that. The head of her order would have read the signs and understood the danger. Doran couldn’t have hidden so much of what he planned for so lo
ng. Could he?
The questions worried at her, but in the end they mattered little against the task she’d been assigned. Doran’s motivations aside, he needed to be stopped and the sword regained. Why he did what he did could be left to others.
Her scrying might or might not work. Stone was the most impressionable, but only the most forceful emotions, the most powerful images would imprint themselves and remain. Whether Traverse’s terror had burrowed itself into the rock he stood bound to was a big if.
Wind plucked at her as she climbed the rocky, scrub-covered hill to the group of five stones. Weathered and gray with moss, they seemed to have erupted from the landscape as if the earth had spat them out.
Once free of the sheltering valleys, the wind picked up. As it swirled through the stones, it became sour and cold, smelling of decay and death. The soldier’s had not been the only blood spilled in this place. Only the most recent.
Morgan glanced over her shoulder. Still stiff, Cam followed more slowly, his blond head bent against the hillside.
He stopped halfway up. Called to her. “Was it worth the trip?”
She hoped to hell it was. Doran was good. She had no idea what form he had taken, and he cloaked his magic. The traces and glimpses of mage energy she’d tracked in town had been slight compared to what he would give off. And Neuvarvaan’s power would shout itself to her if it were unsheathed. But that hadn’t happened. Which was a small victory. No sword. No Undying. She and Doran were at a standoff.
Cam joined her at the top of the hill. Looked around at the sweep of rocky wilderness. “Reminds me of Strathconon,” he remarked. “So why are we here again?”
She had a sudden urge to reveal the truth. Doran’s defection. The seizing of Neuvarvaan by force with three Fey killed in the ambush. All unimaginable offenses. Unthinkable to one of her kind. Yet Doran had done it, and taken pleasure in the heinous crimes by the accounts of those he’d left alive. Those sins would be enough in her eyes to take him down. But he’d gone one step further. Involved the mortal world in his madness. And that could not stand.
Would Cam comprehend the significance of Doran’s betrayal? Or would he dismiss it as more of her nonsense? Or worse, run to General Pendergast with what he’d learned?
There was too much at stake. She couldn’t risk it. Not with a heart so bruised that any glimpse of the old Cam was enough to make her forget all her well-founded intentions.
Stay away from him. Keep quiet. Once she’d found the sword would be soon enough for Cam to learn the truth. By then, it wouldn’t matter.
Ignoring his question, she knelt at the base of the tallest stone. The ground was trampled. Torn. She closed her eyes. Traced the gouged dirt. Plucked a blade of wilted yellow grass, twirling it between her fingers. Circling outward, she followed the faded evidence of struggle. Time had passed. The marks left by men were scarce and told her little. But enough.
“Four men. Mayhap five. They came on horseback.” She pointed toward the north. “Up through the ravine to avoid anyone on the cart track.”
“You can tell all that from a few dusty smudges and a piece of gorse?” His disbelief was evident in the tone of his voice.
She’d been right to follow her instincts. It was obvious Cam couldn’t be trusted with the truth. But disappointed anger flared within her. At herself for doubting. At Cam for making it all so hard. She stood up, whipping around. Shot him a withering glare, wishing it had the power to scorch the look of doubt from his face.
It must have conveyed every ounce of her fury because he stepped back, motioning her to continue.
Taking a deep breath—as much to calm herself as to prepare for the scrying—she closed her eyes, placing both hands palm-flat against the stone. “Gweles. Klywes. Bos.”
She used the words to strengthen the focus, but there was no need. She staggered under the overwhelming images and emotions. Teasing the separate threads apart to reveal a clear picture took more concentration. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Throbbed up into her throat. Her skin prickled as the lightning flare of mage energy sparked and flashed through her body. Fear took her over. Claimed her for its own.
She was there. She was Traverse.
Chapter 8
Stars gleamed high and white in a black sky. Ropes lashed him at ankle and waist. Chest and neck. They chafed and burned as he struggled. Blood snaked from a cut on his scalp, and his head hurt from the blow that had struck him down.
He squinted, trying to clear his vision. But that only made his head hurt worse.
Men emerged from the stones. Stepped from the darkness to take form, wraithlike around him. Uniformed. Masked.
His panic increased. His heart strained. A wild pounding shook his limbs.
An enormous man stepped from the group, a sword carried erect in front of him as if on display. Death shone from his pale eyes. A ruthless self-assurance weighted his step….
Doran Buchanan.
Morgan knew him by many names. Amhas-draoi. Other. Now—enemy.
Morgan knew who she’d see, but still the shock of him standing mere feet away frayed her ties to Traverse. Her knowledge became his just as his terror fed her own panic.
Dark mage energy rippled off the goddess blade. The force of it enough to send a chill slicing through her.
She fought the urge to sever her connection to the stone. She needed more. She would hold out a little longer. She knew she could. Swallowing a breath, she forced herself to sink back into the memory….
Doran approached, his weapon drawn.
Traverse screamed. Fought harder, but the bonds held him fast. Cut off his air until he sank against the ropes, coughing.
Doran spoke, his face wavering in and out of focus.
A trick of the light? A result of the crack on his head? His features shifted and warped, never resting. Young. Old. Blond. Brunette. Bearded. Clean-shaven.
Morgan concentrated on ripping through the glamorie. The confusion of faces slowed. Settled. Held still. She had only seconds left.
Doran held the sword aloft. The black speech of the Morkoth dropped from lips curled back in vicious anticipation.
The pounding of her heart vibrated through her. Traverse’s terror had become her terror. But she wouldn’t look away. She remained locked on Doran’s face and not on the weapon aimed at her heart.
Heavy-lidded eyes. Dark hair. A scar down his left cheek. And most revealing of all—sergeant’s stripes.
All this she glimpsed as Neuvarvaan was drawn back. The final incantation whispered to the sword’s Morkoth creators.
Morgan fought to break the link holding her in the moment. But she hadn’t counted on the tangle of mage energy. Too many forces hallowed the stone. Too many conflicting pulls on the deep magic bound to this sacred place.
She scrambled to protect herself from what she knew was coming. Braced her body and her mind against the explosion of past and present colliding. The sword bit dead-on into her chest. Tore through her heart. Pinned her to the stone.
She screamed as the whirlpool opened beneath her feet. Dragged her away.
Cam caught Morgan as her legs buckled, the sudden weight on his sore shoulder pulling them both down. They sprawled together against the base of the standing-stone, her eyes wide and staring, her lips parted on the end of the caoineag shriek she’d let out just before she’d collapsed.
He scrambled to his knees, his gaze sweeping the area. No glint of sun off steel. No telltale whiff of powder. No slide of shale. If a shooter had followed them here, he’d come and gone. Cam leaned over her. Began to examine her for a bullet wound.
Morgan jerked once, gasping as if all the air had been driven from her lungs, before hunching forward, drawing her knees up under her.
Steadying his shaking hand while trying not to dwell on how scared he’d been, Cam held a flask under her nose. “Drink this.”
“I’m all right,” she croaked, pushing it away.
“What the hell happened?” he snapped, still
reeling with fear that had his palms sweaty, his knees wobbling.
Wind bounced and curled through the stone fingers of the Giant’s Fist, carrying whispered voices in a language he couldn’t understand. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. So intense was his feeling of being watched, he half expected a Fey to step from out of the stones’ shadow.
Whatever watched also listened. The wind died away. The air grew heavy with expectation. Cam shivered in the sudden shade cast by the scudding clouds.
“Morgan? What did you do?” He pressed her for an answer.
“I scryed the standing-stone.” She held up a hand as if she knew what his next words would be. “Objects hold memories. Emotions. I can draw them out. See the past. I saw Ensign Traverse’s killing. Saw Neuvarvaan and Dor…” She stopped. “…the man who wields it. We can track him down. Find Andraste’s sword and return it to the Fey.”
She tried standing, but Cam was faster. He gripped her shoulder. Held her down. “It can’t hurt to rest here for another minute. Until you get your bearings.”
“I’m fine,” she bit back.
“You’re not fine. You screamed. It was…” How could he describe the complete helplessness he’d felt hearing her earsplitting, anguished cry? Knowing there wasn’t a damned thing he could do.
He couldn’t. Not without sounding like he cared. Which would scare her away quicker than anything else. “You were loud.”
“Brilliant. That’s professional.” She flushed before pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. Whatever had happened had shaken her more than she’d admit. “I need that drink after all.” Wrenching the flask out of his hand, she tossed back the contents. Wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Shit, Cam. Stop staring at me. I told you I’m all right.”
Their gazes locked, and Cam knew instantly Morgan tested him. Waited for him to react. With disapproval. Repugnance. And so much came clear. The foul language. Yesterday’s striptease. The constant over-the-top bravado.
A reaction was just what she wanted. She wanted to see him flinch. Make him squirm. But it was all an act. A way to show the world—no, a way to show him—how tough she was.
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