The door slammed back on its hinges at the same instant she risked all with the most basic of fith-faths hidden under the thinnest of cloaking spells. It took every ounce of concentration to draw even that little bit of power. She just prayed it held.
Cam raised his head, his eyes black with need. “What the great goddamn?” he snarled, the venom in his voice completely convincing.
A buxom woman, dressed not in the exotic outfits of her girls, but in a prim gray linen gown and mobcap, curtsied, her cheeks flaming. “Excuse me, sir. My mistake. Looking for a redheaded imposter. Someone said she came in here.”
“Does she look like a redhead to you?” Cam demanded, grabbing up a fistful of Morgan’s hair, now black as ebony.
“No, sir. My mistake. Excuse me, sir. So sorry.” She curt-seyed her way out, knocking into the man standing behind her, his pale eyes raking them both with a hostile gaze. “Go on,” the woman snipped, “you can see it’s not her.”
The man bowed and withdrew, but Morgan knew without a doubt, he’d be waiting. He may not have caught them redhanded—or redhaired—but he wasn’t ready to dismiss them completely.
They were trapped.
Cam stared at the closed door as if deep in thought. Then as if a conclusion had been reached, he shrugged. Got to his feet, leaving her bereft. Stupid with abandonment. What was wrong with her? She should be working out a way to get them out of here. Planning their next move. Instead, all she wanted to do was pull him back into the huge bed. Watch him in that huge mirror as he pleasured her.
“Where’s Brodie?” Cam’s barked question jolted her out of her sexual stupor. Made her feel foolish. Until she caught the pained look in his eyes, the way he avoided touching her as if afraid he couldn’t hold himself back a second time.
Morgan dissolved her spells. Hoped her magic had passed unnoticed. “In the alley behind the building. He’s supposed to be guarding our escape.”
“Well, we can’t get that far without dealing with the man out there and any help he may have.”
Morgan stood, adjusting her gown, trying to control her racing heart. She pulled her clothes out from under the bed where she’d stashed them earlier. “Let me change and I can—”
“No,” Cam answered, his tone final. “You can barely stand. I’ll get us out of here.”
“How?”
His features seemed carved in stone, his eyes flat and staring. As if his spirit had fled. As if some dark demon inhabited his body. “Leave that to me. Get changed. I’ll knock twice. Be ready to go.”
She nodded, unable to argue with this new, implacable Cam.
And just like that, he was gone.
Piece by piece, she removed the whisper-thin silks. Dragged on the workaday gown, the comfortable jacket. Bundled her hair back into a quick knot at her neck. She regarded herself in the mirror. Looked down at the discarded clothing. And the truth hit her. She’d failed at being the elegant lady. And now she was failing at being an Amhas-draoi.
Neither fish nor fowl.
Tossing a curse to the empty room, she dropped onto the bed. Warrior or woman. Duinedon or Other. Where did she fit in? Who was she? Really?
A knock—once, twice—broke her from her thoughts. Cam.
She ran to the door, her childish worries forgotten. If they didn’t get out of here, it didn’t much matter, did it?
Cam stood on the threshold. Or a horrifying imitation of Cam did. He was frightening, his gaze flint-hard. His hands curled to fists at his side. His body poised to erupt if she so much as touched him. “It’s done. Let’s go.”
She risked it, putting a hand out.
He flinched as if she’d struck him, his hand coming up, cuffs stained with blood.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s not my blood, Morgan.” His words came slow. Heavy. As if just standing exhausted him.
Grabbing her hand, he dragged her from the room. Down the corridor. And out into the milky sunlight of the alley where Brodie waited.
“Take her home, Brodie.”
Morgan grabbed his coat. “Don’t give in to it, Cam.”
He flung himself away from her. “Go, Morgan. That’s a direct order.” He stepped back. Looked to Brodie. “Take her home. And keep her there.”
The captain offered a solemn nod. “You’ll meet us there later?”
Cam gave a deep shuddering breath. Turned and walked away, shoulders hunched. “Much later.”
Chapter 19
Morgan stood at the western corner of the house. Touched the foundation, closing her eyes. She’d always found it easier to focus this way, though it fell short of Scathach’s high standards. The mage energy should flow without the need for tricks or crutches, her teacher chided her often enough. Still, if her only failing was shutting her eyes…
“Dor. Ebrenn. Dowr.” The power swam to the surface, drawn by her need and the spell’s chant. “Tanyow. Menhir. Junya.”
A flicker of light burst, then dissolved as the last barrier went up. This incantation would complete the circle, and though her wards’ crude protections would avail them little against a determined onslaught by Doran, it would slow him down. Give them time.
Time for what, she hadn’t figured out yet.
She straightened, dusting her hands as if she’d built the wall with hammer and chisel instead of Fey magic.
“Bluidy brilliant.” Taking Cam’s instructions literally, Brodie had refused to let her out alone. He stood behind her, hands across his chest, a look of mingled disbelief and amazement upon his face.
Morgan gave him a sidelong glance. “You seem to be taking it in stride. Most people would be crossing themselves at this point or readying their ducking stools.”
Brodie led her back inside. “I’m not most people.” Without being asked, he poured her a drink. Handed it to her with a tired smile. “He’ll get over it and be home. He always has before.”
Morgan let the smoky heat of the whiskey fill the worried, empty, frightened place. Dropping into a chair, she pulled her legs beneath her. “Do you think he gets over it? Or does he just bury it along with the rest of the pain he’s carrying? His family’s disapproval. The war.” She paused. “Charlotte.”
Brodie stabbed at the fire, the poker sending a shower of sparks snapping up the chimney. “Ye ken all that, do ye?”
“It’s a little hard to miss. If the emotional scars aren’t obvious, the physical ones club you over the head. She tried to kill him.” Her teeth chattered despite the soothing fire in her belly. She saw again the horrible twisting scar down Cam’s back, the rough healing on his thigh.
“By the time Cam came home, Charlotte had grown to believe her own wild stories.” Brodie’s gaze went far-seeing as he spoke. “He was a villain. A libertine and a rake. And when rumors of the Serpent Brigade began to circulate, she believed them too.”
“With good cause. Those stories turned out to be true.”
Brodie dropped the poker with a clang. Spun on her. “Charlotte attacked him in his bed while he slept. Did he tell ye that? Stabbed him in the back. And when he tried to defend himself, she stabbed him again. Amos found him, drenched in his own blood, more dead than alive. Did Cam lock her away? Reveal her as an attempted murderess? No. He let people believe what they would. If ye think Cam’s a natural-born killer, you’re a bluidy great fool, Morgan Bligh.”
Her stomach turned, a shudder of nausea rolling through her. “I know what’s before my eyes. He may not enjoy killing. It may tear him apart inside when he’s called upon to do it, but it’s there. It’s as much a part of him as the boy on the loch or the amazing lover.” She flushed at Brodie’s startled look of surprise, but continued. “Cam’s all those things.”
Brodie’s shoulders slouched. He poured himself another whiskey. Tossed it back. “Ye speak like ye love him.”
She pulled herself into a tighter bundle, almost as if she protected herself from the tease of those words. “I’m not what Cam needs. He’s not what I need. It would
n’t work. And love isn’t everything.”
Brodie’s clear gray gaze sought hers. As sharp as a spear point. “Call me a hopeless romantic, but sometimes ’tis the only thing.”
Cam fell in beside Rastus, the corporal’s steps barely faltering at finding himself accompanied.
“I don’t think we finished our conversation, Corporal.”
Rastus’s eyes slid over him, his face revealing nothing. “Thought you’d found Nirvana with Molly Cabot’s newest slag.”
“What’s going on, Rastus? And no more song and story. You know more than you’re saying.”
Rastus dug his hands deep into his coat pockets. Shrugged. “I’ve told ya he’s been hard to keep track of. I’ve done my best, but he’s better. There’s something more than man about him. Devilry. Witchcraft. He reeks of ’em both, Sin.”
Cam felt the press of fear Rastus worked under. The old reprobate was scared. “You’ve discovered something. What is it?”
Rastus stopped dead in the middle of the street, his eyes raking Cam up and down as if seeing him for the first time, his jaw working, his gaze hesitant. Finally, giving his neck a decisive, bone-grinding crack, he motioned with a jerk of his head. “Come on, then. You won’t believe me otherwise.”
They walked in silence, dusk and fog casting the streets in deepening gloom. But even that wasn’t enough to dampen the surge of pedestrians pushing past. Or the constant stream of chaises, hackney cabs, drays, and coaches all making slow progress through the streets.
At a narrow tenement, its soot-covered facade and broken roof giving it a derelict air, Rastus stopped, grating a key into the lock at the door. Up and up, they climbed, their steps echoing off the bare plastered walls. Another door and another key and they entered a low garret. The only furnishings, a rough pallet on the floor, humped with blankets. A chair. A ewer and basin on a low table. And the musky sweet scent of recent death souring the air.
Cam’s hand fumbled for his knife, but in no other way did he reveal his caution.
Rastus ushered him in. “I’d have called the Watch, but what could I say? They’d not believe me and with good reason. I’m not sure I believe it myself.” He pointed toward the bundle of rough blankets. “He’s here.”
Not blankets, but the curled figure of an old man. Wisps of gray hair barely covered a freckled scalp, a face lined with at least eighty years of worries. Or so it would seem to someone who hadn’t seen a similar old man before. Though one who’d escaped this poor bastard’s fate.
“Who is he?”
“Name’s Samuel Lester. Sergeant Samuel Lester. Or it was.” Rastus’s fear was palpable. His voice shook with it. “You’ll not believe me, but that man’s thirty-two. Or was till Doran got him.”
“A sword through the heart?”
Rastus’s whole body went still. “How’d you know that?”
“Why do you think I’m looking for Buchanan? I know what he’s doing. Lester’s not the first of his victims. And unless I find him fast, he won’t be the last.”
Rastus crossed himself. “This ain’t for the likes of normal people, Sin. This is devil’s work. I’ve heard tales of these creatures. Even seen one once when I was naught but a lad. They dragged her by the cart tail. Stoned her and burned her cottage for practicin’ such witchcraft.”
To you we’re freaks. Monsters. The devil’s spawn. If Doran’s found to be one of us, the hunt will begin again.
Rastus’s fears brought Morgan’s words to mind. Would things really come to such a pass? Neighbor turning upon neighbor? Brother on brother? He had only to glance at the misshapen hulk of the ravaged sergeant to know the answer. Who would feel safe knowing humans existed with that kind of power at their command? Even if they chose not to use it, they still posed a threat. Or that would be the argument.
“Tell me everything you know, Rastus. Leave nothing out.”
Cam pulled off his knife belt. Let it fall to the floor. Wished he could drop the memories that went with it as easily. He’d walked for hours and for miles. Chewing over Rastus’s revelations. And more importantly, what he hadn’t revealed. Plotting and abandoning half-formed plans. All until the churning, blast of rage eased and wore away. Until once again, he was Cam. Exhausted. Hollowed. Alone within his own body.
No longer sharing it with the assassin that enjoyed the hunt, thrilled to the kill.
No longer Sin.
He shrugged off his shirt, the chill of the room barely touching him. His body numb, his blood cold and sluggish, his mind slow.
Tomorrow he’d begin again. Relate everything to Morgan. Begin to piece some kind of idea together. Tomorrow he’d be better. Tomorrow he could face her without worrying that she’d look into his eyes and see every life-ending action he’d taken today.
“Are you coming to bed or not? You’ll catch your death of cold standing there like that.”
So much for tomorrow.
He closed his eyes, wishing for the power to turn and leave. He couldn’t see her tonight. He didn’t trust himself. He still hung too close to the edge. But he made no move to walk away. Like a coward, he stayed, knowing what would happen. And knowing he wanted it more than anything in the world right now.
He tried to make himself sound as close to normal as he could. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“You weren’t supposed to.” Amusement colored her words. “I have skill enough to be silent, if nothing else.” For a moment, amusement faded to bitterness. He wondered at it, but didn’t have the energy to ask.
He took one unsteady step toward the bed. Then another. And before he could talk himself out of it, he dropped to his knees beside her. Scooped her into his arms, crushing his mouth onto hers. Shock at the touch of her naked flesh burned away in an instant, leaving only the overriding need to feel the steady beat of her heart against his own. The heat of her body easing the chill that had buried itself so deeply into his bones, he never thought to be warm again.
His hands shook as he caressed the smooth slope of her shoulders. Cupped her breasts, rubbing his thumbs over the pearls of her nipples. Small moans broke from her as his lips teased her jawline, grazed her neck. To hell with the shimmering silks and flamboyant seduction of this afternoon, he preferred her naked, the scent of sex and desire rising off her more provocative than any perfume.
Surprise momentarily infused his lust as he noted the flame of her hair running over his hands, brushing his chest. She never left it loose. Braids. Combs. Pins. But today he’d caught a glimpse. And tonight, she’d left it free to flow like fire.
He dragged himself up long enough to ask, “Why?”
She caressed the long ridge of his scar, tracing the line of Charlotte’s maiming as if she traced the route on a map. “Because tonight, you need me.” He felt her shrug. “And because tonight, I need you just as badly.”
He laid her back on the bed. Stripped out of his breeks before rejoining her.
Her eyes widened, her gaze running over his naked body with a sensual intensity that set off a low quiver deep in his being. Her fingers came up to caress the taut muscles of his stomach. Skim the length of his erection. But he caught her hand, rubbing his thumb across her sword-calloused palm before linking his fingers with hers. Easing himself over her, their bodies matched height for height, crushed skin on skin.
“You’re frozen through,” she said, squirming beneath him.
“Better now,” he murmured.
She tasted like wine, her lips soft and velvety. He sampled, then devoured, his tongue sliding between her teeth, her whimper caught, then released into his mouth. He kissed her cheeks, the tip of her nose, nuzzled the curve of her throat.
“You can’t do this alone, Cam.” Her words gently spoken, but still carrying that hint of Morgan steel.
He met her gaze, flecks of gold burning through the dark whirlpool of desire. The corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s possible, but not near as much fun.”
That made her smile. She fondled a strand of hi
s hair, pushing it back off his face, her hands warm against his frozen skin. “We’re in this together. You need to ask for help.”
Where the hell had that come from? And why was Morgan bringing this up now of all the god-awful times? He wanted to forget. Not analyze. And, for God’s sake, not now. “I’m fine.”
Letting his exasperation fall away, he skimmed his hand down her side as his lips trailed a path down her neck. Across her shoulders. Over her breasts. Prayed she’d give up. Give in. Let the matter drop.
“You’re not fine. You’re not sleeping. Barely eating.” She shuddered at his touch, and her words came breathy and fast, but they came just the same. Accusing. A steady barrage of blame. “You’re surviving on coffee and nerves. You can’t last.”
He rolled off her, lust sucked out of him. Her words as effective as a cold bath. Was this her idea of sweet torture? Get him close to exploding and then knock him over the head with questions and finger-pointing? Well, if she wanted to play that game…“You really want to talk about this now?”
She stiffened under the checked anger in his voice, her gaze cautious “I…”
“Fine. We can talk about this. How about you?”
That got her. She sparked, answering his annoyance with her own. “What about me?”
“You hide behind that hard-nosed, approach-if-you-dare attitude. That’s not you, and you know it. It’s a disguise you’ve learned to use to keep everyone at arm’s length. To keep yourself from getting hurt when the man you fall in love with lies to you and breaks your heart.”
She shot up, the swirl of her hair cascading around her shoulders, falling across her breasts. “You never broke my heart.”
“Right.” He snorted his disbelief, knowing he’d effectively killed the mood, but now that he’d begun, he was bloody well going to finish. “I know how you felt because I felt it too. We were this close, Morgan.” His index finger and thumb were an inch apart. “But we let our pain and our pride get in the way.”
Dangerous As Sin Page 17
