“You think I can’t handle the pressure?” It took every ounce of acting ability not to crack something heavy over his head.
“I think I’d rather face ten such Dorans with matching swords before I’d set foot within the halls of Lady Abercrombie’s gossip abattoir.”
She knew as well as anyone the stifling atmosphere of being onstage for a roomful of people all waiting for a misstep to pounce upon. She’d lived with that kind of scrutiny her whole life. Even with hiding their lineage as her family had, there had always been hints of their gifts. The neighborhood’s subsequent curiosity mingled with fear had always been one more obstacle to her fitting in. Another excuse to snub that odd Bligh girl.
“I’ve sent Rastus word. He’ll let Doran know we’re alive. We need to be ready.” The firm, no-nonsense tone to his words told her it was useless to argue any longer. It would avail her nothing but a sore head from banging it against a wall.
“I still don’t know if this is the best way—” she began.
“Do you want to prolong this, Morgan?”
She wanted Doran killed, the sword returned, the mission a success. Of course she did. But a small guilty part of her knew that with that accomplishment, her time with Cam would be over. And also knew that once he was gone, he would not seek her out again.
She used him. And he allowed it. But there was a limit to what he would accept—even if it cost him as much to sever their renewed connection as it did her. That as much as everything else made her blood burn with a fierce need to find a way to cling for just these few days longer. Enough time to regain the equilibrium that would let her turn her back once more on Cameron Sinclair and leave him behind.
As if she’d been sucker punched in the gut, every bit of breath and strength left her. She slumped down on her bed, rubbing her temples against the headache that blossomed behind her eyes. “No, of course not.”
He made it as far as the door before turning back. “This will end it, Morgan.”
Left alone, she flopped back on the bed, staring up into the bed curtains. With no way to tell which it he referred to.
Cam balled up his latest attempt at a suitable reply to his uncle’s gently couched order and threw it on the fire. Euna’s impressions notwithstanding—her message had clearly been meant as a command from on high: Come or, once again, you will have disappointed us.
Tired of being the family’s black sheep, Cam wanted nothing more than to confront Sir Joshua and lay it on the line. Mayhap then he’d find a peace with his family he could live with.
Plowing a hand through his hair, he made his decision. Left the library to look for Amos and found Susan, letting her know where he meant to go and when he’d be back.
Susan paused in the midst of supervising a pair of day workers, the girls shrinking away from him as if they expected him to breathe fire.
And no wonder.
A glance in the hall mirror on his way out the door showed him a man girded for battle, a face etched in grim lines, a mouth pressed thin, shoulders bunched somewhere around his ears.
The walk to his uncle’s house in Curzon Street took less time than he’d hoped and soon enough, he stood facing Sir Joshua’s long-faced butler, Beasley.
“Colonel Sinclair.” The man bowed him in, curiosity alive in his pale eyes.
“Is my uncle at home?”
“Just preparing to go out, sir. But I shall let him know you’re here,” he answered as he led Cam to a sitting room to await his uncle.
As Cam crossed the hall, another door opened, a man bowing his way out. “Good day, milady. Miss Sinclair. I’m sorry the necklace turned out not to be yours, but I’ll not complain. For it allowed me to beg an introduction to the most beautiful woman in London.”
Cam gave a sneer of contempt. Please, that was laying it on a bit thick.
“I hope to see you both at the Abercrombies’.” The man turned and, spying Cam, tipped his hat on his way by. “Your servant, sir.”
Cam offered a stiff nod at the ass prowling around his sister. God help her if that was the sort she preferred. As drab as paste.
Left kicking his heels, Cam moved restlessly from hearth to windows to desk and back. He caught his hand reaching for his cross, and cursed himself for a superstitious coward. He didn’t need courage to face his uncle. Only resolve.
The door opened behind him.
“Cam, you’ve come. I knew you would. Will you join us at the Abercrombies’?” Euna hurried to grab up his hands, her face awash with delight, a new womanly ripeness to her features he’d not noticed before. No wonder his aunt and uncle guarded her so closely. And no wonder that poor excuse for a man had been sniffing around her.
“Who was that fellow just here? Not your type, I hope.”
Euna wrinkled her nose. “Hardly. His name’s Lieutenant North. He came calling to return a necklace he’d found on the street outside Gunter’s. Someone thought it was mine, though I’ve not lost any jewelry, and told him so.” She dismissed the annoying lieutenant with a toss of her gold curls. “Enough about North and his necklace. Did you decide to answer Uncle’s invitation?”
“I’m not made for dancing and I’ve always been a poor flirt. The women would be disappointed.”
Euna dimpled. “If you think that, you’ve not looked in a mirror lately.”
He lifted an eyebrow at Euna’s choice of phrase.
She linked her arm through his and pulled him toward a couch. “Although your hasty marriage has definitely soured the hopes of more than a few. Tell me about her.”
“About who?”
She shot him a disgusted sister look. “Don’t be coy. About Morgan. She frightens me. And amuses me. And makes me want to know her better all at the same time. How did you two meet?”
“At a military ball in Edinburgh last winter.”
“See, so you do dance.”
“No. That’s what brought us together. Our mutual disinclination to shuffle about the floor, looking ridiculous. We found each other behind a forest of potted palms, hiding from the crowd.”
He smiled, remembering back to that long-ago night. The way Morgan’s eyes sparkled with mischief, then deepened with a hint of the reckless passion that brought her days later to his rooms. His bed.
Then as now, there’d been no flirtatious conniving. No false pretense. She’d desired him. He’d found her irresistible. And they’d become lovers.
“I’d wanted you to meet someone. He’ll be there.” Euna’s words brought him back with a thump.
“That sounds ominous.”
“His name’s Henry Lisle. He’s a stepson to Lord Bruton.”
“I don’t like him already.” The Earl of Bruton’s tastes ran to racing, gambling, and women, not necessarily in that order. Fortunately he had the wealth as well as the character to know just how close to play his game without losing his shirt. Any relation of his was someone to watch—especially if that relation were making eyes at his little sister.
“Beast. Henry’s not at all like his stepfather. He’s gallant and honorable and as respectable as a church mouse.”
“And poor as one too, I imagine. Bruton’s got three sons of his own to spend his blunt on.”
Euna huffed. “You’re as bad as Uncle Josh.”
Being compared to his uncle? Talk about frightening.
The door opened again. This time on his uncle’s sober countenance. “Don’t tell me. You’ve brought home another wife. A love child, perhaps?” He jerked his head toward Euna, and she rose in a flurry of skirts, leaving Cam behind with a final pleading look for restraint.
Cam sketched a bow, any momentary peace wiped out with one black look from his uncle. “I came to tell you I wouldn’t be attending the Abercrombie rout.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
“I’m aware of that. But unless you’re wearing a general’s uniform under that outfit, I’m not forced to bow to your command. Not anymore.”
“How about a major’s uniform?”
Instantly on his guard, Cam waited to see where this was going. “Sir?”
His uncle drew himself up. Still a good six inches short of Cam’s height, he seemed to fill the room with his presence. “The woman living under your roof is not your wife but your latest mistress. Is that true?”
Like a physical blow to the chest, his uncle’s question knocked Cam back, drove the air from his lungs. His first thought was Brodie. The big, cabbage-headed jaw-me-dead had let something slip. But no, Brodie was the soul of discretion. As many beds as he hopped in and out of, he had to be. “What makes you come to that conclusion?” Cam brazened.
“A letter I received. The latest Mrs. Sinclair is really a young Cornish woman of dubious reputation and lax morals. Can you deny it?”
Only a handful of people knew the truth of Morgan’s identity. But only one person came to mind with enough motive to throw him to the wolves by revealing the secret. What the hell was Eddis playing at?
His uncle pinched the bridge of his nose. Squeezed his eyes as he fought for control. When he opened them, he’d swallowed whatever anger he’d shown. “I’ve known you to get into the worst sort of scrapes. And I’ve tried to make allowances for your behavior. After all, your father was a volatile hellion, and you’ve always held more than a comfortable share of his nature. The only one of your siblings to do so, thank heaven.” He offered Cam a weak smile. “But to establish your mistress in a place of honor within your household. Parade her in front of the world as a wife. That I cannot let stand. If those in high positions found out, they’d—”
“Add it to my long list of supposed crimes?” Anger soured his stomach. “Damn it, Uncle Josh. Can’t you see I don’t care anymore what they think of me? I just want to be left in peace.”
His uncle—as usual—ignored Cam’s rough tone. Glossed over it with soothing words. “I want you at the Abercrombies’, Cam. I’ve someone I want you to meet.”
“Let me guess. Henry Lisle.”
“That popinjay? Euna’s been bending your ear with her nonsense, has she? No. I can handle young Lisle. It’s Mrs. Kennett-Holmes. After hearing about you, she’s anxious to make your acquaintance.”
“Kennett-Holmes. Wasn’t he an intimate of Sir Robert Peele’s? The man must have been seventy when he finally died.”
“That’s him. His widow’s barely twenty-five, though. And left rich as cream.”
“I don’t need the money.”
“No, but she’s political connections of her own. Those relationships could make or break Sinclair whiskey. Among the family’s other holdings.”
“So I’m the bull staked out to lure in the cash cow?” He couldn’t keep the edge of bitterness from his voice. Didn’t even try.
“You’re asked to think of the family and do what’s right.”
Cam had heard enough. What his uncle asked of him was another empty marriage. More long years of playing the London game. Not this time. The farmstead in Strathconon pulled him northward. He’d not give up the call for the dubious charms and fortune of Mrs. Kennett-Holmes. Not even to repair frayed family relationships. He started for the door. “There’s no more to be said. Good day, Uncle.”
His hand had barely gripped the knob when his uncle’s answer curdled his innards. “I’ll ruin her, Cam.”
The knob went slippery in his hand, sweat springing out on his palms, chilling his skin. He turned slowly back as if he’d not understood.
His uncle stood solid as a mountain in the middle of the room, his arms crossed in defiance, his face pale but set in rigid lines. “I’d hoped to avoid stooping to this. Hoped you’d see the wisdom of attaching yourself to a woman of Sally Kennett-Holmes’s caliber. She could take you far.”
“I don’t want to be taken anywhere. And not by her.”
Uncle Josh sighed. “It’s for your own good. If you won’t see the wisdom of this match, think of Miss Bligh. That’s her name, isn’t it? Think of her. She’ll be ruined.”
“Blackmail? You wouldn’t dare.”
Uncle Josh spread his hands as if in apology. “I know you think I’m being harsh. But I’m tired of watching you distance yourself from the life rightly due you by your name and position. Memories are short in this town. It wouldn’t take much to be welcomed back. You need a wife.” He paused before letting the final shoe drop. “Miss Bligh needs my silence.”
“One thing I don’t need is a wife.”
As if he felt he’d crossed too far over the line, his uncle withdrew. Sought conciliation. “How about this? Come. Speak with her. Play the war hero bit. If things work out, consider the possibility of remarriage.”
Cam felt the weight of Uncle Josh’s expectation like a noose around his neck. His throat went dry, the blood pushing its sluggish way through a body suddenly cold.
His uncle let him stew before nudging. “Well, Cam? What’s it to be?”
“I’ll be there.” He chewed the words like glass.
Uncle Josh turned his attention to the correspondence on his desk, effectively dismissing Cam. His parting words, “And without the martyred attitude, I hope.”
Cam’s vision went red, fury uncoiling with whiplike speed. “I said I’d be there. Beyond that, don’t push your luck.” He heard his response as if coming from another’s mouth—overloud and rough with emotion. But it was the expression of shock on his uncle’s face that set Cam’s heart racing. Sent him stumbling heartsick and shaking from the house.
Because until then he hadn’t known how close to murder he’d come.
Chapter 23
Morgan escaped the growing claustrophobia of the town house for the freedom of London’s streets. Though freedom might not be the most suitable word choice. She’d felt the disapproving eyes of at least half a dozen passersby as she’d walked the short distance to Green Park alone. As if she couldn’t risk stepping into the street without fear of being clubbed over the head and sold to white slavers. Or worse—exchanging unchaperoned words with a man unrelated to her by blood or marriage.
She pursed her lips, stared down the worst of the offenders, while folding herself deeper into the collar of her spencer to avoid the rest. This was just the sort of confining restrictions that made the remote wilderness of Skye so appealing. A freedom from expectations. From duty.
But duty to what? To whom? And what kind of freedom was she really looking for? When had the oath of fealty to the Amhas-draoi become like a stone about her middle, weighing her down? Taking away choices she didn’t know she’d had.
Picking a rock from the leaf-strewn path beneath her feet, she kicked it out ahead of her. Followed it, kicking it again.
What did Cam want? The pebble skipped ahead. Rolled to the verge.
What did she want? This time it ended amid a group of stones. She recognized its shape. Knocked it on farther.
Could she give up one dream to pursue another? Kick. Follow.
Take that leap of faith that a life with Cam wouldn’t be the drudgery and grind Scathach warned her it would be? Follow. Kick.
That they could find a way to fit their worlds together. Mold them into something new. Something greater than the individual pieces.
She’d seen that kind of love. A love that allowed for all things. That gave as much as it took. Her cousin Conor had found it with his wife, Ellery. They’d beaten back every obstacle to be with each other—including death. If they could do it, mayhap she and Cam could make it work as well.
This time, the pebble skipped and bounced, rolling into the grass. Lost among the piles of leaves and autumn bracken. And Morgan gave it up as gone. Dropped with a sigh onto a bench to let these whirling thoughts settle, take root.
The easy autumn weather had turned cold, the air carrying an icy crispness that froze her breath, made her nose run. Half-naked trees stabbed limbs of gold and red and green into the gray sky, their tops lost in the low smoke from thousands of coal fires and fog off the river. Ice rimed the edges of puddles and spread a spiderweb of lace across the pa
rk’s reservoir. But not even this glimpse of beauty could blot out the jostle and rub of so many people. So many Other. All crushed within the span of miles. All pounding against her skull like the drone of a million bees.
Could she live here? Would she lose Cam if she couldn’t?
She pulled off a glove, twisted the wolf-head ring as if she could channel her family’s communal wisdom through it. If only Gram were here to talk to. Or Jamys. He always managed to cut through to the heart of a problem. Morgan was all emotion. Driven by feelings. Never by common sense. So was this a case of passion over practicality? Or had her mind simply caught up with her heart?
It was the sound that alerted her first. The far-off echo of a perfect round note. Then another. And soon, the faint chime of bells surrounded her. Coming from nowhere and everywhere.
A movement caught the corner of her vision. Figures passing through the trees nearby. Indistinct, almost murky, the outline of their bodies blurred and ghostlike.
She knew that sound. The sensation of time and place folding in upon itself. Her body’s heightened sensitivity as if she were one big funny bone.
No disapproving Londoners this time.
Oh, to be that simple.
Morgan pressed her hands palm-down onto the frozen stone of the bench. Felt the chill through her gloves. The scratch of her stockings. The rock that had worked its way into her left boot. All real. As real as the true Fey passing like shades through the park. As real as the bells clanging in her head like a toll of doom.
Scathach had lost control.
The Fey had breached the walls.
She followed the disappearing figures, breaking into a run to catch them before they left the security of the heavy trees for the edge of the park. The nearest roads. Her chance to question them lost once they crossed away into the city.
“You,” she shouted, grabbing the shoulder of the last Fey in the group of three, the zing of his touch cracking the air like thunder.
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