As she thought back on it, her heart gave an unexpected jump. She felt the jolt like a burn beneath her breast. Wished she were the woman to help him come to grips with his war between instinct and honor. But still she couldn’t make herself go down to him. Couldn’t speak for the emotions choking her throat.
Like a schoolgirl too young to be included, she watched through the railing. Hoped he’d look up so she could turn away with an angry toss of her head.
Childish, but satisfying.
As if he sensed her, he did look up, his gaze unreadable. But for that one moment, she read fatigue and sorrow in the heavy stoop of his broad shoulders, the lines drawing his face into a stern mask. And she remembered the admission he’d thrown at her so carelessly. An Undying. A child of the sword Neuvarvaan. She’d not see that happen. Not while she had breath in her body. He might not be hers, but he’d live to be someone’s. She’d make sure of that.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can get away.” When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “You gave me your word. You’d do as I say. No arguments.”
How like him to bring that up. Did he have to hit her over the head with that ridiculous agreement? This didn’t count as part of that deal. She’d agreed to abide by his rules when it came to fighting Doran. Not so that she could watch him gild himself for the London ton while she sat at home.
“Morgan? Before I go, can I ask you one thing?”
Her heart snapped shut, and she did it. Turned away. Never heard his question.
Spent the rest of the evening wishing she had.
The lanterns flanking the Abercrombie town house shone on the glittering crowds of guests as they disembarked from the steady stream of sedan chairs and carriages. In a London thin of company, Lord and Lady Abercrombie’s party stood out as the place to see and be seen.
Inside, liveried footmen bowed the perfumed, powdered, and diamond-encrusted men and women into the grand hall, while pages in silk knee breeches and stockings dashed through the crush with drinks and trays of savories.
Brodie looked up from between two adoring matrons and their starstruck daughters. Considered too poor to be a prize of the marriage mart, he still generated sighs and heavy fanning as well as the occasional illicit liaison.
Excusing himself, he pushed his way through the crush toward Cam. From the opposite end of the room, his uncle spied him as well. He also made his way over, though his way was eased by his importance while Brodie used simple bulk.
They arrived at the same moment, his uncle sizing him up as if inspecting a steer for slaughter. “Glad to see you understood the wisdom of my request.”
“Let’s not confuse requests and threats, Uncle.”
The words rolled off Uncle Josh’s back as they always did. It was like boxing a shadow. “Mrs. Kennett-Holmes is in the next room.”
Brodie raised a curious brow. “Kennett-Holmes? Isn’t she one of those evangelical do-gooders with a taste for the sermonizing of ‘Holy Hannah’?”
Uncle Josh settled a cool gaze on his fosterling. “She’s an upstanding Christian, yes, Captain MacKay. Some men prefer their women with a few morals.”
Brodie gave a shudder of revulsion. “Sounds dreadful.” But he kept needling, bless him. “Does Mrs. Kennett-Holmes know there’s a rival to Cam’s affections? Can’t see that going over too well.”
“Cam knows his purpose here. And it’s not to be swayed by your dubious influences.”
Brodie hid a smile behind his glass of wine. “Just asking, sir.”
“Well, stop asking. And go about your business. Surely there’s some gullible female waiting to be swayed by your charms into a dalliance. So go find her, and leave us alone.”
Brodie bowed and withdrew, almost colliding with a gentleman as they both sought to navigate the narrow doorway into the next room. A gentleman Cam recognized as the pasty-faced bore from Uncle Josh’s house. But he’d seen him somewhere else as well. Only where?
“I’m leaving you on your own to sweeten the woman up. I’ve got to return to your aunt or she’s liable to think something’s happened to me.”
Cam eyed his uncle coolly. “Worried over your health?”
“Hardly. I was set upon by a footpad last night on the way home from my club. The villain got in a blow before a crowd scared him off. But now she’s got it in her bonnet someone’s out to get me.”
Now that he mentioned it, Cam noted the slight swelling around his uncle’s right eye, masked by copious amounts of powder. A frisson of warning shot through him. But warning of what? Footpads were common, and his uncle’s habit of walking rather than hiring a cab made him an easy target of such an attack. So why did Cam feel as if the first shot in his private war had been fired? “Did you get a look at your attacker?”
“I’d rather have gotten a stab at him. He’d have thought twice before attacking a Sinclair again.” His uncle motioned him forward. “Enough stalling. Mrs. Kennett-Holmes awaits. I’ve told her all about you, and she’s anxious to make your acquaintance.”
Cam would lay odds the man his uncle had described bore little resemblance to the man he was. No woman in her right mind would take him knowing the truth.
He bore the heart of a killer. Ached to win the heart of an Amazon.
Morgan’s wards gave her half a minute’s warning before the attack came. And that was being generous.
One moment she’d been whiling away the too-quiet hours with a year-old racing magazine, counting the monotonous ticks of the mantel clock, and wishing she hadn’t sent Amos and Susan away for the evening. At least they’d have been company.
The next moment, the air shifted. Grew thick as if the oppressive weight of a thunderstorm approached. A tingle rose the hairs on her neck as if lightning danced across her skin. And with the might of a thunderclap, the broached wards imploded followed by the splintering of a smashed door.
To come for her like this took force. And magic. Lots of it.
Doran hadn’t sent someone to fail.
Morgan tore out of the study, skidding to a stop in the foyer just as a pistol blast erupted, the bullet ripping straight across her upper arm, scoring a deep, bloody weal that hurt all the way to her fingers. Biting back a scream, she clutched the wound. Ducked into the study, risking a quick glance to judge her attacker.
He approached from the kitchens, power rippling off him in sour waves. He stank of darkness. And Morkoth magic. And she saw her own death mirrored in his evil gaze.
Tossing aside the gun, he drew a sword. Dipped it in a mockery of a salute just before he charged her position, the slash of his weapon barely hampered by the confines of the narrow corridor.
With a desperate flick of her fingers, she released her spell. Felt the tightening of his airways, the crush of his lungs as she squeezed the life from him with the strength of her own sorcery.
He stumbled against the stairs, his face blanched white, shock and a new fear flickering in the dark hollows of his empty eyes.
She didn’t give him time to adjust. But hammered him again and again. Each successive draw of her magic enough to keep him off-kilter with no way to defend himself against the onslaught.
His sword fell from a numb hand. Clattered and bounced across the floor.
Blood ribboned its way down her arm. Dripped from sticky fingers. Her whole body throbbed with every beat of her heart, but she willed the pain away. Ignored the black spots narrowing her vision. The dizziness sapping her strength. She needed to end this fight. Before he had time to regroup. React.
And that’s when he struck.
Cam used the explosion of a dropped tray of glasses to make good his escape. Mrs. Kennett-Holmes followed the laughter and jibes, craning her neck to find the source of the accident. And before she turned back, he’d vanished.
To his right, Aunt Sylvie sat in company with a group of dowagers, their tongues and fans going a mile a minute. From the room behind him, his uncle’s booming voice sounded. No help in that direction.
The
gardens were his last best hope.
He threaded his way onto the terrace. Down the stone steps onto the lawn.
Couples strolled the paths. Knots of men and women enjoying a respite from overheated rooms inside. One such couple looked unnervingly familiar, the behemoth dressed to kill in full military regalia arm in arm with a slip of a girl, her glossy curls gleaming silver-blond in the guttering torches. What the hell was Euna doing alone with Brodie? And more importantly, what the hell was Brodie thinking separating Euna from the respectability of her chaperones?
The idea that sprang to mind, he dismissed immediately. Brodie liked it easy. Entanglements with married women who knew the rules of the game were one thing. Playing with the emotions of the uninitiated was something else. And foster brother or no, Cam would tear Brodie’s head from his shoulders if he dared try his tricks with Euna.
“The party is that way,” he growled, coming up behind them.
“Cameron.” Euna started with a guilty flush, while Brodie remained unfazed by Cam’s surly arrival. “The captain came with me to get some air.”
Brodie offered the smile of the innocent. “Euna was being pestered by the usual bunch of Bond Street beaux the Abercrombies rely on to fill out these drab affairs.”
“And you just happened to be there to play knight-errant.”
Amusement lit his eyes. “I admit I had my own angle.”
Cam nodded, a slow burn forming in his chest. Clawing its way up his throat. He couldn’t believe it. Brodie wouldn’t be low enough to seduce Euna—someone as close as a sister to him? Would he? But then he and Brodie had had few chances to connect in the last years. War had split them apart. Tossed them into different regiments. Different circumstances. The time apart had changed Cam. Mayhap Brodie had altered as well. And not for the good.
Cam faced off against him. A convenient outlet for a rage he’d been unable to vent. Menace formed his stance. Fury fired his gaze. “You bloody great bastard.”
Euna paled and stepped back, her mouth a perfect O of astonishment.
Brodie’s eyes widened. “Ye dinna think…ye can’t imagine…” He laughed. Clouted him on the shoulder. “Hell, Cam. Euna’s like my own sister. Save your fireworks for someone else. I’m not the enemy.”
Brodie stating it like that made Cam feel foolish, though uncertainty hovered in the corners of Brodie’s gaze as he defended himself. A startled surprise that had nothing to do with Cam’s sneaking up on them. His white-hot boil lowered to a simmer, though he wasn’t willing to let go of all his anger. It felt good. Better than the desperate need dogging him for weeks. “So then, why are you out here?”
“I’ve been telling ye. Euna’s been plagued by sycophants. The sharks smell fresh Sinclair blood in the water.”
“And you just happened to be the one to swoop in and rescue her?”
A guilty flush stole up Brodie’s neck, his gaze hard with an unspoken message.
“Well, MacKay?” Cam pushed, ignoring Brodie’s attempt to dodge the question.
Brodie shrugged. “Fine. If ye must know, I was avoiding a certain lady of my acquaintance. She’s been a bit”—he searched for the word—“persistent in her attentions.”
Cam’s anger rushed out of him with a whoosh of spent breath. Of course. Leave it to Brodie to avoid an embarrassing scene with an old lover. Though London must be littered with such by this time. If he weren’t careful, he’d be spending all his days hiding from such “persistent” acquaintances.
“Why didn’t Morgan come with you tonight, Cam?” Euna asked, the clumsy attempt at changing the subject welcome to everybody.
He snatched at the first excuse he thought of. “She’s unwell.”
“I don’t like her.”
Cam’s hard gaze fixed unwavering on his sister. “Excuse me?”
She held her ground, but Cam noted how her hand tightened on Brodie’s arm. “Mrs. Kennett-Holmes. I don’t like her.”
“She’s not for you—or me—to like or not like. What’s important is that Uncle Josh likes her.”
She lifted her chin. A hint of the Sinclair stubbornness in the jut of her jaw, the flash in her blue eyes. “He thinks he knows what’s best for you, Cam. He thinks he knows what’s best for everyone.” Her gaze flicked to Brodie, then embarrassed as if she’d revealed too much, she dropped her gaze to her slippers. “He doesn’t know anything.”
Mage energy ripped through Morgan, frying every nerve, crushing her skull as if he cracked an egg. She dropped to her knees. Clutched her head as if she could keep her brains from oozing out. Glanced up in time to see him diving for the weapon.
Throwing herself forward, she fought to reach it first. Her fingers barely touched the cold knob of the hilt before he kicked it from her grasp. The metal clang as it spun end over end into the drawing room, echoing through her pounding head.
Dragging a dagger from its sheath, her attacker aimed it at her exposed back.
She spun. And spun again. Avoiding the downward plunge. The fire in her wounded arm. Coming to her feet with the quickness of a cat.
Closing her eyes, she whispered forth a new attack. Felt the invisible bonds reach for him. Hold him fast.
Then with deliberate slowness—in part to concentrate on the binding spell, in part to keep her wobbly head on her shoulders—she bent to retrieve the sword. Her hand curling around the hilt bringing instant reassurance. It wasn’t her weapon. But it was a weapon. And with it, the tables turned. Instant control.
She approached—close enough his mage energy enveloped her like a poison cloud. Close enough to let him see the depth of her power as an Amhas-draoi and know he’d been bested.
“Where’s Doran?” she demanded, capturing his gaze. Refusing to let him break the contact.
“Fuck you.” His breathing came fast as he struggled. His fists clenched, and Morgan knew if he managed to get them around her neck, she’d be dead in seconds.
“Is that any way to talk to a lady?”
“You’re nothing more than that Duinedon colonel’s whore.”
She didn’t take the bait, though his words slid beneath her well-armored exterior. Pinched the place in her that wondered if that wasn’t just what she’d become. A well-armed mistress. “I’ll ask you again—where’s Doran?”
A cruel smile lit his eyes; his face went hard. And he made the move she’d anticipated yet underestimated.
Had Doran been giving bloody lessons?
The man not only held power, he knew just how to wield it effectively. The binding spell unraveled and with it her hold on the situation. He sprang, his hands going for her throat.
With only one arm, she could do little to hold him off. Instinct brought her own hand up in defense, the sword extended. With momentum behind him there was no time to stop or even slow. The blade’s point drove into him. Through him.
The wet sucking plunge of the weapon roared in Morgan’s ears, the actions spinning out into slow motion so that the changing expressions on his face—shock, pain, terror, and the slow gray of death—imprinted themselves on her brain. An instant forever memory to haunt her nights for years to come.
He fell sideways. Gravity wrenching the embedded sword from her grip.
He clawed the curtains, the chair. Reached for her as if she could hold off death. Pull him back from the oblivion awaiting him.
And in the moment when life left him, the rage, the hate, the venom poisoning his soul fell away and left a man. Scared. Pitiful. Wanting only the comfort of not dying alone.
Had he deserved such a death? Had Doran lied to him? Tricked him into believing his cause was just? If she’d been better skilled, could she have avoided taking his life? The questions whirled through her tender brain. Unanswerable. But imperative.
Morgan stood, chest heaving, shaking, incapable of looking away from the sprawled figure, bleeding his life into the carpet.
Her mind cleared as if a giant hand had wiped it clean. She swallowed over and over. Tried taking a deep br
eath, her nose and mouth filling with the acrid metal tang of blood and sweat and excrement. Her stomach clenched, making her heave.
Wiping a hand across her mouth, she somehow managed to make it to a chair by the fire. Sat down before she fell down.
The battle over, her energy drained in a whirlpool rush that left her light-headed. Or was that loss of blood? Hard to say.
She pressed her opposite hand to the wound in a feeble attempt to stanch the sluggish flow, gritting her teeth against a stinging pain she could see.
She’d sit here for a minute. Just long enough to catch her breath. Then she’d go in search of a tourniquet. Something she could use to bandage her arm.
She leaned back against the cushions. Just a moment more. It couldn’t hurt to lie back. Cam would be here soon. Or Susan and Amos. Gods, she hoped not them. That would surely lead to some unanswerable questions.
Warmth eluded her. Thought grew useless. Except for a voice—Cam’s voice that came at her from the not-so-distant past. Have you ever dealt death with your own hand? Looked a man in the face while his life drains in front of you?
She’d mocked Cam’s concern. Shrugged off his warnings. She could take it. She was the big, bad Amhas-draoi. The best of the best. How bad could it be?
She drew her knees up. Leaned her head upon them, squeezing her eyes shut tight. She knew now. And it was worse than she could ever have imagined.
Chapter 25
Cam found her there hours later. Curled in a chair by the dying coals of a fire, shoulders hunched, face pale and tight with pain.
He’d shaken off the determined flirtations of Mrs. Kennett-Homes, evaded his uncle’s evil eye, and pointedly ignored the disturbing friendship of Brodie and Euna. These were all problems to be dealt with another day. He’d done what was asked of him, albeit with little enthusiasm. If Uncle Josh chose to reveal his hand and Morgan’s identity, Cam would deal with it then. More terrifying and more immediate? A dead body lying impaled in his drawing room, his servants missing, and Morgan fevered and bloody.
Dangerous As Sin Page 23
