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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.
