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Still others told—though always in a frightened whisper—of a mysterious woman who came to him only at night. And disappeared with the first gray smear of dawn in the east. On those days, the colonel seemed darker and more forbidding than ever. And though none understood why, they all took great pains to avoid him on those occasions.
If the exterior of the house exuded strength and age, the interior welcomed with snug rooms and a beeswax shine. Comfort and wealth combined to create a homey, cheerful atmosphere. Thick colorful rugs on the floors. Expensive paintings on the walls. A chimneypiece scattered with souvenirs of a life in the Highlands. Part of a stag’s antler. A clamshell. Weathered pebbles of an unearthly blue. A small bird’s skull. And in the center of it all, an urn of delicate antiquity. Worth a king’s ransom by the looks of it.
Like Cam, an odd mixture of high class and native ruggedness.
A pricking at her back spun her on her heel straight into the unblinking portrait stare of a hawk-nosed, strong-jawed gentleman whose frozen blue gaze was all too familiar. She lifted a hand, as if she could speak with him. Tell him he’d been right. Love wasn’t a chain. And in matters of the heart, at least one former Fey knew more than enough.
Morgan and Cam might circle each other endlessly unless one of them chose to end it. She would brave the first step. And please, God. Let Gram’s hunch be right. Or it would be one hell of a long trip south.
Cam tumbled the stones in his pocket as he pushed open the door, shut it against a wind shrieking with a promise of the storm to come. There’d be snow before morning. Lots of it. And he’d be trapped inside. No endless wanderings to tire his body and his mind enough for sleep to come. Morgan’s shade would visit him in his tossings and turnings. Punish him with second-guesses. What-ifs.
Had he been right to leave? In the chaos after Doran’s destruction when he’d been half mad with pain and grief and fear, the slithering coil of the serpent had convinced him to walk away. That he’d fallen too far for even Morgan to drag him back.
It had only been in the last weeks the voice had died away and he’d almost convinced himself—almost—that she might have stayed. He might have made her happy.
He crossed the hall to the back parlor—one of the few rooms he’d reopened upon his arrival. The upper floors remained shut.
Who needed a bed when sleep was the enemy?
At the threshold he slammed to a stop, the breath punched from his lungs, his heart banging against his ribs.
It couldn’t be.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them again expecting her to be a dream. He’d had them often enough to be wary. Morgan seated at the table, her red-gold hair gleaming in the light of a fire, her whiskey gaze hot with a love he thought forever lost to him.
But she remained. And the smile she turned on him smashed through the brittle barriers he’d thrown up to keep the worst of the hurt from taking him completely over.
He crossed the room in two strides, sliding to a halt an arm’s reach away. So close he smelled her enticing perfume, sensed her tension.
She clutched the arms of her chair, bit her bottom lip, but her eyes held his. Refused to let him look away. Retreat. “This is the second time I’ve had to track you down.”
His hand closed around the pebbles, reassuring him he wasn’t imagining. “I thought it best to disappear. Make it easy for you.”
Her jaw jumped. “You think what I’ve been through the last months has been easy?” She settled back, taking a deep breath. “One question, Cam. That’s all I’ve come here for.”
She squared her shoulders. Chin up. Eyes bright. Must be one hell of a question. She paused. Just long enough for dread to knot his insides. For sweat to break out on his chilled skin.
Apparently deciding she’d spun out the suspense long enough, she inhaled and asked, “I need to know, Cam. Do you love me, or were the last weeks just a way to get me naked into your bed?”
“I—”
But she didn’t give him a chance to finish. “I once told you I didn’t look for marriage. Had no need for love. I was wrong. Like it or not, I love you.”
Love. The word plunged a burning brand
into the icy fist of his heart. Cam dropped into the chair beside her, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Without looking up, he asked, “Can you know what I am—what I’m capable of—and love me anyway?”
Amusement colored her words. “I could ask you the same question.”
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Here was the dream. Morgan in his house. In his life. Not for a day or a month, but a lifetime. All he had to do was answer. But words wouldn’t come. His throat closed, his mouth dry. He lifted his eyes to hers. “Why?” was all he managed to choke out.
She lifted her eyes to his, her expression as fired with purpose as if she stood on the battlefield. “Because I’m tired of waiting on my knight in shining armor to sweep me off my feet. He’s damned overdue. This damsel decided to do her own sweeping. Write her own happy ending.”
She smiled, sending a violent wave of heat straight to his center. Months of snow and ice and cold baths had dulled the desire, but never extinguished it.
“So what’s your answer?”
Whether it was her words or some slight movement toward him, he couldn’t say. All he knew was one moment, he sat reeling in stunned excitement. The next he’d grabbed her up, knocking her chair on its side, swinging her around before settling her against his heart. Sliding his hands into the spill of her hair, he slanted his mouth over hers. Dipped his tongue between her lips. Felt her answering invitation in the plunge of her tongue, the slow sucking of his bottom lip, the suggestive grind of her crotch against him.
