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And if that was real…
He pulled his gaze from Traverse. Settled it on Morgan….
that meant the Other. The Amhas-draoi. All of it was real. She’d been telling him the truth. She really was a bloody great Amazon.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up. Threatened to spill over. He was chasing a damned Fey legend. With a half-blood warrior. That he’d slept with.
Could his life be turned any more upside down?
While he stood like a clod, Morgan poured out a cup of tea from the pot on the table. Brought it to the man. Returned with a tray of food. Helped him juggle his tea and his shawl and his plate. No false sympathy. No bumbling platitudes. She just did it. Comfortable. Efficient. And the awkwardness passed. She pulled up another chair. “Do you mind if I sit, Traverse? We’ve been traveling since Tuesday with few breaks.” Her casual tone implied there was nothing odd about a twenty-four-year old in the body of an octogenarian.
Maybe not in her world.
“Help yourself.”
Traverse’s gaze followed Morgan. And Cam couldn’t blame him. The landlady’s try at temptation was amateurish compared to Morgan’s silky movements. The starched, military cut of her jacket and brisk demeanor in contrast with the graceful tilt of her head, the sweep of cheekbones, and those pouty, kiss-me lips did things to a man’s insides that ought to be illegal. And the killer was, she did it all with an unconscious elegance. It wasn’t a pose. It wasn’t an act. She had no idea what she did to him—he shuddered. He meant Traverse. Definitely Traverse.
Cam could tell the man was already smitten. Morgan had that effect. Like a blow between the eyes. It was the follow-up punch to the gut you had to watch for.
“I don’t get visitors,” Traverse apologized. “Except for Mrs. Brumby, my landlady. And she only comes to bring me my dinner. She’s scared. They’re all scared. And I don’t blame them.”
Cam took up a position by the window. Adjusted the curtains to keep an eye on the street. Traffic was steady. Carts and wagons. An occasional carriage. Pedestrians threading their way between them all.
“You were attacked a week ago?” Morgan asked.
Traverse nodded. “Ten days. And since then…well, you can see for yourself.”
“Do you remember anything?”
He ignored the food. As he raised his tea to his lips, his hands trembled. He dropped the cup back into its saucer as if self-conscious. “I’ve already spoken to my commanding officer. And the physicians. They thought I was making up stories.”
“Will it bother you to repeat it?”
He took a slow, wheezy breath. “No. I’ll tell you everything I remember if you think it will help.”
She offered him an encouraging smile. “It might.”
Oh, she was good. Traverse was eating out of her hand. Cam glanced back to the window. He could swear he’d seen that peddler pass by once already. His gaze narrowed, his attention split between the street and Morgan’s questioning.
“It was late. I was coming back here after meeting friends when I was jumped.” Like his eyes, the ensign’s voice remained disconcertingly boyish. Reminded Cam of his younger brother Alisdair. They’d be about the same age, though Al would die rather than get within twenty leagues of the army. Especially after rumors revealed Cam’s dirty little part in it. “They must have knocked me cold. When I woke, I was tied. It couldn’t have been long. It was still dark. The moon was high.”
“They?”
“Aye. There must have been three or four men. Mayhap more. It was too dark to see.”
“Could you tell where they’d taken you?”
“Out on the moor. There’s a group of stones. The locals call it the Giant’s Fist. A place near where we run exercises. I recognized it. But then the men…” His words faded as his memories took hold.
The peddler passed by again, and this time glanced up at the house.
Cam broke in. “Did they have the sword?”
“What?” Traverse jumped, his eyes unfocused. Confused.
Morgan glared at the tactless interruption. “Colonel Sinclair wants to know if any of the men carried a weapon.”
Cam gave Morgan a look that meant something was up. She frowned. Nodded her understanding.
