AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Was?”
“Hurley’s been murdered.”
Her stomach plummeted, the hope of an easy break vanishing. Hurley had been a connection to Neuvarvaan and Doran. A connection severed before he could tell them anything.
She was saved from responding by the return of the simpering barmaid. Gods, had the woman never seen a good-looking man? She was doing everything but exposing herself. And with Morgan—Cam’s supposed wife—sitting right there. She could only imagine what the slut would attempt if he were alone. She gritted her teeth. Flashed the woman a dangerous look that sent her scuttling back to the bar. “So what the hell happened to Hurley?”
Cam winced at her language, which only served to raise her temperature another notch. “He was unconscious and under guard. They’d found him after Traverse arrived back in town raving about the attack on the moor. But of course since Traverse had no obvious wounds and Hurley was nothing but broken bones, Traverse was arrested. Later a guard was placed on Hurley as well. When Ensign Traverse…” He paused. “…aged, the military were more baffled. Downright scared, if you ask me.” Cam slammed back the second whiskey, only now beginning to lose the strung, haunted look he’d carried with him into the taproom. “The major in charge was happy to wash his hands of the mess and hand it off to us. This is the second incident at the Giant’s Fist in two months. The first soldier died.”
“And Hurley’s actual killing?”
“The guards don’t remember anything. According to them, they never left their posts. Never slept.”
“Magic. I’d bet my life.”
Cam didn’t argue. Just stared into the bottom of his empty whiskey glass.
Prepared for a fight, Morgan
felt deflated. As if he’d cheated her out of something. Frustration pounded through her with every breath. Resentment at being left behind. Cam’s embarrassed reactions to her lack of refinement. And now exasperation that the only link to Andraste’s sword was dead. Anger clawed at her, demanding an outlet. An escape.
Cam was the perfect target. She knew if she picked at him, he’d give her the fight she wanted. And her scorn and annoyance would remain alive. Hard emotions. Safe emotions. “Ready to believe now, are you?” She sneered. “Not so quick with the snotty comments after seeing Neuvarvaan’s power.”
He lifted his head, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to throttle her or kiss her—or both. His eyes glittered, silver blue like the heart of a flame. She could drown in those eyes. Had once.
Her skin prickled as her stomach gave a strange, lurching plunge. She blinked and looked away. Ashamed of her petty needling. More ashamed of her unbidden reaction.
“Have you sent word to your family about Traverse?” He’d chosen to ignore her waspish comment, but his expression was stern, almost disappointed, which only infuriated her more. As if she were acting the child.
Her jaw clenched, her stare as icy and forbidding as she could make it. “I told you I would. But don’t expect an answer right away. And even if my grandmother comes, that’s no guarantee.”
He shrugged, a grim smile curving the corners of his mouth. “No guarantee, but it’s a hope Traverse didn’t have before. Thank you.”
She knew what he was thinking. That she was cruel. Heartless.
It wasn’t true.
She liked to think of it as single-minded. Driven. Focused on what needed to be accomplished. And those were positive traits, weren’t they?
“So, have you checked on Traverse?” she asked. “If those men silenced Hurley because of what he might tell us, the ensign could be in danger.”
“That’s why I’m late. I’ve had Traverse moved and posted a guard. The major didn’t like me commandeering his men, but mention of General Pendergast’s authority didn’t leave him a lot of choice.”
“How is he?”
“The ensign? Holding his own. He’s tough. He’s needed to be.”
Was he trying to make her feel worse? “I told you I wrote, you can’t ask more—”
“Morgan,” he interrupted. His steel-blade gaze softened. “I said thank you.” There was no attitude behind the words. He meant it. And that confused her more than anything that had gone on before.
Her stomach did that uncomfortable tumbling again. She felt as if she’d passed a test. Gained his approval. But when had Cam’s good opinion become so important? And what would he think of her when he found she’d been lying to him? Keeping secrets?
Cam’s hand rested on the table. Close enough that she could brush it if she wanted and it would look like an accident. The long, clever fingers, absent of any adornment—not even a signet ring. The faint scar across three knuckles he’d told her he got from a fishhook when he was nine.
There was strength in those hands. There had to have been to fight and survive as he had on the bloody heights around Toulouse. Salamanca. Badajoz. And dozens of other battlefields through six long years. And yet those same hands could bring her to climax with the gentlest of touches. Play her body until she cried for release.
She shifted in her seat. Wished she had something as strong in her glass as Cam’s whiskey. She needed to get a hold of herself. Cam was just using her. Like he’d done last winter. Like he’d do again in a heartbeat. But she was ready this time. On her guard.
