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And there was no way in this world—or any other—that Cam was going to sneak his way back into her bed—or her life. They’d find Neuvarvaan. Restore it to the Fey and go their separate ways. Period.
She snatched another look at him, but this time he caught her. And she couldn’t look away. His face held a wistful, faraway expression, but his eyes had grown dark as slate. A purpose in them lost to even her powers.
She threw herself to her feet. Left the table, Cam’s intense gaze boring into her back.
Distance, her final refuge.
Cam pushed his way to a table past a crowd of soldiers. And whores. And those who enjoyed the company of both.
The public tap of The Forlorn Hope reeked of smoke and sweat and male bravado. The tavern’s private parlors offered space for gambling. Other chambers, even more private, offered sex. Women wove their way between the tables, serving drinks. Advertising what could be had for a price. And vice here came at a premium. This was no run-down gin shop. Nor was it a posh officers-only gentlemen’s club. The owner had carried off his establishment with style, keeping his high-class guests as happy as the lowest privates. If there was information to be gathered, it would be found here.
And though Cam tried not to dwell on it, it had the added benefit of being away from Morgan. The long days of constant confrontation and endless nights spent in enforced proximity wore on his already frayed nerves. He’d even begun dreaming again. Fragments of memories he’d locked away when he’d stepped off the boat in Portsmouth. Things he’d done. Things he hadn’t. Both haunted him on occasion.
He drowned his regrets with shot after shot until he went numb. Until the hollow ache of guilt didn’t bother him anymore. He felt as if he’d tumbled into one of his nightmares. That same sense of unreality. Of impending doom. As if somewhere normal had taken a horribly wrong turn and ended up in a place where he was pretending marriage with a woman he’d slept with and lied to—and, oh, by the way, she came armed and dangerous.
He needed another drink. Or barring that—something to take his mind from the churning confusion. Get him back on solid ground. He focused on the tangible. The rational. A mysterious soldier. A missing weapon. Find one, the other, or both, and he could go home to Strathconon. Put this whole bloody awful mess behind him.
He stood, his whiskey binge making itself felt in the swaying of the room. The sudden unevenness of the floorboards. The new attractiveness of the women.
One peeled herself away from a nearby table of officers. Sauntered his way, her body brushing suggestively against him. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, her voice a gravelly whisper.
As things were shaping up, not an impossibility.
“Not interested, but I appreciate the concern,” he said, squaring his shoulders.
He squinted. Tried concentrating on one spot to keep the rest of the world from spinning. It helped. He knew if he could just make it outside, he’d feel better. Fresh air. A long walk. Both would dilute the worst of the alcohol. Always had before.
The woman followed, coiling herself against him, her body soft, her face decent, her morals nonexistent.
Without quite understanding how it had occurred, by the time they’d hit the door, he’d wrapped an arm around her waist and she’d giggled her assent, her breath hot against his neck. “Name’s Lucy. And I can make you forget she ever existed.”
He frowned. “How do you know I want to forget?”
Her lip curled in a pouty smile. “Because if you didn’t, you’d never have come with me.”
The street was dark, the sharp breeze like a slap in the face.
Lucy pulled him toward an alley running between the pub and a tall, narrow stone house. A set of stairs climbed the outside of the building to a landing and a door on the second floor. She glanced up, but instead of heading to the stairs, tugged him behind the building with anxious, greedy hands. “I’ve a room next door, but I share it with another girl. She’s using it. We’ll have to make do. But don’t worry. I’ll cut you a deal on the price.”
Pushing him back against the wall, she fumbled at his breeks.
Cam closed his eyes. Tried to forget everything that had led him to this place tonight.
His tortured memories dredged up Morgan. Not as she was now, sulky and ill-tempered, but as she’d been in Scotland. Laughing up at him, her hair spilling across her naked shoulders. Her eyes—the exact shade of his family’s malt whiskey—bright with lust and joy.
The world tilted out from under him, and he groped to find purchase on the wall. As he stumbled, the back of his head connected with the bricks. Lights burst in front of his eyes.
Lucy sidled against him, her breasts pushed up into his face, as she untucked his shirt. Her smell of stale smoke and greasy food turned his stomach. Exploded through his pathetic imaginings like black powder.
What the hell was he doing? Had he gone mad? Sunk to the point where a quick bang in an alley was necessary to keep body and soul together? “No,” he said, grabbing her arms.
She ignored him. Knelt.
“I said no.” This time louder. Stronger. “Get off me.” He yanked her to her feet, repulsed at the fear in her eyes.
She backed away, her alarm swiftly becoming anger when she realized he wasn’t going to come after her. “Where’s my money? You owe me.” Her earlier sultry murmur had risen to a fishwife screech.
Cam dug in his pocket. Tossed her the first coin that came to hand. She caught it. Dropped the half crown into her apron with a mingled look of surprise and disgust. She shook her head. “You stupid prat! You asked me out here. Remember?”
