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Cam slept. His wounded shoulder still swathed in the bandages of last night; the arm held protectively across his chest. His other arm he’d flung over his face against the morning sun.
He’d thrown off the covers, exposing his lean, muscled torso. His long, powerful legs. But like his face, months of drink and self-destruction had left their mark. Had he cared for his wife so much that her death had wrought such a change? Or did something more account for his devastating free fall?
She should turn away. Just walk out. Instead, she knelt beside him, feeling his forehead. Checking the bandage. Naught but a pink, angry scar to mark the passing of the villain’s blade. And even that would fade in time. Like the others.
She’d seen the scars the first time they’d lain together. A long puckered weal of raised tissue marking his upper back. Another ugly slash scoring his upper thigh. Mementos of the war, he’d told her. No spinning of a heroic battle story. No recounting of miraculous derring-do meant to impress. He’d shrugged them off. Dismissed them. And so had she.
Until today.
Around his neck hung a cross upon a chain. Simple. Well worn. But a recent acquisition. He’d not had it when they’d lain together last winter. She’d have remembered. Would have felt its power. And power, it had. She’d barely touched it last night and the images had burst in her head like fireworks. It would take little on her part to see what memories lay stored within the shards of jet. What else Cam had hidden from her their few short weeks together.
She cupped the cross in the palm of her hand, the thin gold chain draped across her fingers. Closing her eyes, she let the rippling power of the scrying deepen. Take hold of her. Show her what she might see.
Mage energy sparked up her arm. Stung her neck. Set her scalp tingling.
As if drawn up through deep waters, objects swam into view. Dim and murky at first, the scene emerged, gilded with a hazy afterglow. Emotional echoes. Distorted reflections of the past.
A sea or a lake, so clear it mirrored the sky and the snowcapped mountains ringing it to the north and east. She was Cam. Seeing the moment through his eyes. The sleek perfection of a racing yacht’s tiller beneath his hand as it cut through the water.
A boy of ten or eleven scurried with lines and sails while a young girl sat tucked in an enormous waterproof, her hand outstretched to catch the spray off the creaming waves, licking the water from her fingers. Hugh. Euna. Their names fell into Morgan’s mind as if they’d always been there.
The wind kicked round, sending the boat heeling on its side, the shoreline whipping past in a blur of green and brown and gray. Hugh laughed, pointing skyward as they raced a V of geese.
Cam threw his head back. Shouted into the wind. He was alive and in his element. The freedom from books and tutors and school and authority made his heart leap in his chest. Any minute he might soar skyward to join the birds.
Father and Mother were coming home today. They’d have one whole week together before Cam had to leave. Before he was forced to return to the civilizing influence of the south.
Hugh frowned. Gestured at the growing swells. The darkening skies. A storm approached, drawn like a curtain across the body of the loch.
Needles of rain stung Cam’s face. Slicked his hands, making his grip on the tiller unsure. The sailboat wasn’t made for this weather. It tossed and pitched as he fought for control, urging it back to shore. He squinted, looking for lights from the house. Tried to judge his distance. Gauge the crosswinds. He gripped his cross—whispered a quick prayer to the god of his faith. Another softer one to the Good Folk like Gran-da always did.
Tears and water slid down Euna’s face, her terror palpable. Yet she did as ordered. Scrambled across the deck to catch a runaway line. Caught and tied down a lashing sail.
Uncle Josh would kill him for taking his new yacht out. Probably a week of pottage and eels for punishment. Made his stomach turn just thinking about it.
The wind screamed through the rigging, pushing them farther away from shore, as whitecaps crested over the gunwales. Broke in rivers across the deck. Hugh slipped and fell, coming up hard against the railing, saved from washing overboard by a hairsbreadth.
Fear knotted Cam’s insides, but he refused to let it take him over. It had been his idea to launch the boat without permission. He would see them safe.
“When did you get back?” The tired voice tore through Morgan.
As if she’d been pulled into the water beneath the boat, she felt herself falling. Sucked back into the present. The vision no more than a raging headache.
“What are you doing?” Cam’s hand closed over hers. Eased the cross from her grip, the chain sliding free. “Morgan?”
She hid her purpose behind a bland smile. “How’s the arm?”
“It’s—”
“Here.” She took him by the elbow…
“Wait!”
…shook his arm up and down.
Pulling free, Cam grimaced as he massaged his shoulder. “Could you give me some warning before you torture me?”
She tossed him a wicked smile. “You’re fine. Naught but a scar.”
