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The regret in those few words was more convincing than any long-winded rant. And more powerful because she’d seen his family. Hugh. Euna. Memories of Cam’s childhood in the Highlands of Scotland. It was plain they’d been close. As it was equally plain he’d been the wild one. Reckless. Bold. Foolish.
Nothing had changed.
Her thoughts trained inward, she started when he spoke.
“You did say you’d fixed it.” Cam tested his shoulder, wincing as he lifted it over his head. Made a fist.
She shook off her musings, aware of their treacherous course. “Horrid man. You should be grateful I didn’t let you bleed to death. It was your fault. All of it.”
Prepared for a fight, she didn’t expect the sullen “You’re right” that followed.
“I’m sorry, Morgan.” He lay back against the headboard. Stared up at the ceiling, an unreadable expression in his distant gaze.
She sensed his turmoil. And his pain. And a whirling storm of confusion too tangled for her to unravel. His emotions pressed like a weight upon her chest.
Her heart fluttered queerly just imagining that knife blade entering a few inches lower. A few inches deeper.
“I’m getting damned tired of apologizing,” he said, breaking into the awkward silence. “Damned tired. Especially when you won’t believe me.” He swung around to face her, his eyes as angry as the storm-tossed loch. He lifted a hand as if he might caress her cheek. Pull her close.
She swept to her feet, away from the tantalizing heat of a body she knew too well. Hands that knew her every secret place. Lips that could tease a scream from her.
Away from a man that could love her until she shattered into a million pieces or hurt her more deeply than any other person alive.
Morgan flung her bag onto the bed. Wiped her forehead with the back of a sleeve. She was a mess. Skirts sopping and muddy to the knees. Jacket torn and streaked with dust. And still she managed to look sexy.
Cam caught himself staring. Quickly refocused on working his stiff arm.
“Where have you been?” he asked, trying to keep the concern from his voice. If he hadn’t known it before, this morning had shown him the ease with which he could slip into making himself believe he and Morgan were good again. That the past six months never happened.
“I’ve been down at the riverfront.” She pulled the combs from her hair. Shook it out. Plucked a stray leaf or two from her head. She wasn’t making this not-staring business easy. “I wanted to retrace my steps from last night.”
“And did you find anything?”
He pulled his shirt on, careful not to jar his shoulder. Morgan swore he was fine, but it sure as hell didn’t feel like it. His collarbone throbbed, and any quick movement sent slashes of pain on a straight path from his arm to his brain.
“I found traces of mage energy,” she said. He must have looked confused, because she heaved a long-suffering sigh before continuing. “The energy used by Fey and Other—magic for want of a better term. When we draw on mage energy, residue is left behind. It can be used to track. Like a footprint. A blood trail. That’s my expertise.” She frowned. “The man I tailed last night was Other. No doubt of it. Someone knows we’re here. And why. They’re not taking any chances.”
“How about the gang in the alley?”
“I’d like to say they were a coincidence. They couldn’t have known we’d be there.” She seemed indecisive as if an unexpected problem had arisen. Her glance swept over him, a thoughtful look upon her face. Finally, she shrugged. Took off her soiled jacket.
“Unless that’s why he showed himself,” Cam suggested. “To entice us into following. A teaser to draw us out.”
She cocked one more reluctant look at him and then—holy shit—began unbuttoning her gown. Neatly. Quickly. As if he weren’t sitting two feet away. With his tongue hanging out.
“What the hell are you doing?” He threw himself to his feet, the pain from that ill-thought move almost enough to overwhelm the screaming blast of instant lust he was experiencing.
“My clothes are filthy. I have to change,” she replied matter-of-factly, although challenge lit her burnished bronze gaze. “You’re my husband. Get used to it.” Letting the gown fall to the floor, she stepped out of it, clad in nothing but a shift. Skin he’d last seen months ago much too close for comfort. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.”
“But that was…and now…shit, Morgan. You know as well as I do it’s different now.” He tried looking everywhere but at her. Failed miserably.
“Don’t think about it. Pretend I’m a man.”
Like that could happen.
“To answer your question, the men in the alley were no more than they seemed. A rabble of thieves. The leveryas worked too easily for them to be Other.”
He concentrated. Pretended she was Brodie.
