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She screamed as the whirlpool opened beneath her feet. Dragged her away.
Cam caught Morgan as her legs buckled, the sudden weight on his sore shoulder pulling them both down. They sprawled together against the base of the standing-stone, her eyes wide and staring, her lips parted on the end of the caoineag shriek she’d let out just before she’d collapsed.
He scrambled to his knees, his gaze sweeping the area. No glint of sun off steel. No telltale whiff of powder. No slide of shale. If a shooter had followed them here, he’d come and gone. Cam leaned over her. Began to examine her for a bullet wound.
Morgan jerked once, gasping as if all the air had been driven from her lungs, before hunching forward, drawing her knees up under her.
Steadying his shaking hand while trying not to dwell on how scared he’d been, Cam held a flask under her nose. “Drink this.”
“I’m all right,” she croaked, pushing it away.
“What the hell happened?” he snapped, still
reeling with fear that had his palms sweaty, his knees wobbling.
Wind bounced and curled through the stone fingers of the Giant’s Fist, carrying whispered voices in a language he couldn’t understand. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. So intense was his feeling of being watched, he half expected a Fey to step from out of the stones’ shadow.
Whatever watched also listened. The wind died away. The air grew heavy with expectation. Cam shivered in the sudden shade cast by the scudding clouds.
“Morgan? What did you do?” He pressed her for an answer.
“I scryed the standing-stone.” She held up a hand as if she knew what his next words would be. “Objects hold memories. Emotions. I can draw them out. See the past. I saw Ensign Traverse’s killing. Saw Neuvarvaan and Dor…” She stopped. “…the man who wields it. We can track him down. Find Andraste’s sword and return it to the Fey.”
She tried standing, but Cam was faster. He gripped her shoulder. Held her down. “It can’t hurt to rest here for another minute. Until you get your bearings.”
“I’m fine,” she bit back.
“You’re not fine. You screamed. It was…” How could he describe the complete helplessness he’d felt hearing her earsplitting, anguished cry? Knowing there wasn’t a damned thing he could do.
He couldn’t. Not without sounding like he cared. Which would scare her away quicker than anything else. “You were loud.”
“Brilliant. That’s professional.” She flushed before pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. Whatever had happened had shaken her more than she’d admit. “I need that drink after all.” Wrenching the flask out of his hand, she tossed back the contents. Wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Shit, Cam. Stop staring at me. I told you I’m all right.”
Their gazes locked, and Cam knew instantly Morgan tested him. Waited for him to react. With disapproval. Repugnance. And so much came clear. The foul language. Yesterday’s striptease. The constant over-the-top bravado.
A reaction was just what she wanted. She wanted to see him flinch. Make him squirm. But it was all an act. A way to show the world—no, a way to show him—how tough she was.
Morgan might not be the pleasure-seeking Siren she’d portrayed in Edinburgh last winter. But she wasn’t all hard-bitten, ruthless warrior-woman either. She was both.
One aspect of her personality hadn’t changed. She was as unpredictable as always.
He stifled a laugh, sure that wouldn’t go over well.
“What are you smirking at?” she asked.
“You scared ten years off my life.”
Her gaze darkened, grew troubled. She fumbled with the flask.
He’d surprised her. Hadn’t given her the response she’d expected. And Cam knew he’d won that round.
But what had he given up?
He leaned forward, wishing he had the right to offer comfort. A touch. A kiss. But he knew what that would get him. A scathing comment at best. A blow to his midsection at worst. He swallowed the impulse, though not the desire. Decided to confront her head-on. “Have you ever seen death? Violent death? Been close enough to smell the blood or watch the light fade from someone’s eyes? Have you ever dealt it with your own hand? Looked a man in the face while his life drains in front of you?”
Morgan plucked a grass blade from the ground. Twirled it between her fingers. “I’ve seen…not…No.”
Memories surfaced. Recollections that resisted all his drunken attempts to obliterate them. “I have. It sours your stomach. Makes your blood run fevered, then frozen through your veins. But you do what you have to do. You don’t think. You don’t care. You simply act or react. That’s what makes a perfect soldier.”
