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“The inn’s the other way,” he said, the temper drained from his voice. Now all he sounded was tired.
She bit back her rude comment, especially when she noticed the shake in his hands as he guided her shoulders in the opposite direction.
“Don’t ever…Morgan, just…” He stumbled over his words. Blew out a frustrated breath as he combed a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
So much in those six little words.
She turned back, fixing him with a level stare. “Too late.”
Cam pushed the door to their room wide, motioning Morgan through first. Not out of any gentlemanly attempt at gallantry, but because it kept her from seeing what a mess he was. The slender thread of her neck between his hands slithered through his mind. The ease at which he could have slashed the knife across it crawled over his palms, making him break out in a cold sweat.
Cameron Sinclair had become Sin. Again.
The present had faded. He’d forgotten where he was, who he was. He’d reacted on pure instinct. Pure survival. The need to eliminate the threat. The training of the Serpent Brigade living in his actions.
He’d recovered in time. It took only a moment before he’d recognized the cloaked figure and realized she wasn’t a danger to his safety.
To his sanity? Very much so.
Morgan unclasped her cloak, threw it across the bed, revealing her plain linen shirt worn over a pair of hip-hugging, leave-nothing-to-the-imagination leather breeks. Her hair, she’d plaited in intricate braids caught up with silver and bone combs. At her waist, a bone-handled dagger. Nothing soft about her. He should have been horrified or offended at her brazen appearance. Instead, reckless arousal flared through him.
Dainty. Sweet. Delicate. Words he’d once have used to describe how he liked his women seemed ridiculous now.
She lit the lamp by the bed, its glow illuminating the red-gold fire of her hair, bringing a dusky flush to her skin. “About following you tonight”—she plucked at the blanket’s fringe, uneasy, awkward—“it wasn’t the most intelligent of ideas.”
Morgan? Apologizing? She must be as rattled as he was. Or else he’d cracked her head harder than he’d thought.
“Forget it,” he said. “It was as much my fault as yours. More, because I know what I’m capable of. You don’t—didn’t.” He busied himself undressing. Boots kicked off. Jacket flung over a chair. Shirt buttons one by one. Mundane tasks he could accomplish without thinking. Because thinking meant acknowledging what had just happened. He’d almost killed Morgan. And then he’d almost kissed her—again.
The second time in as many days.
Morgan’s tempting presence. Devil’s sidekick Rastus resurfacing. And a crazy, sword-wielding murderer with a taste for soldiers. This assignment was hellish in so many ways.
“So what are you capable of?” As if she knew how close he’d come—and maybe she did—Morgan rose from the bed, the only woman he knew who could dress, talk, and fight like a man and still carry herself like a queen.
Albeit a queen with attitude.
Mayhap the Celtic Boudicca who spent her days slaughtering Romans. He could definitely picture Morgan riding roughshod over a few dozen legionnaires.
Just before reaching him, she stopped, one hand poised to caress his bare chest, her eyes black with desire.
Meeting her gaze, he knew he hadn’t imagined it. She’d been ready for him to kiss her back there in that alley. Had wanted it as much as he did.
And, damn, he wanted it. Bad.
Was this meant as punishment? To tease him with what could have been if only he hadn’t been a rat bastard and told her up front about Charlotte? Did she wait for him to call her bluff so she could react like a wronged virgin? What did she want from him?
Did he care?
He needed an outlet for the crazy pressure building inside him, the tension banding his shoulders, tightening his gut. If Morgan was willing…
“Just so we’re open about what we’re doing here,” he started, fumbling for words.
An embarrassed smile hovered at the corners of her lips. “No tricks. No strings. But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you in my bed. This way, I call the shots. I’m in control.” Her hand splayed over his chest, cool against his burning skin. She ran her fingers over the thin chain, her touch featherlight as it brushed the cross.
He fisted his hand protectively around the necklace. “Is this a good idea? You’re upset, maybe a little confused by the knock on your head.”
What was he doing? Was he actually trying to talk her out of sleeping with him? Was he completely insane? Just the touch of her hand had his body reacting, the pressure reaching dangerous levels. One more provocative move on her part and all hesitation would be over.
