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“Don’t worry over him, mum,” Susan tsked, climbing the stairs. Leading Morgan down a long narrow hallway. “It’s this house. Always puts him in a temper. Nothing a good dram of Sinclair whiskey won’t cure.”
Morgan grimaced. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Susan pushed wide the bedchamber door, peering around with pursed lips. “It’s small. A bit dark. Nothing like the front rooms.”
At this point Morgan could have happily curled up in a corner on the floor, but she kept her mouth shut. Tested the mattress. Lumpy, smelling of camphor, and absolute heaven to her tired bones.
Susan rubbed her arms briskly, the chilly room’s hearth as black and empty as the kitchen’s. “I’m sorry about the state of things. But I expect now that you’re here, the colonel will reopen
the place.” She sounded disappointed. “A shame. He should sell it and be done, if you was to ask me.”
Morgan straightened. “Why would he sell it?”
“Isn’t it obvious? He bought it for her, didn’t he?”
And with those cryptic words, she left.
Morgan surveyed her surroundings, the papered walls, the fancy scrollwork on the mahogany bed frame. The heavy damask drapes.
Fashionable. Refined. Stylish.
And completely unwelcoming.
What happened within these cheerless rooms to make Cam flee the first chance he got? Had Charlotte been the victim everyone rumored? Or had there been more to it than that?
Life was rarely black and white. Right and wrong. Could Cam’s marriage to Charlotte fall into that same state of gray? And what did that mean for her own rocky relationship with him?
The ghost-feel of his hands lurked in the corners of her mind, the fierce need for him left unsatisfied. Her body still yearned to finish what they’d started. Know once more the mind-bending thrill of climaxing beneath him.
She shook off the craving and the questions at the same time, chalked them both up to bone-weary exhaustion. Tomorrow, she’d wake and Cam would still be the jackass she barely tolerated.
He had to be.
Cam pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, exhaustion rushing in to replace the dogged silence he’d managed for the last days. He’d known Morgan was tired. Hungry. Sore. But he pushed on, refusing to lessen his pace or give in to his urge to call a rest before she dropped in her traces. He wanted to say he did it out of necessity. That they needed to be in London as soon as possible, but he couldn’t convince himself that was the only reason. It was to punish as much as anything else. Unfortunately, all he did was make his own injuries worse. His thigh burned as if a knife twisted its way through him.
Again.
Stretching his leg out in front of him, he massaged the ache in an effort to work the kinks out.
Susan would be here any minute. As soon as she’d settled Morgan, he expected the old busybody to clatter in, demanding explanations. A privilege of lifelong familiarity. And one she enjoyed a little too much.
“Well?”
Right on cue. “Well what?” Cam shifted in his chair. Curled his fingers around the whiskey he’d poured and then ignored.
Susan folded her arms across her chest. Settled on the corner of a chair. “The girl. Who is she? And none of this song and story of an anvil wedding. I’ve known you for too long to be listening to that kind of blather.”
He toyed with the idea of revealing everything to her. Discarded it immediately. There’d be questions. Pointed looks. He wasn’t up to her inquisition. Best to stick with the ridiculous story of an impetuous marriage.
“It’s as I told you, Susan. Morgan and I wed a few weeks ago.”
Her squint grew more pronounced, her foot tapping impatiently. “She’s not some tart you’ve brought home, I hope. I won’t have it, Master Cameron. Not under my roof. What would your aunt and uncle say?”
A muscle in Cam’s jaw jumped. “They won’t say anything because they won’t know. The last thing I need is Uncle Josh and Aunt Sylvie bearing down on me. Keep it quiet for now, Susan.”
Her mouth folded into a deep frown, her shrewd gaze suspicious. “A new bride and you don’t want to be showing her off to the family?”
He thought of Morgan as she looked tonight. A slit skirt for riding, breeks beneath. A narrow-waisted jacket that highlighted her slender hips, the unusual breadth to her shoulders. Tried not to remember how she’d looked the night of the attack. Her burnished gold gaze awash with desire, the supple arching column of her back. The hot, wet center of her sliding against him. Wanting more. Wanting him.
