AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He swallowed hard on the sudden craving to have her that way again.
Morgan. Double-sided as the claymore. And either facet of her personality enough to cause her ruin among the society sausage grinder where any newcomer was fresh meat. He should know. He’d been chewed up and spit out already.
“Does she look like the kind you show off?” He tossed back his whiskey, let the familiar heat ease its way through his system.
She shrugged. “I’m not the one running helter-skelter back into marriage. But if you loved her enough to marry her, seems to me you should love her enough to not be ashamed of her.”
Was that a dig at his family? They’d professed to love him. Until it grew too uncomfortable. Then they’d scattered like rabbits. Left him to find his own way through the growing rumors, the recurring nightmares. His war following him even into the drawing rooms of London. A titillation. A morbid curiosity. The burden of his crimes almost killing him. Literally.
“The situation’s…complicated. Let’s leave it for now. Just do as I say. Keep it to yourself. Morgan and I aren’t here. You haven’t seen us.”
She rose. “As you say, Master Cameron. I’ll not say another word, though I know a havey-cavey business when I see it.”
Cam gripped the arms of his chair. Hard. “She’s my bride, Susan. Believe me.”
“As you say, Colonel,” she repeated, muttering low in her throat as she left him. “And that’s why you’re down here and she’s up there and both miserable as two people can be.”
Morgan punched the lumps from her pillow. Lay back to stare up into the bed curtains, willing herself to fall asleep.
Only stubborn pride kept Cam unbending. Foolish arrogance that would see them both killed if they weren’t careful. In battle, Cam might be a match for Doran. In some ways even, she’d admit, he was superior. But Doran wielded Neuvarvaan. And with it, the black spell of the Morkoth. It would take more than skill with blade and pistol. It would take magic. Something she held in spades whether Cam liked it or not.
She returned to her bed. Lay listening to the city sounds. Muffled through the heavy shutters across her window and lessened by the hour, but still present. A low grumbling roar like the breath of a living creature. She imagined the giant red dragon of England curled tail-tight beneath the ground, the soul of the Duinedon. Would it come alive at the booted tramp of Undying? Would it feel the panic such an army would create among the mortal world? And would it arise, taking shape as vengeance meted out on the Other by the Duinedon? Magic against mortal? Until all that was Fey was wiped clean from the earth?
She threw herself to the far side of the bed, wishing her mind hadn’t reached that grim conclusion.
The house settled itself. Susan’s footsteps going past her door on her way to the attics followed soon after by the slow uneven tread of Cam, making his way to his own rooms.
She rose, padding across the floor, lifting the latch to peer out into the gloom. A crack of light slid down the hall as he opened his chamber door, gilding his blond hair, throwing hard-edged shadows across the planes of his face.
Morgan held still, her newfound dedication hanging by the merest fingertip. A part of her wanted to confront him. Force him to accept her apology. And another part—the soft, sentimental part—wanted to chase the shadows from his eyes. Brush the strands of gold from his forehead. Let him escape with her back into a past where they were both happy.
She did neither.
He paused in the doorway, his hand on the knob, his head bowed. “Sleep well, Morgan. Oidhche mhath, m’eudail.”
Those words delivered so softly caused the blood to pound in her ears.
Slamming the door, she pressed her back against it, her hands shaking, the thread of his endearment ribboning her heart. Had it been a slip of the tongue? A cruel sarcasm meant to wound?
Or had he too felt that strange reluctance to part? As if their very lives depended upon this enforced solidarity.
She crossed her arms protectively over her chest, hating the low, crushing ache beneath her breastbone. She’d done with grieving. Had buried those few short weeks with Cam, hoping never to feel this misery again. And yet a few honeyed words battered straight through every good intention.
She dropped her arms to her sides. Straightened. No. She refused to be sucked back in. It would take more than a few vulnerable moments to make her go against her better instincts. Scathach was right. Cam was complete poison.
Chapter 14
Morgan came awake to the clank of a coal scuttle. A man bent at the hearth, coaxing a fire to life, his dark hair silvered with gray, his limbs large and gnarled as he worked the bellows.
He stood, wiping his hands on a rag, brushing soot from his sleeve. “You’ll excuse me being here, mum. Not proper, but Susan was busy in the kitchen, and the master told me it would be all right.” His broad face cracked into a smile, welcome after the housekeeper’s suspicious glowers last night. “I tried not to wake ye, but…” He shrugged his apology. “I’ve left ye a basin and ewer of hot water on the table there. And there’s tea on the tray. If ye need anything else, just holler. The name’s Amos.”
Morgan stretched and sat up, daylight making everything look brighter. Scathach had been right. She could indulge her desire for Cam, but never at the expense of what was truly important. A life among the Amhas-draoi. A life she’d wanted for as long as she could remember. Cam might not be poison, but he wasn’t her white knight either. And she did her own rescuing, thank you very much.
“Susan and I are a bit shorthanded,” Amos continued. “We never expected company. Couldn’t have been more flummoxed to see ye and that’s a fact. Never expected to have the colonel bring home another wife.”
Wife. The word sent a shiver of panic up her spine. Or was that excitement? Both feelings so tightly wrapped she couldn’t tease them apart. “He loved her that much?”
Amos choked. “Love? If ye can love a wasp, knowing one wrong move will get ye stung.”
