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A faint smile curved her lips. “We can try.”
Thank God she wasn’t sulky. Probably helped to be raised with a household of brothers.
She paused. Heaved a deep breath. “What have you found so far?”
And just like that, they were back on solid footing.
“Absolutely nothing.” Cam jerked a chin toward the sideboard. “There’s coffee. I had Susan make it for you. And I think the eggs are still warm.”
She shot him a look of gratitude as she poured herself a cup. Fixed a heaping plate, bringing it back to her seat at the table.
“Here’s us.” He pointed to a spot near the park. “The only place we can say with certainty Doran isn’t. Everywhere else is suspect. If he’s smart, he’ll go to ground until he thinks it’s safe.”
Morgan shook her head as she nibbled on a piece of bacon. “No. The goddess blade hungers for blood. Doran will need to appease it with a sacrifice.”
Cam dropped heavily into a chair. “The damn sword’s alive?”
She swallowed her forkful of eggs. “Not alive. But Morkoth magic lies behind its power. Their spells required the spilling of blood. Pain. And blind obedience. Neuvarvaan will require that as well.”
It just got better and better. The moment he thought he’d wrapped his head around the whole magic aspect, Morgan dropped another bomb in his lap. He felt he played a continual game of catch-up where everyone knew the rules but him. “If this weapon is such a menace, why doesn’t Andraste look for the bloody thing herself? Why send us?” His words came fast and angry.
Morgan’s lips thinned with annoyance. “She would. It’s only Scathach’s influence that keeps the Fey from crossing the divide. Bringing down the walls between the worlds to search for the sword. This is why the Amhas-draoi have been brought in. It’s our job to see to it those walls remain secure.”
“Not because Doran’s one of you?”
Rage flickered at the corners of her gaze. “He’s not one of us. Not anymore.” She paused, taking a swallow of coffee. When she spoke again, she’d regained her composure. “I’m doing my best. You gave me two weeks, Cam.”
He wished he could settle as easily. He felt jumpy as a cat, edgy and tense. This house. This mission. Morgan. It felt as if the walls closed in on him. “I could give you two months and it would still be impossible to find him in this labyrinth. It’s up to Rastus now, God help us.”
“Do you trust him?”
He shot her a wry smile. “Rastus? Not an inch. He’d sell us out if he thought he could get away with it.”
“So what’s keeping him from doing just that?”
“Self-preservation and greed. Rastus will find Doran for the money. He’ll stay loyal out of fear.”
“Fear of Doran?”
“No, Morgan.” Cam met her gaze. “Fear of me.”
He waited for the flash of alarm, the sudden distancing. Instead, Morgan rested her head on her elbows, watching him. “Do you do that on purpose?”
“What?”
“That look-at-scary-me act.”
He shoved his chair back. Prowled the room, the need to be away from this house overwhelming. His throat closed, his heart ban
ging wildly against his ribs. “It’s not an act. You said yourself we lied to each other in Edinburgh. You’re right. I lied about Charlotte. And about me. About who I am.”
Morgan followed his restless pacing with her eyes. “You’re Cameron Sinclair. A colonel in the dragoons. A society blue-blood.”
He stopped behind her chair, making her twist in her seat to face him. “That’s not everything. That’s not even the most important thing.”
She lifted her chin, her eyes gleaming yellow gold as suns. Her scent filled his nostrils, a subtle mix of woodbine and meadowsweet that immediately made him think of Scotland and Strathconon. “This is me you’re talking to, Cam. It might frighten some sweet, young thing—”
“It frightens me, Morgan.”
