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“Did you send letters to your family while on your marriage tour, sir?” Morgan responded, every ounce of Bligh pride coming through in her cool tone.
“No, but I had no need to. Those dearest stood witness to our joining.” He rubbed at his chin as if digesting an unexpected problem. “A second marriage…what can that boy…just like his father…” He gave a long-suffering shake of his head.
The captain came forward to stand beside Lady Sinclair. “She can’t be any worse than Cam’s first.”
Thank you, Captain. And this was supposed to help her cause?
Lady Sinclair shifted in her seat. Placed her hand over the captain’s. “Brodie, please. Charlotte’s only been dead for a few months. It’s unseemly to speak of her in such a way.”
A mumble that sounded to Morgan’s keen ears exactly like good riddance came from the direction of Euna Sinclair. Mayhap not so mousy after all.
Sir Joshua pounded his fist on a table as if calling the unruly room to order. “We can all admit Cam’s marriage to Charlotte was an unmitigated disaster. But she’s not the reason I’m here this morning.”
Morgan crossed her arms over her chest, her spine straight as a saber. “Exactly why are you here? And how did you even know Cam and I had arrived? The house remains shut. We’ve told no one.”
“I heard it from a gentleman at my club,” blustered Sir Joshua. “A major on General Pendergast’s staff. Edwards…Edgars…”
“Eddis,” Morgan supplied.
“That’s him. Fellow said he saw Cam this morning. Congratulated him on his wife and Cam attacked him like some common ruffian.”
Morgan could guess what the smarmy Major Eddis had really said. But to set Cam off? It must have been particularly awful.
“So why would my nephew attack a fellow for wishing him well on his marriage? That’s what I want to know.”
Morgan’s patience and her good manners were lessening by the second. The steady pound of her head had flared to a bass-drum crescendo. The map lay untouched. Doran remained uncaught. And the longer she stood here defending herself to Cam’s inquisitive relations, the longer she’d have to remain his faux bride. “Your questions keep mounting. But I can’t help you. One—I don’t know why Cam didn’t inform you of our marriage. Perhaps he didn’t want you to know. Perhaps he didn’t care whether you knew or not. Perhaps he wanted to tell you in person. And two—I wasn’t with Cam this morning when he encountered the major in question. I can tell you the man’s a right bastard, and I’d love to see Cam plant him a facer.”
Brodie’s laugh turned to a cough. Lady Sinclair’s shocked gasp almost drowned out Euna’s murmured giggle. Only Cam’s uncle remained silent, a tight, white line ringing his mouth, his peat-brown
eyes shooting arrows.
He rose from his seat like a king coming down off his throne. An old, tired king. “We’ve warned Cam about his volatile nature. He rushes headlong when patient thought would avail him more.” Even his voice seemed weighted with exhaustion. “Does he take advice? Take his family’s concerns into account? Of course not. Never has. Like his father in that regard. More’s the pity.” He ran a hand through hair thinning at the crown and silvered with age. “Can you tell me that a marriage to you will restore his reputation? Erase a disreputable past that threatens not only himself with social exile, but his sister and brothers as well? Or is it simply another case of Cam acting less than he is?”
Morgan’s hands clenched to fists at her side. How dare they run Cam down as if he were some sort of blight on their grandiose family tree? “Less than he is? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Mayhap a little less scolding and Cam would let you know what was going on in his life. Do you even know your nephew?”
“Only too well. And what we know becomes harder and harder to forgive.”
Morgan drew herself up, every ounce of Amhas-draoi power in her stony gaze. “Then you—sir—know all the wrong things.”
Halfway down Fenchurch Street, a prickling sensation slithered up Cam’s spine. Buried itself in his chest like a blade. Someone trailed him.
And this time, not Morgan.
He turned onto Lime Street, passed St. Dionis Backchurch just as the bells chimed three. Turned again at the next corner, kept walking. Noting who followed. Noting who didn’t. He held to this routine block after block, narrowing the field of possibilities while at the same time leading his stalker away from the house and Morgan. Aldgate. Back to Whitechapel and through. Onto Shadwell. The streets grew narrower. Dirtier. The fishy, muck smell of the Thames overpowering the scents of garbage and excrement littering the rowdy, bustling riverside.
By the time he’d reached the congested wharfs and warehouses of Limehouse and the entrance to the still-under construction Regent’s canal, he’d focused in on one man. And it became time for the hunted to become the hunter.
With ruthless precision, he turned the tables. Dropped back out of sight, his steps going silent, his movements invisible until he chose to be seen.
How many times had he done this? A hundred? A thousand? And every time, it grew easier. Less thought. More instinct. He almost wished he had to fight for the ability. It would ease the part of him that shrank from this talent.
Sliding behind his pursuer, Cam remained hidden, knowing he’d confused him. The man faltered, his gaze traveling the length of the lane. Up and down before moving on. More slowly now. More cautious.
Cam held to this course, feeling the man’s growing uncertainty, his mounting fear. Finally as the lane converged to barely more than a neck of brick between two buildings, Cam sprang his trap. His shadow stretched between them, and his would-be tail knew he’d been snared.
The man whipped around, shock and panic whiting his eyes for a split second before narrowing, his scarred mouth twisting into a grim mask of hate. He bore the wild look of a street fighter. The stance of an ex-soldier. Both making him dangerous and unpredictable.
He lunged, hoping to lock his arms around Cam in a bear hug. Bring him down in a crushing wrestler’s drop.
