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He raised his eyes from a piece of paper. The frown marring his features relaxing into a slow, lazy smile that spelled instant trouble.
She called on every ounce of willpower to keep the mental box where Cam and sex lived locked.
“I’ve had Susan make you a pot of coffee. It’s on the sideboard,” he said, motioning toward a table by the window.
“The surest way to my heart,” she answered glibly. But she moved to pour herself a cup. Let the jolt of heat and flavor break the spell of rain-washed streets, cozy rooms, and gorgeous man.
He placed the paper on the desk. “Did your walk help?”
And she knew he understood. Everything.
“About last night, Cam…it was…I’m not sorry it happened, but…we can’t…I can’t…” She was making a complete mess of this. Awkward fast approaching humiliating.
He saved her. “If you think I’m looking for marriage or some kind of life commitment, then you weren’t listening.”
Heat flushed her cheeks, a twinge of pain at his words mixed with relief that he’d made it so easy. “I’m sorry, I know I’ve confused things, but—” she began, needing to explain herself. Needing to ease the hurt crowding the corners of his brilliant blue ga
ze.
He interrupted. Held up a hand. “Morgan, we’re good in bed. No more, no less. That’s enough for me if it’s enough for you.”
She looked around her at the culture and taste. The atmosphere of class that defined the house, the neighborhood. Hell, even Cam’s family, despite the bluster, had oozed blue-blood refinement. She didn’t have a refined bone in her body. Just ask anyone she’d grown up with. Any of the elegant mothers and their fashionable daughters who’d spurned her clumsy attempts at being one of them. Any of the young men who’d been scared away by her bold manner and frank speech. No, with the Amhas-draoi she’d found acceptance. With Cam she’d found pleasure.
She didn’t need love.
She met his gaze. Let him see the truth of her words. “It’s enough for me.”
Cam dropped his uncle’s letter on the fire. Watched the guilt-inducing words blacken and wither and turn to ash. Nothing he hadn’t heard before. He only wondered why Sir Joshua kept up the barrage of thinly veiled disappointment and disapproval. At this point, bitter disdain would be welcome. It would give him the freedom to feel something more than the slow, soul-gnawing remorse that drained him of energy.
Why didn’t Uncle Josh just write him off and move on?
Hadn’t it been spelled out for him over and over—Cam was not the respectable up-and-coming officer his uncle had dreamed of? Charlotte’s vindictive rumors coupled with the revelations of his less-than-savory war work had soured any hopes of a return to society’s bosom. Fine with him. He’d never wanted to be there in the first place. It had been Charlotte’s desire to remain in the circle of friends and family that had tied him to London and this house. He’d yearned for the pine forests and rocky crags of Scotland. The empty open sky, the silence, the freedom.
Near-death experiences had a way of focusing one’s priorities. Waking on a Tavistock dung heap feeling as if his body had been crushed organ by organ, he’d felt a plan taking shape.
He’d find this damned sword. Kill the whoreson Doran.
Then disappear.
Back to Scotland. To Caithness. To Strathconon and the holding he’d inherited from his grandfather. A dot on the map. A place where he could breathe. Finally be Cam Sinclair. Not a dutiful colonel. Not a respectful nephew. Definitely not a cold-blooded assassin. Just a man.
He’d once dreamed of taking Morgan to the cottage. Showing her the place where he’d been happiest and most comfortable.
That part of the dream wouldn’t happen now. But the rest of it?
He couldn’t wait.
“Ah, the new bridegroom. I hear congratulations are in order.”
Cam didn’t exactly jump—Morgan had warned him that MacKay promised to return—but his heart did leap in his chest. He’d been too bound up with his own thoughts. Hadn’t heard Brodie’s approach until the deep voice rumbled behind him.
“Go to hell. You know damn well I’m not married.” Cam’s words came sharper than intended, Morgan’s easy dismissal of him still rankling.
Brodie held up a hand. “Easy, old man. A little touchy, aren’t ye?” He dropped into a chair, stretching his long legs out to the fire. “What’s the story? Miss Bligh wasn’t very forthcoming after the initial bombshell. She’s your redhead, isn’t she?”
Cam wished once more for the serenity of that distant farm. How had he ever thought he’d be able to hide here? Why not just put an advertisement in the paper?
Doran, we’re here. Come and get us.
