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Their voices rose and fell as they shared stories and exchanged information, Gran-da nodding from time to time as she confirmed what he’d always assumed, but never been able to prove.
He looked up, his piercing blue eyes excited. “Ye see, lad? It’s just as I told ye. The divide between Fey and Duinedon isn’t a wall of stone and mortar. ’Tis a veil of silk, a swirl of mist, a ripple upon a mountain pool. All it takes is the desire to see past the end of our noses, to believe in a world we can’t ken for certain except in dreams or through sheer good fortune.”
Cam sighed, his own voice tired, his whole body weary from battling Uncle Josh’s sticky manipulations. Lord Delvish’s Sight. “You’re a result of too much whiskey and not enough sleep.”
Gran-da chuckled, his knife a blur and flash of silver as he worked, the ghostly apparition of Strathconon’s cozy parlor superimposed over the elegance of the London salon. Almost blotting it out. Even Gran-da seemed more solid. And younger. No longer the feeble old man held by aching joints to the warmth of his hearth. Instead, he bore the booming voice and thick, dark hair Cam remembered from his childhood. “’Tis for certain I’d nae be visiting if ye weren’t in the proper frame of mind, but I’m as real as your love for the lass. And ye do love her, ye know.”
“Does it matter now? I’ll let her go. It’s that or stand by while Uncle Josh destroys her in his bid to save me.”
“She doesn’t look like a lass to be frightened by the likes of your uncle.”
“No, but in this, no amount of Fey blood will help. She’ll be dragged through the mud, her family with her. I won’t let that happen to Morgan or to the Blighs. I’ve only met them briefly, but they deserve better than that.”
“And ye think your uncle would go through with such a villainous plan? Ruin a young woman simply to aid his nephew?”
Cam plowed both hands through his hair, hung his head. “I don’t know. But I can’t risk it. You didn’t see him, Gran-da. He looked pretty determined. He just might think he’s doing the right thing. After all, he doesn’t know Morgan. Doesn’t understand.”
Gran-da sat back, the results of his carving complete. The rough figure of a woman lay in the palm of his hand, a faint smile touching her lips, her hair a graceful curve disappearing into the flow of her gown. Like all his grandfather’s work, the unfinished edges and rough-hewn surfaces contained a simple beauty that never failed to bring a tingle of delight. He placed the tiny statuette on the table beside him. Leaned back into his chair as if the effort had exhausted him. Closing his eyes, he curled his hands around the armrests. Age again lining his craggy face. “There’s only one way to thwart your uncle in his plans. And ’tis simple as working that wood there.”
Cam raised a doubtful brow. “And what would that be?”
The warmth of the fire disappeared in a cold draft that whistled down the chimney. The air went dim and smoky, Strathconon’s parlor fading, Gran-da growing faint and wavery.
Cam squeezed his eyes shut tight, willing the comfort of his grandfather’s presence back. It was his dream. He could make it continue if he chose. But like an outrushing tide, the images thinned until onl
y the scent of his grandfather’s pipe remained. “Wait. You haven’t told me how to stop Uncle Josh.”
The fire leapt back to life, coal shifting and crackling in the grate. Snatching Cam from his doze even as his grandfather’s booming voice leapt into his mind like the crash of surf. “Give truth to your tale, lad. Marry her.”
Cam’s eyes flew open. The room dark, save for the flickering hearth and a much-melted candle at his elbow—the decanter half empty, his glass wholly empty. His head pounded with drink and echoed with his grandfather’s words. A crush of longing for the old man hit him with the force of a blow, made him glance with useless hope at the chair beside him.
It was then his mouth went dry, his whole body trembling with fear, disbelief, and renewed loss. He reached for the wooden carving half expecting it to disappear before his eyes, but it remained as solid as the rest of the room, as real as the churning in his stomach and the cold sweat damping his skin. Rubbing his thumb over the woman’s face, he couldn’t help but smile. The long cheekbones, the arched brows, the smile that could be sly or inviting depending upon her mood. His grandfather had caught them all.
Pocketing the figure, he looked deep into the fire. Sighed. “If only it were that easy, Gran-da. Why not advise me to shift the heavens? Change fate? Morgan’s right. Our relationship was star-crossed from the beginning. A fool’s hope.”
Whether the voice in his head was his own or his gran-da’s, he never knew. “Aye, a fool may hope, lad. But his hope is never foolish.”
Chapter 24
She watched from the top of the stairs as Amos fussed over the shine of Cam’s gold braid, the placement of his dress sword on his hip, the gloss of his boots. He’d been buffed and polished for the drawing room, yet the smoke and thunder of the battlefield still clung to him, evident in the glacial blue light in his eyes, the precision of his warrior’s movements.
It had been this way in Edinburgh too. One of the reasons she’d allowed herself to be seduced. She’d recognized the aura of danger surrounding him. And understood it as none of his pretty pastel admirers had. To them, he’d been a hero—dashing, handsome, fascinating. To her, he’d been a man—gorgeous, courageous, and potentially deadly. Though she’d not known exactly how deadly until recently. Or how he struggled with that lethal skill.
As she thought back on it, her heart gave an unexpected jump. She felt the jolt like a burn beneath her breast. Wished she were the woman to help him come to grips with his war between instinct and honor. But still she couldn’t make herself go down to him. Couldn’t speak for the emotions choking her throat.
Like a schoolgirl too young to be included, she watched through the railing. Hoped he’d look up so she could turn away with an angry toss of her head.
Childish, but satisfying.
As if he sensed her, he did look up, his gaze unreadable. But for that one moment, she read fatigue and sorrow in the heavy stoop of his broad shoulders, the lines drawing his face into a stern mask. And she remembered the admission he’d thrown at her so carelessly. An Undying. A child of the sword Neuvarvaan. She’d not see that happen. Not while she had breath in her body. He might not be hers, but he’d live to be someone’s. She’d make sure of that.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can get away.” When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “You gave me your word. You’d do as I say. No arguments.”
How like him to bring that up. Did he have to hit her over the head with that ridiculous agreement? This didn’t count as part of that deal. She’d agreed to abide by his rules when it came to fighting Doran. Not so that she could watch him gild himself for the London ton while she sat at home.
“Morgan? Before I go, can I ask you one thing?”
Her heart snapped shut, and she did it. Turned away. Never heard his question.
