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She swiped at the disgraceful tears. What a wretched weakling she was. All it took was seeing him again to recall that crazy, blood-pumping joy. She’d blithely insisted she could handle this assignment. Cam meant nothing to her. Well, damn her for being wrong. And damn him for being here.
Sleep was definitely lost.
Cam knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to go to bed. It was after two, and he needed at least a few hours of sleep if he was going to be alert enough to confront the only surviving victim of Neuv—no, he wouldn’t even dignify the theory by naming it. It was too preposterous. He didn’t care what parlor tricks Morgan had managed back in London to try and convince him. The Fey world was stories told by his gran-da. Relics of a time long past when people believed in the power of faery rings and saw shapes in the mists shrouding the Highland lochs and valleys. These attacks were being carried out by men. Real blood-and-bone humans with a thirst for murder. And when he found them, he’d prove it.
The chamber was dark, not even a sliver of moon to see by. He stumbled against the foot of the bed. Pain shot from his shin straight to his brain, where hours of hanging with the boys had caught up with him. Stifling a curse, he closed his eyes until the worst passed.
“I can light a candle if you need it,” Morgan suggested, cool amusement coloring her words. Her voice was untouched by sleep as if she’d been waiting for him or—like him—had been too troubled by this awkward arrangement to sleep.
“No, thank you,” he grumbled, spreading his bedroll on the floor, using his pack as pillow. He’d fared worse on campaign. He undressed down to his breeks. Lay back, one arm flung over his closed eyes. His other hand unconsciously found the gold chain around his neck. Played with the jet cross hanging there.
He’d never felt completely right after he’d lost the necklace to Charlotte. It had been a part of him too long. One of the few links to his parents. To his chil
dhood in Scotland. To a time when he’d lived life, not just marked time.
With her death, he’d gotten the cross back. And this time he’d make sure it stayed with him. He’d not foolishly hand it over to another grasping female.
The bed creaked, and a match flared.
“You’ve been drinking.”
He dropped his arm. Looked up. The dim light harlequined Morgan’s face, her eyes narrowed on him with that same critical stare she’d worn since London.
“A few. Not enough to matter.”
“And if an enemy chose this moment to attack? You’re hardly fit for a fight.”
“We’re safe enough here.” He shot her a look. “Unless you’re afraid of ghosts. Or is that your latest theory as to who’s killing these soldiers?”
“Go boil your head,” she muttered. “What I ever saw…” Her words grew too low to hear, but he could imagine.
This new Morgan was as far from the passionate, sexy hoyden he’d known in Scotland as one could get. How could she have hidden so much of her true self from him? Had he been blinded by her looks? She was, after all, the most stunning woman he’d ever seen. A jaw-dropper, for sure.
No dimpled elbows. No luscious female curves. No coy flirtatious glances.
Instead, she carried herself with the confidence of a lioness, her lean, supple body made to be caressed, her red-gold hair running like silk through his fingers. And a fire smoldering in her honey gaze. Had the physical jolt of her been enough to delude him into only seeing what he wanted to see?
The silence seemed as charged as if a slow fuse had been lit between them. The air grew oppressive as each tried to out-wait the other. See who broke first.
His hands grew clammy. The floor began rocking as if he were shipboard. He rolled himself onto his side, almost knocking himself out on the leg of the bed—this really was a bloody small room. But even after he stopped moving, his stomach didn’t. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth until the urge to heave passed. It must be the gin. It had been foul, but the others had been drinking it and had urged him to join them. Not the smartest of moves, but he’d already been hazy with brandy fumes and hadn’t been thinking completely straight.
Try not thinking at all.
Of all the people to be paired with, couldn’t Pendergast have found him someone he hadn’t exchanged body fluids with? The next few weeks were going to be sheer hell.
“…drunken sot…get us killed…” she grumbled.
He pounded the lumps in his pack into submission. Lay back down. “Have you always been this self-righteous?”
“Have you always been a drunk?” she snapped back.
“No. And I’m not one now. Damn it, woman. You’re as bad as my wife….”
If the air had been thick before, now it froze ice-solid. His words hung suspended within the chill, spinning out over and over until his head swam, and he wanted to be sick all over again. “I’m sorry, Morgan. Even on your worst day times ten, you were never—could never be as bad as her.”
He didn’t know if she would answer. And if she did—in her current frame of mind—it wouldn’t be good. He cringed, waiting for the eruption. But nothing happened. Not a sound came from the bed.
His shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Morgan?” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
