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“Exactly so,” Rhys said. “You’ve just returned from one mission. Would you be willing to travel down to Chatham tomorrow for another?”
Cam considered, and realized that like Rhys, he had a feeling that this was something he should do for a number of reasons, not all of them clear. He glanced out the window at the pale winter light as he thought about what he’d sensed in the letter. “The matter feels urgent. If I leave now, I can reach Chatham by tonight.”
“Good.” Rhys nodded, then transformed again into Cam’s father. “Be sure to have something to eat before you leave.”
“Yes, sir,” Cam said with a grin.
CHAPTER 3
Casey shivered as she walked home from the dockyard to the small cottage that Jamie Harris had left her when he died two years earlier. This dark, bitterly cold night reminded her of the first time she’d met him and found the love and acceptance she’d yearned for. He’d educated her about being gifted and later found her a position in one of the dockyard offices. She’d been devastated when he died. He left her all his modest possessions after she’d nursed him through his final illness, but she would rather have had him still alive.
They’d agreed that it was safest for her to continue dressing as a male since it gave her more freedom and security. Since she was tall for a female and had a slim build, she’d had no problem maintaining her male masquerade, though sometimes she wondered wistfully what it would be like to live her life as a young lady.
But she always shut those thoughts down quickly, since she couldn’t imagine how that would ever be possible. She’d be discharged from her job immediately if her superiors realized she was female, and she had no other way to earn a living.
But on dark nights like this, she sometimes wondered what the point of survival was. She was painfully alone, unable to have anything more than distant acquaintance with her male coworkers and neighbors, unable to be a female among females.
She was nearing her cottage when she felt a sudden jolt of fear. She’d been on edge ever since she’d written the Home Office with her concerns for Sir Samuel Bentham’s safety, but this fear was sharp and immediate.
Usually she tamped down on her awareness of her surroundings because it was too distracting, but now she turned her senses up to full power. She was not alone. Not far behind her was a man who smelled of fish, and she could feel that his intentions were murderous. Farther away, another man was quietly walking the street, but she had no clear sense of him other than that he wasn’t a danger.
She debated running away and calling for help, but at this hour most people would be having their evening meal, and the sounds of the wind and the nearby river made it unlikely she’d be heard. Her best hope of safety was in her own cottage, which was only a few steps away.
Bolting at full speed, she dug her key from her pocket. Up the few steps in one leap, insert the key into the lock …
Brutal hands seized her and jerked her backwards down the steps. Her cry for help was smothered as her assailant clamped a rough hand over her mouth. She struggled and tried to kick back, but couldn’t break free of his grip.
She bit his hand viciously. He swore and loosened his hold on her mouth enough for her to call out a strangled, “HELP!”
He swore again but didn’t release her. She realized with icy certainty that he was going to pull out a knife and kill her.
As she made a last desperate attempt to wrench herself free, a shocked male voice barked, “What the devil?”
It was the man who had been farther away. The fog had thinned enough for her to see a tall figure racing toward the fight. The fishy man released Casey and swung toward the stranger, his raised right hand holding a gleaming blade.
No! Unable to watch her attacker murder a stranger, Casey swung her booted right foot with lethal precision to smash into the fishy man’s crotch. He howled horribly, but his knife still slashed the stranger’s arm. It wasn’t enough to stop his target, however, who spun away before landing a hard punch on the first man’s jaw.
Radiating rage, her assailant stumbled backward, then turned and disappeared into the night at a lurching run. Casey sensed that her rescuer was torn between pursuing the attacker and checking on her. “Are you all right?” he asked swiftly.
Shaken, she struggled for breath. “I’m not injured, but he stabbed you, didn’t he?”
“So he did,” the man said with a hiss of pain.
“Come inside so we can see the damage.” Hands shaking, Casey unlocked the door and led them both inside. She turned to see that her rescuer was a well-dressed man perhaps a few years older than she was. He had a satchel slung over his shoulder, an air of competence, and seemed unfazed by what could have been a fatal encounter. He was also remarkably good-looking, with wavy brown hair and interested blue eyes.
“You’d best take your coat off so we can get a look at the wound,” she said.
“I don’t think it’s serious,” he said as he set his satchel on the floor and cautiously tugged off the coat before sitting in one of the kitchen chairs. “But rather messy.”
Frowning at the amount of blood, she rolled up his left sleeve, then carefully cleaned the long gash and sprinkled basilicum powder over it to reduce the chance of infection. She tore up a worn but clean towel to improvise a bandage. “My thanks, sir. I’m Casey Harris and I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along.”
His gaze moved to her face. “Then you’re the man I was looking for. I’m Cameron Tremayne. I’m here because you wrote a letter to the Home Office.”
She caught her breath. She’d written that letter because she could think of nothing else to do, but she hadn’t expected such a prompt response. “So you know I’ve been concerned and unsure of whom to trust.”
“Sir Samuel Bentham’s life is well worth worrying about.” He sucked in his breath when she tightened the bandage. “Why have you been concerned?”
She ducked her head as she wondered what to say. “It doesn’t sound like much when I try to explain. A few overheard words.” She hesitated. “And … a bad feeling.”
