Free Beneath the Black Moon (Root Sisters) by Clara Fine Page B

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    “I’m
sorry to be asking you this,” Brent said. “I am. But are you positive that the
fire was an accident?”
    Oh
no .
That was far, far too close to home. “Of course!” Cam said loudly, staring up
at him as though she was offended and not frightened. “What else? Why would you
even ask that?”
    He
looked away from her, almost as though he was ashamed.
    “What
are you looking for, Brent?” She asked softly, and he turned those mesmerizing,
sun-dappled green eyes on her.
    “The
truth,” he said.
    “You
have it,” she lied, but what she really wanted to ask was why? Why after all
these years have you come to torment us?
    Brent
stared at her as though he was reading the words from her eyes, and he shook
his head. “What are you afraid of, Cam? I’ll help you if I can.”
    So
she wasn’t fooling him. “I’m not frightened.” She snapped, “I’m horrified. What
happened was horrible, and no one in this dreadful place will let it be! We
laid my mother to rest fourteen years ago. Why can’t you people let her go? If
you really want to help me, you’ll leave her where she lies.” She was close to
shouting, and her hands were trembling. He’d done it. Somehow the little
bastard had slipped under her defenses, and she needed to compose herself
immediately before she accidentally told him something that she’d live to
regret.
    “I
would like to,” Brent said. “But I have my reasons, Cam.”
    “Oh,
what are they?”
    He
hesitated, and Cam smiled bitterly. “Trust requires two people, Brent. You
can’t ask questions if you aren’t willing to answer them.”
    A
muscle ticked in his jaw, and he walked ahead of her, stood in her path.
“Answer me this: do you know anything at all about the murder of Katherine
Varennes?”
    Cam
turned away so that he couldn’t see the shock on her features. He was slowly
but surely following the rabbit trails that lead to her door. “Of course not!”
Cam said. “How could I? That murder was never solved. Good lord, don’t you have
any common decency? Are you going to pry into the life of every woman who died
in 1839?”
    “I
don’t know! Are there any others who died suspiciously?”
    She
was going to slap him; she really was. Cam whirled to face him, her hand raised,
but she found him standing closer than she had expected, and he caught her
wrist in one large hand before she could strike him. When she tried to pull her
hand away he adjusted his grip so that he was holding her hand and their
fingers were laced together. “Careful Cam,” Brent said, and there was something
almost intimate in his tone, as though they knew each other far better than
they really did. “Let’s not do anything we’ll both regret.” He was standing
close to her, close enough that she could have leaned forward and rested her
forehead against his chest.
    “What
makes you think I’d regret it?” She asked, and he exhaled deeply. He was
breathing rather heavily all of a sudden, and the feel of his breath on her
neck made something deep in her belly clench. She stared up at him and found
her gaze drawn to the curve of his lips, to the way that they were slightly
parted. She wanted to—
    “Miss
Johnson?” The voice was not Brent’s, and Cam jumped in surprise. Brent
responded immediately, twirling her around and pulling her against his chest as
though to protect her. She heard him reaching for the gun, which he had set on
the ground in the midst of their argument.
    “No
need,” Cam told him quickly. The young man who had interrupted them was
mulatto, with a very familiar face. “That’s one of Mattie Deveraux’s boys.” She
told Brent quickly. “I’m here to see her. Hello Louis.”
    Louis
was a few years younger than her, roughly Helen’s age. He was a tall, fine
looking boy, with an accent that was all New Orleans. “Mama wants to see you,”
he said and nodded to Brent. Brent returned the nod, a confused frown forming
on his brow.
    “It’s
alright,” Cam