Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Morgan filled the doorway, his presence a living, tangible thing in the unnatural stillness of the hall. Mist beaded his plaid and glistened in his hair. A tantalizing hint of a smile carved brackets around his mouth. Sabrina had never in her life seen a sight so welcome.

For an elusive moment he was as precious and familiar to her as the handsome, stubborn boy he had once been. Emotion welled in her throat.

Leaving Alwyn to slide to a trembling heap in the floor, she rushed over and caught his big, warm hand in hers. She squeezed his fingers as if she’d never let them go.

Her words spilled out in a panicked rush. “You’ve got to come, Morgan! Someone is murdering Enid. Please hurry, before it’s too late!” At the puzzled hesitation in his eyes, she dropped her pride and brought his hand to her lips, only too aware that she was humbling herself before a pack of wolves who would like nothing more than to scent her blood. “Please, Morgan, I’m begging you! Say you’ll help her. I’ll do anything. Anything at all.”

His lashes veiled the quizzical glitter of his eyes. He brushed his knuckle against her lips, gently nudging them apart, and said softly, “I’d say that was an invitation a man would be a fool to refuse.”

Keeping a frantic hold on his hand, Sabrina dragged him through the hall and up the stairs. A gawking parade of his clansmen followed, eager for the next entertainment in what had begun as a typical eve of drinking and wenching.

Sabrina shoved him toward the offending door. “There. Someone has her in there. And they won’t open the door.”

Morgan didn’t have to lay his ear against the door. Everyone in the corridor and stationed up and down the stairs could hear the wild thumping and howling coming from the chamber. A choked gurgle floated out, sounding like someone caught in the throes of an agonizing death. Morgan’s clansmen exchanged baffled glances.

Sabrina wrung her hands. “Hurry, please! Before it’s too late!”

An odd expression crossed Morgan’s face. “Are you absolutely sure—?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m sure! Please!” She gave him another desperate shove. “Open it now!”

He shook his head ruefully. “Verra well, then. Stand back.”

Sabrina pressed herself to the opposite wall as Morgan splintered the bolt with one mighty kick from his bare foot. The first sniggers should have warned her. She darted forward, ducking under Morgan’s arm when he threw it out to block her.

The rocking bed frame creaked to a halt. But it was not Enid lying crumpled on the thin tick. It was Ranald, his eyes screwed shut in ecstasy. Enid perched quite comfortably astride him, revealing an impressive amount of creamy flesh that was growing steadily pinker beneath the fascinated gazes of their audience.

The MacDonnells wasted no time on mercy.

“Who’s killin’ who, lass? It seems yer cousin has the upper hand, in a manner o’ speakin’.”

A dirk skittered across the floor toward the bed. “Here’s me dagger, Ranald. Save yerself before ’tis too late!”

“Aye, but don’t the lad look natural! At least he died with a smile on his lips.”

Their hearty guffaws spread into roars of laughter.

Enid tumbled off Ranald and snatched the blanket over her flaming breasts. Her mortified gaze met Sabrina’s.

As Morgan watched the color drain from his wife’s face, his nostrils flared in anger. He crossed the room in two strides. A whimper escaped Enid as his towering shadow fell over the bed. The laughter died to nervous snickers.

He snatched Ranald up by his nape. “I asked you to look after her, you whelp. Couldn’t you keep your randy hands to yourself for even a day?”

Ranald lifted his hands in sheepish defense. “A man can stand only so much temptation, Morgan. I gave it me best effort.”

A sly voice shot out from the crowd. “Aye, and a fine one it was if all that bellerin’ was for real.”

Disgusted, Morgan dropped Ranald back to the bed.

“Forgive me.” Sabrina’s words were a mere whisper, but they cut straight through the ugly laughter to Morgan’s heart. Her bewildered gaze traveled from Enid’s stricken face to his. “Forgive me,” she repeated simply before gathering her skirts and turning away.

Her fragile dignity shamed the crowd into silence. As his clansman parted to let her pass, Morgan’s hands clenched into helpless fists.

Sabrina stood at the window and let the night wind ripple across her heated brow, cooling her shame. It didn’t bother her that she’d been made a fool of. Lord knows she’d been a fool in Morgan’s eyes ever since she’d landed at his feet with her skirt over her head. What ate at her now was the brief expression that had passed over Enid’s face in the moment their gazes had locked. Pity.

Even plain, timid Enid was more of a woman than she. She was nothing more than a trophy of war. She rubbed her arms against a ruthless shiver.

Morgan watched his wife from the doorway. The rugged stone framed her, making her look small against the unyielding blackness of night. The breeze teased the tendrils of hair that had escaped her coiled braid. After the humiliation she had endured, another woman would have thrown herself sobbing on the bed. Perhaps if she had, he would have known how to comfort her. As it was, his hands hung useless at his sides.

She spoke first, surprising him. His stealth was almost as legendary as his size. It was whispered he could cut an enemy’s throat and be halfway back to MacDonnell before the body hit the dirt.

Her voice whirred across his senses like velvet wings. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you before your clansmen. This hasn’t been a good day for me. I’m not accustomed to being disliked. Everyone I ever met has adored me.” She stole a glance at him over her shoulder. “Everyone but you.”

At her wry smile, a dagger of shame twisted in Morgan’s heart, but he kept his face carefully impassive.

She turned back to the night, her voice musing. “I never really had to do anything to earn their affections. I just grinned and giggled, and if that didn’t work on my father’s more fierce clansmen, I’d sing them a clever ditty Brian had taught me or crawl into their laps and tug their beards.”

Morgan folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t recommend crawlin’ into the laps of any of my clansmen.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She trailed her fingertips over the windowsill. “It seems to have worked for Enid.” Swiping the dust from her hands, she faced him. “If my behavior seems odd to you, it’s because I haven’t yet gotten the knack of being despised simply for who I am.”

“It doesn’t take long.”

She was wise enough to know he wasn’t asking for her pity. Their gazes met and held through the soft shimmer of the candlelight.

Candlelight. Morgan suddenly became aware the air was absent the sputter and hiss of tallow, the stench of melting animal fat. The clumsy candles had been replaced by tapers as slender and graceful as their mistress. Their flames burned bright and true, as if steadfast enough to bear even an icy onslaught of winter rain.

Their light cast lustrous pools over the Brussels lace draped over an upended trunk. It sparkled across the mysterious bottles of scents and cosmetics littering its surface. It gleamed over the burnished wood of the stringed clarsach propped against the wall. It caressed sheets of ivory linen turned back over the wooden bedstead in an invitation that made Morgan’s throat close with hunger. He ached to shed the scratchy tartan and pull Sabrina down naked between them.

Sheafs of creamy vellum were scattered over a three-legged stool. The jaunty plume of a quill pen protruded from a bottle of ink. A chess set carved from jasper sat in the middle of the scarred table. The Cameron claymore hung over the hearth. Now Morgan knew what had been in the heavy trunks he had carried up the stairs that morning—civilization.

Sabrina followed the path of Morgan’s gaze, growing more nervous by the second. Her decorations now seemed childish to her, like the folly of an overimaginative child pretending a hawthorn bush was a castle. “I should have asked before changing anything. If you don’t care for it, I’ll…”

Morgan held up a hand, and she trailed off, transfixed by the shy wonder dawning in his eyes.

Morgan wanted a moment to savor what she had done. Within a few meager hours she had transformed a lonely, gloomy animal’s den into a palace fit for a prince. Or a princess. A slow smile curved his lips. Aye, the lass had her mother’s touch after all.

Morgan’s smile frightened Sabrina. Without conscious volition, she took a step backward.

The crisp aroma of juniper flooded Morgan’s senses, chasing away memories of women perfumed with sweat and peat smoke instead of roses. Delight threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to toss down the Cameron claymore and dance a wild fling around it. He wanted to scoop Sabrina up and twirl her in his arms. He wanted to rumple those pristine bedclothes with the weight of their straining bodies. He hid his emotions the only way he knew how—behind action.

Clearing his throat gruffly, he drew his eyebrows together in a glower he hoped was convincingly stern. “As I recall, lass, you made me a promise when I agreed to help your cousin.”

Here it comes, Sabrina thought, already regretting her foolish oath. This was the foot shooting out to trip her, the garden snake slithering down the back of her gown. How could she have trusted herself to this man’s mercy? Her words rushed back to haunt her. I’ll do anything. Anything at all .

She took another step away from him. “Now, Morgan, there’s no need to be hasty…”

He wheeled to pace the chamber in long strides. “The days are gettin’ shorter and the nights longer. I’ve a passel of work to do readyin’ our new livestock for winter. I expect sundown will find me weary, cold, and surly.”

“Imagine that,” she murmured.

He pivoted on his heel to give her a penetrating look; she summoned up a meek smile.

“All the day long I’ll be forced to suffer slothful work habits, crude jibes, and ill-natured companions. When I join you in this chamber at night, I’ll expect a smile, a bit of pleasant conversation, and a fire to warm my feet. You may sing to me if you like or show me the sewin’ you’ve done durin’ the day.” He pointed at one of the unopened trunks. “There are books in there, I suppose.”

She nodded, knowing her eyes were probably wide enough to swallow her face.

“Excellent,” he snapped. “I will be read to every night. When the snows come, there’ll be time for you to teach me some letters and figures. Oh,” he added, “you’ll also teach me to play chess. I’d appreciate it if you’d endeavor to lose. I haven’t the stomach for it myself.”

Sabrina opened her mouth and closed it again, robbed of all speech by shock. She’d never imagined Morgan’s brain storing so many words, much less uttering them. His masculine arrogance both astounded and fascinated her. She resisted the temptation to drop down and genuflect at his bare feet.

He took advantage of her stupefaction to stride toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

He tilted his jaw to an imperious angle as if explaining something to a rather stupid child. “To my chamber. Your parents kept separate chambers, did they not? All the fine folk do.”

Sabrina massaged her temples, wondering if hunger had driven her mad. Morgan was not a man given to graceful surrender, yet there he stood, giving her exactly what she had wanted. A marriage of convenience. So why did she feel so inconvenienced? And how did the man expect to get a son from her if they slept apart? Surely he wasn’t that unschooled. A disgruntled glance at him vanquished that question. This was a man born knowing what to do, a green-eyed rogue destined to be every lass’s forbidden fantasy and every papa’s nightmare.

“Most have separate chambers, I suppose,” she muttered. “Although often in the winter, Mama and Papa would—”

“Verra well. Good night.” His hand closed on the doorknob.

Sabrina was shocked to realize she didn’t want him to abandon her to the bleak solitude she had suffered all day. A note of desperation touched her voice. “Morgan!”

He paused.

She could think of only one way to postpone their parting. If he had so generously accepted the terms she had offered, then what harm would there be in making a small concession to his own ego?

She darted her tongue out to moisten her lips and sidled toward him. “There’s more to marriage than chess and singing, you know. A true gentleman would never bid his wife good night without first offering her a parting kiss.”

His brows drew together in a wary line. “Your father kissed your mother?”

She nodded primly. “Every night. Without fail.”

“His own wife?”

Sabrina resisted the urge to kick him in the shins, knowing she’d only get a broken toe for her effort. “His very own wife.”

A groan escaped Morgan as if he were suffering mightily beneath the weight of civilized custom. “If ’tis the proper thing to do…”

Sabrina had no time to prepare herself. His arm snaked around her waist, snatching her clear off the floor. His mouth clamped down on hers. His attack ended as abruptly as it had come, leaving her staggering.

She shot him an accusing look and knuckled her lip. “You bit me!”

He ducked his head. A grin lurked behind his rakish fall of hair. “Now, lass, you can’t expect a MacDonnell to know how to kiss. Barefoot savages we are, the lot of us.”

Sabrina remembered only too well that the insult he threw back in her face now had preceded a kiss of drugging tenderness in her mother’s solar.

“Perhaps I should let you do the honors,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and staring straight ahead.

Sabrina approached the flesh-and-blood monolith with trepidation, unable to forget that a man’s heart beat hot and strong beneath his golden skin. Her teeth worried her tender lip. Drawing in a breath for courage, she closed her eyes, pursed her lips and…

…kissed his plaid.

Scowling, she plucked a wool fuzz from her lip and tried again. Even by arching her neck and bouncing up and down on her tiptoes, she could do no more than graze his throat. Morgan remained impervious to her struggles; his stony jaw cracked in a yawn.

Determined to wring a response from him, Sabrina dragged the stool over and climbed on top of it. Morgan’s lips were set in a stern line, but his eyes glittered with mischief. Remembering her mother’s wedding-night lesson, Sabrina softened her demure pucker. Framing his rugged face in her hands, she pressed her lips to his. Their firm, silky contours parted beneath her coaxing, and she allowed him a teasing taste of her tongue.

Morgan’s growl blended with a roar of warning in her ears. The world swayed, but Morgan caught her before she could fall. “What is it, lass? Are you ill?”

She laughed shakily, clinging to his plaid. “Just hungry, I fear. I haven’t eaten today.”

His face darkened with displeasure. “Damn Alwyn anyway. The lazy wench was supposed to bring your meals to your chamber.”

Sabrina had to do no more than arch one eyebrow before he nodded sheepishly, conceding it an ill-conceived idea from the start.

He gently set her on her feet. “I’ll have somethin’ sent up right away.”

“Morgan?” she asked shyly. “Will you be expecting a good-night kiss every night?”

It seemed a much greater struggle for him to affect a stern expression. “Aye, lass. Every night. Without fail.”

The door closed in her face, then swung back open, giving her barely enough time to hide her triumphant grin. “I’ll strike a bargain with you, lass. I’ll keep Alwyn out of the kitchen if you’ll steer Enid clear of the garden. Her stewed mushrooms are pure murder.”

She snatched at the door before he could close it again. “But how did you know it was Enid who poisoned you?”

His grin took on a devilish slant. “I didn’t. Until now.”

Morgan was gone before Sabrina realized he had tricked a confession of innocence from her. She didn’t know whether to bless or curse his canny wit. She slumped against the door, pressing her cheek to the rugged wood and knowing it wasn’t hunger making her heart beat with such wild abandon.

On the other side of the door, Morgan fought every masculine instinct that commanded he march back into the chamber and seize what was his. Patience was a virtue a true warrior must possess. But the sweet, intoxicating taste of Sabrina still flavored his mouth, making him hunger for more. Much more. He would have sworn her ethereal scent had followed him into the corridor. He bunched his plaid beneath his nose. The haunting fragrance of roses clung to it, planted there in the moment she had swooned in his arms, not from ardor, but hunger.

His hand clenched the tartan as if mere brawn could preserve such an elusive prize. He could not afford to let Sabrina know how badly he wanted her. A MacDonnell could never humble himself before a Cameron. Tonight had been a small triumph to savor, but others would soon follow, he promised himself. Damn his own pleasure for now. He would court her and tease her until she was begging for the pleasure he could give her. Never had the prospect of battle loomed so gloriously; never had victory been so wickedly anticipated.

When Sabrina’s surrender finally came, it would be made all the sweeter for the waiting.

Sabrina awoke the next morning to the beguiling sensation of someone stroking her hair. “Mama,” she mumbled, rolling to her back.

But when she opened her eyes, she saw the rounded blur of her cousin’s face.

Enid twined a stray tendril of Sabrina’s hair around her finger. “My hair has always been too thin to curl.”

Sabrina sat up and leaned against the headboard, hugging her knees. Wary silence hung between them.

“I never meant—”

“I came to tell—”

They both lapsed back into silence.

Enid twisted a loose fold of the coverlet. “There’s something you should know. There was more to my being sent to Cameron than my father let on.”

“I thought it was simply so we could get to know each other before my visit to London in the spring,” Sabrina lied, wanting to spare her cousin’s feelings.

She was surprised to realize how distant her dreams of London seemed. She had spent hours envisioning handsome suitors falling at her feet. Now she would trade all of their imagined gallantries for the shadow of a smile from one man.

Enid shook her head. “I had a suitor in London,” she confessed shyly. “Philip Markham. A Cambridge graduate. Tall. Handsome. Very proper, even a bit severe, but Mother and Father were delighted. They had begun to despair of ever marrying me off.” Her faint shrug revealed more than she intended it to. “I truly believed he cared for me. Perhaps he did in the only way he knew how.”

As she continued, Sabrina took her hand. It was clammy and cool. “The day he came to ask my father for my hand, he did the only unconventional thing I’d ever known him to do. He waited until the family had gathered in the salon. Then he tore the ribbon off a box and drew out a gown, a stunning gown with a narrow waistline stitched into gathered pleats.” Enid’s fingers tightened. “He told them all that the day I could fit into that gown was the day we would wed.”

Tears of anger and empathy stung Sabrina’s eyes. “That wretch! I hope Uncle Willie sent him packing.”

“They were all very quiet for a moment, then they jumped up to offer their congratulations. Not even Stefan could look me in the eye. It was the longest evening of my life. I managed to smile my way through supper, then I retreated to my room.”

“Where I hope you wrote a scathing letter dressing that scoundrel down to his stockings!”

“I vomited,” Enid said starkly. “Then I ate an entire box of chocolates. The day the engagement announcement appeared in the Gazette , I ate the turkey the cook had dressed for Sunday’s dinner.” A sad, triumphant smile played around her mouth. “Within three weeks I couldn’t fit into my own gowns, much less the one Philip had chosen. So he broke off our engagement in disgust.” A fierce pride lit her pale eyes. “But I learned something in those weeks. I learned there were men in the world who cared nothing about a woman’s weight. Underfootmen. Delivery boys. Barbers.”

The light in her eyes died. “When my father caught me on the desk in the library with his very own solicitor, he banished me to Scotland until the scandal of Philip’s rejection could die down.”

Swallowing her shock at her cousin’s blunt confession, Sabrina stroked Enid’s downy cheek. “Oh, Enid. I’m so terribly sorry.”

“All my life I’ve been told how pretty I would be if I weren’t fat.”

“But you’re not fat,” Sabrina dutifully protested. “You’re—”

Enid laid two fingers against her lips. “Fat. Not pudgy. Not plump. Fat. But Ranald is one of those men who finds me pretty anyway.” Patches of pink tinted her cheeks, but Sabrina sensed that she needed to say what would come next. “When I expressed a fear that in my ardor I might crush him, he only laughed and said that any man who couldn’t handle a magnificent lass such as I was was no man at all.”

Sabrina had a thousand questions to ask, but was ashamed to admit she hadn’t allowed her own husband to teach her the answers. Enid stiffened as she awaited her response.

Sabrina tucked a wispy strand of hair behind her cousin’s ear. “I don’t think you’re pretty.” Enid’s eyes darkened. Sabrina started to smile. “I think you’re beautiful.”

Enid opened her arms and Sabrina fell into them. Their tearful embrace was interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream from Enid. Her hand trembled as she pointed over Sabrina’s shoulder.

Clutching her ringing ear, Sabrina swiveled to find a huge black beetle frozen on the wall behind the bed. His antennae quivered in apparent terror.

A giggle burst from her. She met Enid’s eyes and they both started to laugh as they realized Enid possessed the courage and recklessness to bed a wild Highlander but could still swoon at the sight of a harmless bug.

The chamber door flew open to reveal a corridor of curious MacDonnells, rabid for excitement. They gaped at the puzzling sight of the two young women collapsed in each other’s arms, howling with mirth. Their dumbfounded expressions sent Sabrina and Enid into fresh gales of laughter.

An old man, bald except for a shock of white hair above each ear, scratched his shiny head. “Why, I’ll be damned! Ye never know which bed ye’re goin’ to find these young lassies in. And they say we MacDonnells are a randy lot!”