Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Morgan’s clansmen reacted to a lifetime of training by drawing their weapons and diving for shelter. The powdery snow flew as Ranald tackled Enid, rolling her to safety and leaving Sabrina standing puzzled and alone before the hay bale. Where before there had been dancing and laughter, there was only tension and the thud of rapidly approaching hoofbeats.

Morgan bit off an oath. He tempered his first savage impulse to rush into the courtyard and throw himself over Sabrina, knowing that MacDonnells were notorious for firing first and making their heartfelt apologies later. He didn’t even dare risk startling them by calling out a command. Swearing steadily beneath his breath, he forced himself to walk slowly and evenly down the hill.

A lone rider cantered into the courtyard to find himself sighted down the barrels and blades of fifty weapons. Even from his distance Morgan could see he was a green lad, only a few years older than the boy who had warned them of his approach.

In the thick silence that followed his halt, pistols cocked, hands primed bows, swords cleared their sheaths, and eyes that had sparkled with mirth only seconds before narrowed in deadly intent.

Morgan saw Sabrina frantically searching the faces of his clansmen for some clue to their strange behavior. He already knew what she would find. He’d seen it often enough in their faces and in his own—the steely promise of death, as crude and irrevocable as the metallic stench of blood soaking into the thirsty soil.

She pasted on a shaky smile and gathered her skirts. As Morgan realized what she meant to do, his oath shifted to a single wordless prayer.

The stark image of her lying crumpled in the snow, her breast pierced by an arrow or pistol ball, almost staggered him. But he forced himself to keep moving, to keep closing the distance between them. Only a few more yards and he could put his hands on her.

He flexed them without realizing it as Sabrina darted forward, throwing herself into the path of every weapon trained on the Cameron rider.

Forced gaiety brightened her voice. “Why, look, everyone! It’s Caden Cameron ridden all the way from home! Fergus? Ranald? Come out and meet my cousin Caden. He’s the second son of my third cousin twice removed. We’ve been friends since we were only children, haven’t we, Caden? Have you brought a letter or just come to visit?”

The reins jingled in the boy’s unsteady hands. His face had gone milk-white beneath his mop of dark hair, and despite the chill, sweat sheened his fair skin. His raw voice cracked. “I’ve b-b-brought a letter, Miss Sabrina. Er, I don’t believe I’ve the t-t-t-time for a visit.”

Morgan’s hand closed around Sabrina’s forearm. He’d never felt anything so welcome as the warm resilience of her flesh beneath her sleeve. He squeezed it harshly as if to assure himself of its reality.

“You bloody wee fool,” he bit off beneath his breath. “Haven’t you an ounce of common—”

“—decency? Sense?” she hissed back at him. “It would not speak well of your hospitality to send this poor lad back to Cameron draped over his saddle and riddled with holes.”

“Your da might have taken an even dimmer view of you bein’ returned in like manner.” Shaking his head in a promise of later retribution, he thrust her behind the shelter of his body. Her faint tremor betrayed the cost of her boldness.

The messenger swayed in his saddle at the sight of the towering Highlander.

“Hop down, lad,” Morgan ordered. “’Tis too late to return to Cameron tonight. That road is dangerous by day and deadly in the dark. You’ll sup with us tonight and ride back on the morrow.”

Caden shook his head, obviously fearing his chances of surviving a night with the MacDonnells were less than negotiating the treacherous road. “No, thank you. I’m not very hungry, sir.”

From the violent green tinging his complexion, Morgan suspected the lad was in danger of losing his midday meal as well as his supper.

Morgan leveled a sweeping glare around the courtyard that saw every weapon sheepishly uncocked, lowered, and sheathed. Then he turned that same stern scowl on the rider, daring the lad to defy him. “My wife and I must insist you stay.” He lifted an ominous eyebrow. “You wouldn’t wish to displease my lady, would you?”

“Oh, no, sir. Not at all.” The boy slid from his horse with such haste that he almost lost his footing. Morgan steadied him. Remembering his errand, Caden fished in his leather pouch for a cream-colored sheet of vellum sealed with the Cameron crest. “It’s from your father, Miss Sabrina.”

Danger forgotten, Sabrina reached around Morgan’s shoulder and snatched the missive from Caden’s hand. Her hungry expression tore at Morgan’s heart. As she studied the cryptic scrawl on the outer fold, he saw hope birth and die in her pretty eyes.

Disappointment dulled her voice. “It’s not for me. It’s for the chieftain of Clan MacDonnell.”

She handed Morgan the letter and turned away. As Sabrina passed among them, his clansmen emerged from their hiding places, their own faces stricken with uncertainty at her retreat.

“Sabrina?” Enid said softly, plucking a piece of straw from her own braid.

“Ye forgot yer clarsach, lass,” Fergus called after her, hefting the delicate instrument in his grimy paw.

Sabrina kept walking, melting into the shadows of the buttery as if she’d never existed in their world at all. Morgan shivered as an odd chill touched his spine.

His fist crumpled around the rich vellum. Damn Dougal Cameron to hell! With a single arrogant stroke of his pen he had once again made enemies of them all.

Sabrina picked her way over a pile of rubble, traversing the deserted corridors to her chamber. She should never have left its sanctuary. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t now be haunted by the suspicion and bloodlust she had witnessed in the eyes of Morgan’s clansmen, all incited by a boy’s careless cry of “Cameron comin’!”

She swept past a shattered wall. Cold wind moaned through the crumbling stone and she shivered, chilled to the bone. She knew now how quickly the MacDonnells would turn on her to protect their own. Her foolishness and vanity shamed her. She had honestly believed she could fight centuries of hatred and distrust with nothing more than a few amusing ditties and a dash of reckless charm.

The truth battered her. No matter how hard she tried to win the MacDonnells’ stubborn affections, she would never be one of them. She would never belong. Not to their clan and not to Morgan. A fresh knot of pain curled in her heart.

How long would it be before she saw that same look of cold distrust in Morgan’s eyes? Let one of his clansman succumb to a stomach grippe or take a drunken tumble down the stairs, and who would he suspect? It would crush her heart to see the sunlit warmth of his eyes fade to steely wrath.

She had no clan of her own now. Her father hadn’t even troubled himself to write her. She was outcast, nothing more than a political pawn in the longstanding feud between Cameron and MacDonnell and a willing slave to the sensual mastery of Morgan MacDonnell.

The hours passed with excruciating slowness as she paced her lonely chamber, waiting for Morgan to come. Well after midnight, she curled into the chair where they had once shared their good-night kisses and drifted into sleep, only to stir restlessly as the mournful wail of the bagpipes pierced her fragmented dreams.

Morgan’s fist slammed down on Dougal’s letter, cracking the seal. The wild skirl of the bagpipes drifted through the window of the crofter’s cottage, the raw notes taunting him with their beauty. Damn Eve! She was like a Greek chorus of doom, an inescapable reminder of his own father’s folly in loving a Cameron. Weren’t Angus’s last words in praise of Elizabeth’s beauty, his final gesture a toast to her fairness?

He sank into a chair and dropped his head into his hands. The wee dark hours before the dawn clustered outside the cottage. He knew that all he must do to either banish his doubts or justify them was go to Sabrina and ask her to read him the letter. It was not pride that stopped him, but fear.

Morgan was no stranger to fear. He had stared it dead in the face countless times. The moonless night he’d been ambushed by seven Chisholm men. The morning his father had forced him to amputate the gangrenous leg of a dying clansmen with nothing but a bottle of whisky to dull the man’s agony.

The first time he’d set his unworthy foot in the rose-tangled bower of the Cameron garden.

But this fear could not be mastered by a roar of command or ignored by erecting a shield of indifference. It paralyzed him with an impending sense of loss. What if Dougal had had a change of heart? What if he’d decided a MacDonnell wasn’t worthy of his princess and was demanding her return? What if he had found her another husband—a cultured gentleman who could play chess and sing clever duets with her? To hear those damning words read to him in Sabrina’s dulcet tones would be his undoing.

Despising his ignorance, he tore open the letter and scanned the bold script, searching for any clue to its contents. If Dougal had wanted her back, wouldn’t he have sent a battalion of English redcoats instead of one lone lad shaking in his boots?

Morgan smoothed the rich vellum beneath his fingers. It wasn’t too late to pretend he’d never seen the letter. Angus wouldn’t have hesitated to do just that. It was well within his power to make the Cameron boy vanish with Sabrina none the wiser. The Highland roads were narrow and treacherous, accidents common. A gunshot. A horse’s fatal misstep. A plunge into an icy ravine. It might be spring before a rider’s body was found.

Morgan strode to the hearth and cast the offending missive into the glowing embers. A tongue of flame licked at it, curling and browning its creamy edges.

Just before the greedy flames could engulf it, Morgan snatched it back, burning his fingers. Self-contempt flooded him. He was shaken to realize how low he would sink to keep his bride. ’Twas a plot worthy of Horrid Halbert himself.

Remembering the joyous hunger in Sabrina’s eyes as she had reached for the letter and the bitter disappointment that had dawned in its wake, Morgan admitted it wasn’t Dougal’s summons he feared or even Sabrina’s longing to return to the opulent manor house where she belonged. It was his own cowardice. He was afraid he wouldn’t be man enough to let her go.

His lips set in a grim line, he tucked the letter back into his plaid, realizing in the eerie hush that something had changed. The mocking voice of the bagpipes had stilled.

Sabrina sat across from Morgan and picked at her supper in oppressive silence, determined not to comment on his absence of the previous night. Her melancholy had deepened during the long day, matched by the oppressive snow-laden clouds brooding over the mountain peaks. Both Enid and Alwyn had come knocking at her door, but she had sent them away, pleading a genuine headache. Pugsley had spent the day curled into a ball in the corner, his brown eyes unusually soulful. He slept now, twitching and whining at intervals as if troubled by dreams.

Twirling her spoon in her soup, Sabrina studied her husband from beneath her lashes. Tiny lines of exhaustion fanned out from his shadowed eyes. He ate as always, picking up his soup bowl to drain it, eating his meat with his fingers, then licking them clean, stabbing his bread with his dirk and bringing it to his lips.

But not once had he kissed her, called her brat, or given her the contentious smirk he knew maddened her to distraction.

Nor had he mentioned her father’s letter. She suspected he had commanded one of his more educated clansman to read it to him. But she refused to beg for even a pathetic scrap of news from home. Her father’s messenger had been sent back to Cameron that morning, his pouch stuffed with the letters Sabrina had written her mother in the past few weeks. Letters that made no mention of her papa.

When she could no longer bear the impassive scowl hewn on her husband’s features, she shoved back her untouched soup. “Shall I read to you tonight? Chanson de Roland , perhaps, or some more Beowulf? ”

His hand slipped into his plaid, then back out again. Sabrina wondered at the curious gesture. “My head is already achin’, lass. I’ve no desire to fill it with a lot of fancy words.”

She rose, helpless to keep from pacing like a nervous cat. “Shall we play a game of chess, then? Or I could teach you a new game. Loo perhaps? There are no queens to lose in loo.”

His pained flinch was so brief, she might have imagined it. He slammed the dirk down on the table. “I’m not in the mood for silly games.”

His cross words brought the childlike knot of disappointment she’d been swallowing all day welling up in her throat.

Shielding her face with the fall of her hair, she picked up the clarsach Fergus had propped outside her door earlier in the day. But her hands were clumsy, laden with the same heaviness that weighted her spirit. One of her fingernails caught on the strings, tearing down to the quick.

A passionate oath escaped her. She tucked the throbbing finger into her mouth.

Then Morgan was there, bringing it to his own lips to suck away the welling drop of blood. “’Tis a good thing your mother didn’t hear you swear. I’ve seen Brian get his mouth scrubbed with a ball of pomade for far less.”

Sabrina snatched her finger back, unable to bear the erotic play of his beautiful lips around her flesh. She knew she was being petulant, but didn’t care. “I’m sure these walls have seen worse atrocities than my feeble stab at profanity.” She fled to the window, desperate to escape his puzzled scrutiny. “We mustn’t forget the siege of 1465, when the Camerons starved your ancestors until they were forced to begin dining off each other.”

Morgan frowned. “Aye, perhaps that’s when we developed our taste for human flesh.”

He had to strain to hear her soft, bitter words. “Then what a fine delicacy my heart must be.” She stared off toward Cameron, her gaze tracing the glittering ribbon of road that snaked along the cliff’s edge.

Morgan steeled himself behind an armor of apathy before asking softly, “Would you like to go home, Sabrina?”

Sabrina’s breath caught on a broken exhalation. She wondered for a dizzying moment if her heart would beat again. When it did, she felt no relief. Had Morgan tired of her so easily? Had her unskilled attempts to please him only slaked his appetite for her, or, worse yet, bored him? Perhaps this had been his intention all along—to wreak his sensual revenge on her pliable body, then send her home to her papa, marked with the shame of being a MacDonnell’s willing whore. She hugged back a chill of pure misery, trying to work up the courage and the pride to coolly accept his offer.

Morgan slipped up behind her, his bare feet rendering him noiseless, but before he could touch her, she whirled on him, her eyes glittering like polished sapphires. “Don’t touch me! There’s no further need of it. I’m afraid I’ve failed both you and my father in your misguided attempts to provide an heir to cement your precious peace. There is no child. ”

Morgan’s initial stab of disappointment was blunted by a rush of possessive joy. Sabrina wasn’t homesick for Cameron. She was grieving because she hadn’t conceived a child. His child.

“How long have you known?” he asked.

She inclined her head. “Since this morning.”

He was still too much of a MacDonnell to resist using his strength to his advantage. Before she could protest, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He sat down beside her, his hip pressed to her own.

“Are you ill, lass? Do you hurt?”

Sabrina dashed a tear from her cheek. She knew she should feel embarrassed. She had never discussed such things with anyone but her mother. But Morgan’s tender concern was irresistible. Unable to choke a word past the lump in her throat, she nodded and reached up to tap her brow.

His fingers stroked and probed her temples with infinite care, massaging until the tension began to ease from her neck and shoulders.

“Where else?”

She shyly patted her stomach. Stretching out full length beside her, he rubbed her stomach with the flat of his palm, soothing away the dull ache.

Finally, propping his weight on one elbow, he surveyed her solemnly. “Anywhere else?”

Her hand closed into a fist. She pressed it to her heart, knowing it was the one pain he would be helpless to soothe. She was wrong.

His lips descended on hers, coaxing and nibbling until they parted for the tender, possessive stroke of his tongue. Even as his mouth wandered down the column of her throat, he was patiently opening the tiny buttons of her bodice, freeing the lush bounty of her breasts for the pleasure of his hands. Her fists caught in the fair silk of his hair as he inclined his head, sucking fiercely until her womb contracted with delight.

“Morgan!” she gasped. “Don’t you understand? There’s no need for you to do this. It’s impossible for you to get me with child right now.”

His hands pushed up her gown, slid her cumbersome petticoats down over her hips. The dark passion in his eyes robbed her of breath. “Humor me.”

Sabrina was dazed by the impact of his words. Morgan MacDonnell had finally betrayed his own pride. Fierce joy spilled through her, tempered with triumph. This magnificent, arrogant man wanted her more than he wanted a son.

“Are you sure?” she whispered, arching boldly against him as his lips claimed hers again.

He lifted his head to give her a shameless wink. “You’ve been lax, lass, not to have studied the MacDonnell motto. ’Tis written in Gaelic, but it translates as, ‘Any battle worth winnin’ is worth sheddin’ a wee bit o’ blood over.’” The naughty twinkle in his eyes deepened. “‘Especially if it’s not your own’.”

Sabrina awoke to an empty bed. She lifted her tousled head to find Morgan at the table, his plaid knotted at his waist. A single taper burned, holding the shadows at bay and casting a golden sheen over his inclined head.

She threw back the bedclothes and padded over to him, wearing the woolen nightdress he had tucked her into when the warmth of their bodies hadn’t completely stilled her shivers.

A children’s alphabet book lay open on the table in front of him. It had been Sabrina’s favorite as a little girl and she planned to use it to teach some of the younger MacDonnells to read. Each of the letters was illustrated by a handsome woodcutting of an exotic animal. Morgan’s lips moved with painstaking care as he compared its pages to a crumpled sheaf of paper.

Sabrina laid a hand on his shoulder. He started guiltily and slammed the book shut.

She clutched her pounding heart. “Mama always warned me never to sneak up on a MacDonnell.”

He glowered at her. “Sound advice. You’re lucky I didn’t jump you.”

A helpless giggle escaped her. “I thought you already did.”

His sizzling glance told her he hadn’t forgotten. She stood on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder. He cupped his hand around the paper, then relented. “Ah, hell, I can’t read the bloody nonsense.”

He exposed a shabby scrap of vellum that looked as if a rat had been chewing on it. As Sabrina smoothed it beneath her palm, bits of wax that had once belonged to the Cameron seal crumbled in her hand. Her heart quickened with excitement.

Morgan wearily rubbed his eyes. “As best as I can figure, your da, a bison, and an alligator are ridin’ to MacDonnell to fetch their elephant.”

Sabrina swallowed her grin with difficulty and hungrily scanned the letter. “No. My father, Brian , and Alex are coming for a visit. They wish to retrieve Enid and see how we are faring as husband and wife.”

Morgan stroked his chin. “Checkin’ up on me, eh? I’m surprised the crafty son of a”—he caught her reproving look and cleared his throat—“Cameron waited this long. When are they comin’?”

“Before Christmas.” Her fingertip traced the bold line of script etched at the bottom of the page. A note of wonder dawned in her voice. “He didn’t forget me after all.”

Morgan quenched a childish flare of jealousy, wishing he’d been the one to make his wife’s face glow with such serene joy. “What’s it say, lass?”

“’Tis from one of my mother’s favorite poems by Robert Herrick.” Thinking how odd it was that her father’s enigmatic message mirrored the MacDonnell creed so aptly, Sabrina met her husband’s wary eyes and softly whispered, “‘Ne’er the rose without the thorn.’”