Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-three

“C’est magnifique !” the Frenchman proclaimed, kissing his bunched fingers.

Morgan trembled and snorted like a prize stallion about to bolt as the tiny tailor minced around him, pausing only to prod the muscled planes of his abdomen. Pugsley roused himself from his contented stupor to growl low in his throat at the tailor’s daring.

The little man leered at Morgan. “Quelle bête jolie !”

“What did he say,” Morgan demanded, glowering at Dougal. “Should I kill him?”

“He said you were a pretty beast, and I’d rather you didn’t,” Dougal replied dryly from his seat by the window. “At least not until after he bills us for his services. I’ve heard they’re dreadfully overpriced.”

Ranald kissed his bunched fingers and blew Morgan a mocking kiss. “Don’t be so hard on the wee feller, Morgan. I do believe he’s taken a fancy to ye.”

Within the space of a week, the Cameron solar had been transformed into a tailor’s shop. Bolts of broadcloth and silk covered every available surface. A tailor’s dummy watched the proceedings with faceless amusement.

As the tailor tucked a paper of pins between his rouged lips and disappeared behind him, Morgan swiveled his neck, not trusting the bewigged man out of his sight. His worst suspicions were confirmed when he felt a stealthy pressure on his plaid. He jerked back, resulting in a fierce tug-of-war over the threadbare tartan.

“Why so shy, Morgan?” Ranald chided. “I’ve seen ye drop yer drawers with far less urgin’ than that.”

“Not for the likes of him!” Morgan gave the plaid such a tug that the tartan gave and the little man went spinning across the chamber. Dougal caught him before he could tumble out the open window.

The tailor spat out a mouthful of pins, followed by an outpouring of vituperative French. His face flushed to an alarming scarlet. He waved his clenched fists in the air and stamped his feet. Morgan stared with new respect, astonished that such a wee creature could work up such an impressive rage.

The diatribe ended in broken English. “I come far from Paris. He must allow me to measure him, mais oui? ”

Obviously afraid the little tailor was working himself into an apoplexy, Dougal laid a diplomatic arm around his shoulders. Throwing a warning glance back at Morgan, he guided the man away from the object of his wrath and began to croon in soothing French.

Feeling both foolish and vulnerable, Morgan adjusted the tatters of his plaid with as much dignity as he could muster.

Ranald sobered. “Don’t get discouraged, man. Remember what the Cameron’s wife told ye. The poor lass is wastin’ away without ye. She could die if ye don’t help her.”

Neither of them saw Dougal’s eyes roll heavenward. The Cameron himself didn’t know if he should be petitioning for forgiveness or for the heavenly aid he would require when his son-in-law learned the truth.

···

“No, Morgan. Not that fork, the other one.”

Morgan snatched his hand back as if the gleaming silver had burned it.

“The one on the right, next to your napkin.”

Elizabeth’s voice chimed like bells inside his aching head. She never lifted her voice, never lost patience with him no matter how unfailingly stupid he appeared to be. He would have almost preferred that she scream at him and tear at her hair as she must have longed to do.

He fumbled with the myriad of silver, every clink echoing in the condemning silence. By the time he had located the proper fork for spearing the tiny oysters, a maid had appeared to whisk them away. A bowl of soup materialized in front of him, its meaty aroma making him feel desperate with hunger. He raised the bowl to his lips, already anticipating a long, thirsty gulp.

“Morgan! You must learn to use your spoon.”

He lowered the bowl, sloshing soup down his ruffled stock. Brian and Alex were staring at him from the other end of the table. Dougal coughed sharply, and they devoted their attentions to their own soup. A buxom maid hid a giggle behind her apron. Winking at Morgan, Ranald picked up his bowl and drained it in one gurgling slurp.

To Morgan, a wee bowl with a handle seemed a ridiculous way to eat soup. Before he could ease two mouthfuls down his throat, the irksome maid had reappeared to take it away. His stomach rumbled its disapproval.

A plate appeared to appease it, layered with steaming mutton, fat white potatoes, and bread slathered with golden butter. Determined that this portion would not escape him, Morgan flipped his dirk out of the waistband of his tailored breeches and stabbed it toward the plate.

Elizabeth’s hand came down over the bread. The blade thudded to a halt between her fingers, missing her pinkie by half an inch.

She shook her head in sad reproach. “You must never use your dirk when eating, Morgan. How many times must I remind you?”

A betraying heat flooded his face. “I’m not hungry,” he muttered, pushing away from the table.

As he turned to go, his mother-in-law cleared the delicate, swanlike throat that Morgan longed to wrap his fingers around. He swung back and gave all a crisp bow that earned her approving nod.

After he was gone, Ranald said, “I’m glad he ain’t hungry ’cause I’m bloody famished.” He scraped Morgan’s mutton and potatoes on his heaped plate. “I don’t know what ye’re all lookin’ so gloomy about. He’s comin’ along nicely. Why, I’ll wager ye’ll make a gentleman out o’ him yet!”

It was a full fortnight before Morgan discovered a genteel skill at which he might excel. Oblivious of the pale, gangly music master seated before the harpsichord, he tilted his head, savoring the angelic strains of Bach pouring from the keys. His palm met Elizabeth’s as they circled the space cleared in the middle of the solar.

Here his natural grace served him well, the elaborate steps of the minuet no different from those required for swordplay or dodging pistol balls.

As they came together, bodies brushing in the briefest of contacts, Morgan closed his eyes, stealing a breath of roses from her upswept hair. Remembered desire struck him low in the gut, but when he opened his eyes, it was not to ebony curls and sparkling sapphire eyes, but to auburn hair streaked with silver and green eyes softened with compassion. He stumbled, but Elizabeth’s flawless rhythm corrected him easily.

They stepped apart. Morgan held her hand aloft as she twirled around him in a rustle of satin. “Dougal has arranged for you to have a secretary at your disposal in London,” she said.

“Sabrina was goin’ to teach me how to write. But there always seemed to be somethin’ better to do…” He trailed off, remembering who he was talking to. He cast Elizabeth a guilty glance.

A knowing half-smile curved her lips. “I dare say there was.”

They met in the center of the floor again. A smile touched Morgan’s own lips as his hand briefly encompassed the narrow curve of her corseted waist. He found it a subtle delight to touch a woman this way, a courtship ritual rendered all the more compelling for its delicacy and grace.

“I can’t wait to dance this way with…” His words faded on a sharply indrawn breath as he remembered he would never dance this way with Sabrina. She would never know this alluring wedding of motion and music. Guilt and agony flooded him. His feet froze in place.

The harpsichord faltered. Elizabeth shot the music master a fierce look and he resumed playing, his gaze glued to the music stand.

Without missing a step, she came into Morgan’s arms. “The last thing my daughter needs is your pity.”

After a moment of hesitation, he nodded. As the final notes of the dance chimed, Elizabeth sank into a graceful curtsy at his feet. He bowed and lifted her hand to his lips.

Tilting her face to him, she said, “Had your mother lived, she would have been very proud of the man you’ve become.”

Morgan pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “I should like to think so, my lady. I should truly like to think so.”

“Who’d’ve ever thought ye’d let a Cameron with a blade near yer throat? Yer poor da’s probably turnin’ in his grave.” Ranald chortled and tossed a handful of dried raisins in his mouth.

“As well he should be,” Morgan muttered. “Since the wretch is to blame for most of this.”

The icy steel of the straight razor rounded his Adam’s apple and swept upward, scraping the angle of his clenched jaw. He forced himself to remain utterly still beneath the cool competence of Elizabeth’s hands. She would have made an able surgeon, he thought. Or an assassin.

Perhaps she and Eve shared more qualities than he had realized. But Elizabeth had lived her pampered life secure in the adoration of her husband and children, while Eve had fought a constant battle against his clan’s contempt and his father’s apathy. His eyes clouded at the thought of his banished clanswoman. She had always been part of his life, and her absence stung almost as deeply as her betrayal.

Elizabeth wiped away the scented soap, gestured for him to stand, and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Morgan felt the tension drain from his shoulders. A mistake, he quickly realized, for a brisk clap of her hands summoned forth a bevy of maids and menservants. They flooded the solar, swarming like gleeful ants around a pool of spilled honey.

Even Ranald was cowed by the invasion. Gulping, he grabbed the bowl of raisins and retreated behind the drapes.

Morgan would rather have faced a legion of bloodthirsty Chisholms than this plague of eager Lilliputians. They poked and prodded, tugged and measured, buttoned and tucked until he wanted to scream. The simian tailor crawled around his feet, muttering French obscenities around a mouthful of pins and seeming to take great pleasure in jabbing him at unpredictable intervals. Morgan swallowed a bellow as a pin pierced his calf.

“Pardonnez-moi, ” the wee tyrant muttered with a moue of feigned regret.

A dapper manservant whipped a foamy linen cravat around Morgan’s throat. Morgan felt as if he were choking. Surely no hangman’s noose could have been so binding. Yet he bore it all with a show of stoic indifference until he saw Elizabeth approaching through their ranks, a powdered and curled bagwig perched on one fist and a glass pot of ceruse in the other.

“Enough!” he roared.

The servants froze in a silent tableau of apprehension. The tailor’s rouged cheeks paled.

Shaking off every humiliation he had endured in the past month for Sabrina’s sake, Morgan drew himself up and pointed straight at Elizabeth. “I have never struck a woman, my lady, but if you are laboring under the delusion that you are going to put that—that—hideous thing on my head and paint my face, then you may very well be the first.”

Dougal had slipped into the solar just in time to hear Morgan’s speech. Seeing the first traces of a genuine sulk on his wife’s face, he lifted his hands and slowly applauded, each clap falling like thunder in the shocked silence.

“Congratulations, my darling. I do believe you’ve created a gentleman.” The servants stepped back in deference as Dougal circled Morgan, looking him up and down. “The precise speech, the arrogance, the regal bearing. Quite impressive, wouldn’t you say?”

Morgan stood stiffly at attention as Elizabeth’s pensive gaze swept him from the polished buckles on his shoes to the velvet queue taming his unruly hair at the nape. Her pout melted to an approving smile. “Quite impressive,” she echoed.

“Very well, then,” Dougal said crisply. “You’re all dismissed. There will be no further need of your services.”

As the servants obeyed, Morgan sank into a chair, relieved to no longer be the center of their avid attentions.

Dougal paced the solar. “All the arrangements have been completed. As you insisted, Ranald will act as your footman. You’re to have lodgings, a secretary, and an allowance at your disposal.”

“I’ve no need of charity,” Morgan said.

Dougal peered into his face. “Have you ever tried living in London with no money in your purse? No, I can see you haven’t.” Stroking his beard, he resumed his pacing. “Beth and I have taken temporary lodgings in Bloomsbury. Sabrina is not to know we’re in London. All you’re lacking now is an entree into society.”

“Perhaps a title,” Elizabeth suggested, sitting on the edge of the settee. “No one in London can resist a title. MacDonnell is an ancient name. Surely your family was entitled before they took up thievery and depravity as a way of life.”

Morgan shot her a dark look. “I never paid any mind to such nonsense. What good is a fancy scrap of paper from the king when you’ve no gold to go along with it?”

“Think, lad,” Dougal commanded. “Search your mind. There must have been some mention of it somewhere.”

Morgan frowned. “Halbert,” he muttered half to himself. “Lord Halbert, Baron of…” Dougal and Elizabeth exchanged a hopeful glance. “No, no, that’s not it at all. Sir Halbert—”

A cheerful singsong voice drifted out from the window:

He’ll make soup o’ yer bones, And cloaks o’ yer skin. He’ll lunch on yer liver And dine on yer shins. If he marches yer way, ye’d do well to flee…

Dougal marched to the window and snatched back the drapes. Ranald smirked up at him and sang softly, “‘…Horrid Halbert, the dread Earl o’ Montgarry.’”

Elizabeth cupped a hand over her mouth, muffling a giggle of mingled horror and delight at Morgan’s stunned expression.

A jubilant smile broke over Dougal’s face. He whirled to face Morgan. “Hell, man. You’re a bloody earl. You outrank me. I’m but a lowly viscount.”

Elizabeth rose and spread her skirts in a playful curtsy. “Well my lord, are you ready to claim your countess?”

Morgan’s eyes glinted with raw determination, making him look more pirate than nobleman. “Aye, my lady. And she’d best make ready to be claimed.”

Sabrina smothered a bored yawn behind her fan.

The orchestra was tuning up, the discordant notes flaying her taut nerves. Simply another interminable Belmont ball to be endured, she reminded herself, no different from the private theatricals, the afternoon poetry readings, or her aunt Honora’s beloved card parties, where Sabrina was displayed upon her upholstered divan for the sympathy and diversion of London society.

She snapped the fan shut, afraid to admit even to herself that she was beginning to take a perverse pleasure in their pity.

Uncle Willie and Aunt Honora appeared on the stairs. A light smattering of applause greeted their arrival. Her aunt’s tiny ringlets danced like sausages popping in a fire. The entire Belmont family looked soft and unfinished around the edges, like unbaked bread dough. As her uncle approached, Sabrina marveled anew that her willowy mother had emerged from such bovine stock.

Uncle Willie chucked her under the chin. “How’s my favorite niece tonight? Enjoying yourself, my dear?”

“I’m your only niece, and I might be enjoying myself more if it weren’t for this tiresome headache. I’ve had simply the most horrid—”

“There, there, that’s all very nice, pudding, but the Duke of Devonshire just arrived. I really must pay my respects.” Giving her a fatherly wink, he hastened away.

Sabrina sighed at his desertion. Enid was standing by the tall casement windows, basking in the attentions of her dogged ex-fiancé. Her skin glowed peach against the dove-gray of her mourning gown. An enthusiastic footman began bawling the names of the new arrivals.

Enid’s brother, Stefan, less portly and infinitely more graceful than his father, danced down the stairs. Sabrina’s spirits brightened. “Hullo, coz.” He leaned down to press a dutiful kiss to her cheek. “Holding the beaus at bay, are you?”

“Doing my best,” she chimed, clasping his hand before he could escape. “I do believe I’m taking an ague though. It’s dreadfully drafty in here. Would you mind trotting back upstairs to fetch my shawl?”

“Anything for you, princess,” he murmured, poorly concealing the weary roll of his eyes.

“Not the wool, Stefan,” she called after him. “The cashmere. Wool makes me sneeze.” The very thought of sneezing made her sneeze, and she dabbed her nose with a lace handkerchief.

By the time Stefan returned with the shawl, the cavernous ballroom had half filled and Sabrina was surrounded by fawning well-wishers. She sent one attentive young gentleman to fetch her a glass of champagne while another was ordered to search out the source of the pesky draft. Wielding her wistful smiles and fluttering lashes like weapons, she exerted the only power left to her.

Two rather plain young women dwarfed by their upswept ringlets hovered by the wall, conversing behind their fans. Their thinly plucked brows drew together in obvious displeasure as they eyed the besotted men swarming around Sabrina. Beneath the clink of champagne glasses and murmur of conversation, their low, malevolent voices carried clearly to her ears.

“Pathetic little flirt, isn’t she? Flaunting her infirmity is the only way she can get a man’s attention.”

Sabrina kept her smile pasted on, thankful for the heavy ceruse that hid her flush of anger.

“Given to tantrums, they say. One of the Belmont underfootmen told our cook that only last week she…” The woman dropped her voice to a whisper.

Her companion giggled. “She behaves like a child because she’s only half a woman. Any man who would pay court to her would have to be less than half a man.”

Their surreptitious glances raked her useless legs. Rage flooded Sabrina. She wished she could jerk back the lap rug and show them some hideous deformity that would send them all shrieking from the ballroom in horror.

An eager male smile drifted into focus. “Miss Cameron, your champagne?”

A glass was pressed into her trembling hand. Before she could thank her benefactor, the first strains of music soared out from the orchestra. One by one her admirers made their painfully polite apologies and drifted away to join the dance. One of the women who had discussed her with such malice could not resist tossing a triumphant sneer over her shoulder as she took the proffered arm of a pock-marked young gentleman in a poorly fitted frock coat.

Sabrina tapped her fingers on the divan. The rich notes of the music throbbed through her veins, echoing the pulse of her furious heartbeat. Even Enid was dancing, her hands stiffly locked with Philip Markham’s.

Sabrina wanted to despise them all, even her loyal cousin, for their unappreciated ability to whirl and bow and sway to the graceful cadences of the music. Oddly enough, she had never before felt such compassion for Eve, such a strange sense of kinship. Morgan’s clanswoman had spent her life drifting on the fringes, invited to the banquet, but never allowed to dine. Sabrina took a sip of the champagne. Its bitterness burned her raw throat.

Had the world turned differently and the MacDonnells never come to Cameron, she might be twirling among them now. She searched the painted faces of the men, wondering if she might have found them handsome, might have fallen in love with one of them. They seemed silly and callow to her now, vacuous creatures content to flit from ball to card party to theater. Their soft hands had never known a callus. Their perfumed skin had never smelled of sunshine and sweat earned from an honest day’s labor.

Had any of them ever hunted to put food on their family’s table? Had they ever risked everything, even their lives, for those of their own blood? Had they ever waded through calf-high snow to rescue a drowning sheep?

Had they ever made a woman cry out their name in a moment of cresting ecstasy? Surely their wigged and powdered hair had never curtained a face strained with passion. Had never tickled a woman’s skin as they slid down on her in the seductive darkness of night.

Sabrina pressed her eyes shut, unable to bear the wild, yearning flutter of her heart.

The music drifted to a pause. She opened her eyes to find a bevy of gentlemen already abandoning their partners to stampede to her side as if beset with guilt for daring to enjoy themselves while she languished on the divan. A weary sigh escaped her. For once she wished they would all just go away.

On the stairs, the footman cleared his throat. His voice vibrating with a note of pure majesty, he threw back his head and announced, “The Earl of Montgarry!”

Just what the party needed, Sabrina thought, tossing back a cynical swallow of the champagne. Another simpering nobleman.

An odd beat of silence followed. The guests were all blinking raptly at the steps like a herd of vapid sheep. Curious as to what might be fascinating enough to capture even their jaded attentions, Sabrina craned her neck.

As she met the glacial green eyes of the man on the stairs, the champagne glass slipped through her numb fingers to shatter on the marble floor.