Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-four

Sabrina couldn’t breathe. The familiar tightness swelled like a rock in her chest. The candle flames of the chandeliers wavered and dimmed beneath the hypnotic flare of her husband’s eyes. Only when his gaze moved on with a dismissal so casual and blatant as to be insulting did she dare to suck in a wheezing breath.

Morgan .

Morgan, utterly magnificent, his coat a wine-colored justaucorps that hugged his waist and flared over his narrow hips to reveal matching knee breeches, cut to perfection against the tapered muscles of his thighs. The lace-edged purity of a snowy cravat framed his bronze jaw. His unpowdered hair was caught at his nape in a black velvet queue. It gleamed like spun gold beneath the kiss of the chandeliers.

Sabrina had thought the Morgan she had known to be a dangerous man, but as this elegant stranger surveyed the thunderstruck crowd, a faint smirk of amusement quirking his chiseled lips, she realized he was much more than that.

He was a killer, a thief and assassin of female hearts who would give no quarter and take no prisoners. His masculine beauty was irresistible. She dragged her eyes away before it could blind her.

The whispers were already beginning.

“Who on earth is he? The Earl of Montgarry? I’ve never heard of him. Might we have met his parents in Edinburgh, dear?”

A disapproving male murmur. “Damned barbarian, don’t you think?”

An excited female thrill. “Oh, barbarous indeed!”

Sabrina discovered she had twisted her handkerchief into a hopeless knot. Her mind staggered, still unable to believe that Morgan MacDonnell was standing in the ballroom of her uncle’s town house rather than ruling over his Highland castle and giving some strapping Scottish lass like Alwyn his golden-haired babes. Morgan the Earl of Montgarry? She must be going mad. Morgan wasn’t an earl. If he was, then she would be a countess. Her eyes widened in fresh astonishment.

The faces of her aunt Honora and uncle Willie floated by like puzzled balloons as they hastened to greet their guest. Across the ballroom Sabrina saw that Enid, too, was transfixed by the sight of Morgan. She clutched the collarette at her throat, her face grayer than her gown. Sabrina feared her cousin was going to swoon. This time there would be no Ranald to catch her. Her priggish Philip appeared far too stiff, his face set in lines of perpetual disapproval. Enid’s gaze flew to Sabrina, reading the helpless fear in her cousin’s eyes.

Loyal as always, Enid pushed her way toward the divan with Philip dogging her heels.

Enid was not the first to reach Sabrina. As if awakening from a trance cast by the enigmatic stranger, several of the men rushed to her side. One knelt to pick up the shards of glass while another peered into her face and dabbed at the champagne spilled on the lap rug.

“I do say, Miss Cameron, are you all right?”

“You didn’t cut yourself, did you?”

Another gentleman grabbed her fan from her lap and began to cool her wildly, blowing a cloud of his wig powder up her nose.

Finding their attentions a terrible distraction, she sneezed and snatched the fan back. “What are you trying to do? Kill me?” she snapped before remembering to soften her rebuke with a tremulous smile.

Enid reached her then, insinuating herself at Sabrina’s side like a mother lioness protecting her pride.

Morgan stepped off the stairs, the breadth of his shoulders beneath the classic tailoring of his coat dwarfing every other man in the ballroom. The crowd was mesmerized by his wolfish grace. Her aunt and uncle led him toward the divan, their doughy features blurred with confusion. Enid squeezed Sabrina’s hand so hard that her joints cracked in protest.

At Morgan’s inescapable approach, terror flooded Sabrina, making her breath come fast and her fingertips tingle. Since the accident, she had often awakened screaming from nightmares of being trapped by fire—of writhing, her useless legs tangled in the sheets while flames licked at the curtains of her bed. But this man was more deadly, more consuming than any fire. All the emotions she’d sought to bury were rushing toward the surface like a fountain about to burst. Gulping back her panic, she stared into her lap, paralyzed by more than just her shattered legs.

Morgan came to a halt on the other side of the divan without even glancing down at her.

“Enid, my dear,” Uncle Willie said, “the earl has requested an introduction.” The guests were staring and Sabrina could hear the sharp note of warning in her uncle’s voice. What sort of risky game was Morgan playing? “He says he was an acquaintance of your poor deceased husband. ”

Aunt Honora ducked behind her fan until nothing was visible but her fluttering rabbit-eyes. Enid pried her hand out of Sabrina’s.

Morgan reached across the divan and lifted it to his lips, the gesture fraught with mocking grace. “Aye, my lady.” Sabrina shivered at the caress of his husky burr. Not even its newly polished edges could completely hide its lilt. “As soon as I returned from my travels on the Continent, I heard of poor Nate’s untimely demise. He was a fine and upstanding fellow. You’ve my deepest sympathies.”

Sabrina had to admire Enid’s aplomb at accepting condolences for a husband who’d never existed. “Why, thank you, my lord. His death was a great shock to all of us. It was so very kind of you to remember me.”

Philip stepped forward, fairly bristling with self-importance. “Just how were you acquainted with Lady MacLeod’s husband?”

Sabrina stole a glance at Morgan from beneath her lashes, then wished she hadn’t. His smile was dazzling. “The usual ways. We grew up together in the Highlands, took the Grand Tour together, studied in Edinburgh. And who might you be…sir?”

Philip drew himself up to the height of Morgan’s cravat and cast a protective arm over Enid’s shoulder. “Mr. Philip Markham. Lady MacLeod’s intended.”

“My ex-intended,” Enid corrected him sweetly, shrugging away his arm.

Sabrina knew how a child must feel. They were all talking over her as if she were invisible, leaving her at eye level with the sophisticated cut of Morgan’s breeches. His tailor must have been an absolute master of his craft, a veritable artiste , a…

Morgan thrust his knee forward in a casual pose. Sabrina’s mouth went dry. She swallowed hard and wished for her spilled champagne.

Enid struck just the right note of courtesy and challenge. “So tell me, my lord, how long will you be honoring us with your presence?”

Morgan’s enigmatic smile reverberated through his voice. “Only as long as my business requires.”

For the first time, his gaze dropped to Sabrina. She could feel the heat of it, searing the crown of her inclined head.

Enid was growing bolder yet, too bold for Sabrina’s tastes. “Please allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Miss Sabrina Cameron. Or, perhaps, both hailing from the Highlands, the two of you have already met?”

Without a trace of awkwardness, Morgan dropped to one knee beside the chaise. Sabrina stared into the ruffled folds of his cravat as his warm, blunt fingers cradled her icy hand, delivering it to the merciless perfection of his lips. Remembering the dark and exquisite sensations those lips were capable of giving, Sabrina felt a warning tendril of flame uncurl low in her belly.

His lips barely grazed the back of her hand. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”

Liar, she thought viciously. Her anger gave her the courage to tip her head back and meet his eyes.

“My lord,” she murmured. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Something flickered behind the shifting waters of green and gold in his eyes. Something angry and more than a little frightening. Then the taunting threat of recognition was gone, leaving their depths barren and flat.

He straightened, coolly dismissing her. “Perhaps, your grace,” he said, addressing Uncle Willie, “you might introduce me to some of your guests. I hope to secure some invitations while in residence. I’ve always felt that no business, however demanding, should preclude a gentleman’s pursuit of the more”—his voice caressed the word— “satisfying aspects of life.”

“Oh, do allow me,” Aunt Honora offered, emerging from behind her fan to take Morgan’s arm. “I know a certain young lady hovering behind the potted palm who is positively drooling for an introduction.”

Sabrina’s aunt and uncle flanked him, leading him away. Uncle Willie dared to throw a baffled glance over his shoulder.

Philip snapped open a silver box and tucked a pinch of snuff up his nose. “Presumptuous fellow, don’t you think? I’ve never cared for Scots myself. Arrogant savages, the lot of them, if you ask me.”

Obviously shaken by her duel of wits with Morgan, Enid snapped, “Oh, shut up, Philip. Nobody asked you.” Throwing Sabrina an apologetic glance, she rushed after her parents.

Before the miffed Philip could even take himself off in a huff, Sabrina was once again the center of attention.

“I’ve fetched you a fresh glass of champagne, Miss Cameron.”

“Shall I fluff your pillows?”

“Would you care for some paté?”

But her gaze was still locked on the broad back of the man who commanded the ballroom as if he owned it. Once again she was beset by the sensation of being trapped in a bizarre comedy of errors. The idea might not have been so jarring if she hadn’t feared she was destined to be the butt of every joke. For the first time in months, a broken litany of prayer was spawned in her brain.

Please, God, oh, dear God, please …But even then she wasn’t sure if she was praying for Morgan to go away or to never leave her sight again.

Morgan had never felt quite so given to murder. Since the true objects of his wrath were safely ensconced in their cozy parlor in Bloomsbury, doubtlessly toasting their son-in-law’s immense folly, he contented himself with stealing murderous glares at their offspring, all the while forcing himself to turn in the dance and murmur polite replies to his various partners.

Poor, pathetic Sabrina! How desperately she needed him! A tiny whimper escaped the woman whose hand he had suddenly clenched.

“So sorry,” he murmured before passing her on to the next man in the minuet.

Morgan now recognized the odd looks and warning glances exchanged between Dougal and Elizabeth in the past weeks for what they were—subterfuge, a skillful concealing of reality behind twisted truths and bald lies. Why, they had feared for their daughter’s very survival if Morgan couldn’t restore the bloom of health to her wan cheeks! Little did they know they now had far more reason to fear for her survival.

Against its will, his gaze was drawn back to the regal curve of Sabrina’s divan. The provocative set of his jaw drew a timid flutter from his current partner’s sparse lashes.

Morgan had steeled himself for weeks for his first sight of Sabrina. He had expected to find her languishing in a darkened room, her vibrant flesh melted against her delicate bones. He had not expected to find her painted like an absurd doll and holding court over a besotted bevy of fools like some invalid courtesan. An inadvertent growl escaped him as he watched her bestow a tender smile on one of the undeserving wretches.

“Did you say something, my lord?” His plump partner stepped heavily on his toe.

He forced his grimace into a genteel smile. “Just thinking how light you are on your feet, my lady.” But not on his.

As his partner tittered her delight at the compliment, Sabrina lifted a languid hand only to have it caught and kissed by a simpering fellow in a powdered bagwig. Morgan’s scathing gaze raked her. She looked absolutely ridiculous. Her rich, dark hair had been plastered close to her head and drawn into a topknot crowned by a tiny cap of lace. Her skin had been painted ivory, smothering the natural roses in her cheeks. As the shawl slipped from her shoulders, Morgan saw that the ethereal shade extended beyond her creamy throat to the swell of her breasts, most of which were revealed by the daring décolletage of her gown.

He noted cynically that none of her overattentive beaus rushed to correct the errant shawl. One bespectacled fellow even stood on tiptoe to admire the view.

As Sabrina pursed her lips in a rouged smirk, a rush of savage lust colored Morgan’s temper. He wanted to charge to her side, to shake her until the silky black curls came tumbling around her face, to scrub the glaze from her skin with his palms, to jerk down the bodice of her gown and search for any hint of the rosy warmth that had haunted his dreams for so many long, lonely nights. His desire and fury blended in a wave so potent that he was seized with fresh despair. A pang of fresh rejection stabbed him.

He was a bloody fool to have come here. Sabrina did not need him. She had never needed him. She had sent him away, tossed his flowers aside, and pronounced him unfit to touch even the hem of her precious skirt.

He would simply make his apologies to his puzzled hosts and take his leave. Then he would ride back to that narrow town house in Bloomsbury Square, throw his allowance and his fancy clothes back into Dougal and Elizabeth’s smug faces, and curse the day he had ever laid eyes on any Cameron.

Determined to escape this farce while he still had the will, he passed his partner on to the next man and pivoted to find himself palm to palm with Enid Belmont. Locking fingers, they circled each other like wary predators.

Happy to find a target for his withering sarcasm, he raked a gaze of mocking admiration down the swell of her abdomen. “I’m heartened to see your husband left you something to remember him by, Lady MacLeod. ”

She lowered her lashes in demure agreement. “As am I, Lord Montgarry. ”

Sabrina’s cousin was cooler than Morgan remembered. Cooler and more worthy an opponent. They parted, dipped, and came together again. He stole another curious glance at her stomach.

Despising himself for the foolish leap of hope in his heart, he steeled his voice to deliberate nonchalance. “I don’t suppose Miss Cameron has been similarly blessed.”

Enid shook her head, but as she circled behind him, she whispered, “She was devastated.”

A merry peal of girlish laughter floated out from the divan, clawing Morgan’s lacerated heart. A sneer curled his lips. “It shows.”

The black plunge of his spirits deepened. What right did he have to condemn Sabrina? If not for the ruthless ambitions of his clan, she might even now be twirling among these dancers, the brightest star in their vaulted firmament. Knowing he would never have another chance to sate his grim curiosity, he began to snap off questions each time the hapless Enid came within his grasp.

“How does she get about?”

“Her room is on ground level. Stefan or Father carries her. Or one of the footmen.”

“And when she leaves the house?”

“She doesn’t. She hasn’t been outside since coming to London. She says fresh air makes her head ache.”

Morgan frowned, unable to imagine his once-exuberant bride willingly surrendering the glories of spring. “What of her legs? Do they pain her? Were they as bad as the doctor feared? What happened when she tried to walk?”

Enid avoided his eyes. “She never tried.”

Morgan gave up all pretense of the dance. Ignoring the annoyed guests forced to maneuver around them, he caught Enid’s shoulders and searched her face. “She never tried to walk? Not even once?”

He had finally succeeded in throwing Enid off balance. She blinked back tears. “Dr. Montjoy encouraged her to in the beginning, but each time her feet touched the floor, she cried so at the pain that Uncle Dougal couldn’t bear it.”

An odd look had come over Morgan’s face, a look of such speculative good cheer that it made Enid take a nervous step backward. She was even more astonished when he snatched her up and pressed a ferocious kiss to her mouth.

“That’s my good girl. But you look a trifle pale. Why don’t you go fetch yourself some warm milk before you swoon?”

Then he was striding through the crowd, leaving Enid to press her palms to her flaming cheeks and wonder what new devil she’d unleashed on her beloved cousin.

Sabrina hid her shaken state behind a mask of frenetic gaiety. Her hands batted the air like delicate birds, plucking the sleeve of one rapt gentleman while sending another scampering for a shawl that might do better service to her coloring.

All the charms she’d spent years perfecting on her father and brothers were unleashed on her uncle’s unsuspecting guests. No one drifted away to join the dance. They lingered at her side, captivated by her winsome smile. Even the women were drawn into her spell. Her generosity of spirit was such that they decided among themselves that the rumors of her tantrums must be nothing more than jealous gossip.

But even as Sabrina kept her audience panting for her next clever word, Morgan was always there, his combination of polished elegance and raw virility threatening to explode at the edges of her vision. The men sized up his towering form, nostrils flaring as if a wild stallion had dared to storm their paddock. The women tripped over one another in the dance to position themselves in his path.

She feigned a coy giggle and ducked behind her fan to steal a glimpse of him, feeling like a lovesick six-year-old all over again. When she failed to find him, she felt even sicker. Had he gone? Left with one of the women throwing themselves at his buckled shoes? Would she ever see him again?

“Terrible accident,” one of the men was informing a newcomer to her circle of admirers. “An icy road in the Highlands. The carriage took a tumble. Lady MacLeod lost her husband and Miss Cameron…”

Miss Cameron lost everything, Sabrina thought, smoothing the lap rug. The fictitious carriage accident was too close to the truth. She closed her eyes, hearing again the sharp report of a pistol and Pookah’s agonized scream.

Her nostrils twitched as a new scent fought its way through the stale cloud of perfume and rice powder. Pine, crisp and fragrant, blowing like a fresh wind through her lungs, bringing with it visions of wide blue skies and snowcapped mountain peaks. Pine mingled with the intoxicating maleness of sandalwood shaving soap.

Sabrina’s eyes flew open as she realized that Morgan was leaning lazily on the back of the divan, drinking in every word. Dear God, she thought, how long had he been there? For once the others were oblivious of him. They were too busy staring at her legs. His breath—sweet, heated, untainted by champagne—stirred the lacy lappets on her cap. She eased her shawl up over her tingling breasts, only too aware of the view his casual stance afforded him.

The gentleman seemed intent on finishing his grim tale. “Miss Cameron was thrown from the carriage. Broke both her legs. Quite beyond repair, I fear.”

Sabrina flinched, knowing only too well how the man’s thoughtless words must be affecting Morgan.

A droll voice came from behind the divan. “I lost a mare that way once. Sad case. Had to shoot her.”

Morgan’s tactless remark caused all heads, including Sabrina’s, to swivel toward him. He didn’t look sad at all. His green eyes were positively twinkling with good cheer. Sabrina’s admirers glared at him.

A timid hand touched hers. Thankful for the distraction, Sabrina turned back to find a young girl peering at her with genuine sympathy, her face framed by mousy ringlets. “Your legs, Miss Cameron? Do they pain you?”

Sabrina sighed with relief. Her health was always a safe topic. “At times. Right before a rain they tend to ache dreadfully.”

The girls’ voice sank to a fearful whisper. “Are they… deformed? ”

Sabrina frowned, afraid to admit that she hadn’t looked at them in months. She always kept her eyes carefully averted when the maids were bathing her, and at any other time they were smothered by a lap rug or dressing gown. She didn’t even bother with stockings anymore, since her feet never touched the floor.

She parted her fingers to illustrate. “Perhaps only a tiny bit.”

Without hesitation Morgan strode around the divan and snatched back the lap rug. Sabrina’s gown had ridden up to her thighs. Cool air rushed over her bare legs. She gasped, mortified to be so exposed. The girl who had dared to ask collapsed in a pretty swoon only to be caught by the man behind her. The others recoiled in horror, then crept nearer to gape. Sabrina was frozen in place by her own humiliation.

Morgan studied the length of Sabrina’s legs, his thoughtful gaze sweeping from her thighs to the tips of her toes. The crowd held their breath as if awaiting an opinion from the king’s physician himself.

“They don’t look deformed to me,” he pronounced, dropping the lap rug. “A bit pale and scrawny perhaps, but serviceable.”

Protected by the crowd’s mute shock, he bent to bring Sabrina’s hand to his lips. His eyes glinted with pure challenge as his warm lips brushed her knuckles “Miss Cameron. Till we meet again.”

Sabrina felt her chest tightening, her breath coming in furious little pants. “Why—you—you wretched—”

Morgan was accepting his cloak from a bemused footman when Sabrina’s sputters swelled to howls of outrage.

The footman’s eyes twinkled. “I do hope you’ll call again, my lord.”

Tossing an edge of the cloak over his shoulder as he would have his plaid, Morgan gave the man a conspiratorial wink. “You can bloody well count on it.”

As Morgan came striding down the front steps of the town house, Ranald whipped open the door of the waiting carriage with his strong arm.

He took one look at Morgan’s thunderous expression and shook his head in sympathy. “Went poorly, did it? What did the wretches do? Toss ye out on yer ear?”

“On the contrary.” Morgan threw himself against the leather seat and loosened his cravat with a savage jerk. “I’d say it went just as it was intended to go.”

Slamming the carriage door, Ranald hopped up to ride on the steps like a proper footman, then spoiled the effect by poking his head in the carriage window. Unlike Morgan, Ranald took great delight in their new finery. He’d spent most of his time at their lodgings in front of the mirror, preening in his satin livery and dusting fresh powder on his wig.

“Where the hell are we goin’?” he asked, then grinned sheepishly. “I mean what address shall I give the driver, me lord?”

Morgan’s jaw tightened. The single word shot from between his clenched teeth like an epithet. “Bloomsbury.”

They reached Bloomsbury after only three wrong turns and Ranald’s brief skirmish with a drunken sailor. By the time Morgan descended from the carriage, a light rain had began to fall, glazing the cobbled street and painting airy halos around the street lanterns.

Leaving Ranald to admire his reflection in a shop window. Morgan ducked inside the handsome town house, marched up the narrow steps to the second floor, and lifted his hand to knock. He heard the tinkle of crystal, the murmur of voices in gentle accord.

Fresh anger seized him. He slammed his fist against the door. It flew open beneath the force of the blow, crashing into the opposite wall.

The Camerons looked up from the cozy supper they’d laid before the hearth, both looking as guilty as if Morgan had caught Dougal with Elizabeth’s skirts around her waist.

Morgan shook his head, disgusted by their domesticity, the steadfast affection that had sustained them through years of joys and hardships that he and Sabrina would never share. He wanted to overturn the table, wreck the simple room, drain the bottle of brandy sitting on the pristine tablecloth.

Dougal rose, tense and wary. “You saw her, I take it?”

“You lied to me.”

Dougal’s eyes shifted briefly to his wife’s face. Morgan was sick of their sly glances. He grabbed the brandy bottle, but instead of draining it, hurled it to the hearth. Elizabeth flinched at its shatter.

She toyed with her napkin, arranged her silverware into a precise pattern. “We had no choice. If we had told you that our dear, sweet-tempered daughter had turned into a shrewish creature even we didn’t recognize…” She trailed off, running out of silver.

“So you believed if I had known that, I wouldn’t have helped her?” Morgan asked.

Elizabeth’s silence condemned them all. Resting a hand on his wife’s shoulder, Dougal drew himself up. “The only question now is will you still help her? Now that you’ve seen what she’s become.”

Morgan impaled Dougal with his unforgiving gaze, his voice husky with betrayal. “Even when I hated you, I always believed you were a good man, Dougal Cameron. But now I know you’re no better than my own da. Jerking our strings, making us all dance like bloody puppets to your tune.” His hands clenched on a chair back. He met Elizabeth’s beseeching gaze. She was the only woman he could refuse nothing. “Aye, I’ll do your dirty work for you. I’ll push her hard until she remembers how to fight for herself. But we all know what the cost will be. When I’m done with her, she’ll hate me and not you.”

With those words Morgan left them to their cozy supper, to the soothing beat of rain against their windowpanes. Ranald had taken shelter inside the carriage. Drawing the collar of his cloak up against the chill, Morgan climbed in to join him. One look at Morgan’s face and Ranald knew to keep his silence.

As the carriage clattered through a shallow puddle, splashing an arc of water into the air, neither of them saw the solitary figure on the corner left dripping in its wake.