Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Twenty-nine

Morgan’s face might have been hewn of polished marble. It was utterly impassive, utterly beautiful, giving no sign that it might ever crack into something as human as a smile or even a scowl. Sabrina’s heart contracted with longing.

She wanted to hate him, wanted to resent the tall, leggy beauty pressed so intimately to his side. But wasn’t this what she had desired for him? A woman who could walk into a room on his arm, who could dance, who could give him everything she could not?

All Sabrina could do was stare, frozen by a hunger so keen, it stole her breath away. Their gazes met across the crowded room. Sabrina thought she saw the flicker of a scowl darken his brow. But it might have been only a trick of the unreliable light. Then the orchestra began to play and Morgan’s companion tugged him into the genteel steps of a minuet.

···

Morgan silently cursed his own folly, knowing he should have left London a week ago. He executed the intricate turns of the dance with flawless grace, his bland expression hiding the turmoil of his thoughts more effectively than a mask. He’d been a fool to let Ranald talk him into lingering one more night when even Elizabeth Cameron’s pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

He was acutely aware of the stares passing between him and Sabrina. The crowd was positively drooling for a taste of fresh scandal.

He searched the crowd for Ranald, wanting nothing more than to strangle his cousin for this new betrayal. Ranald had begged Morgan for his assistance in his wild scheme, swearing on his MacDonnell honor that Sabrina would not be in attendance. Morgan snorted under his breath. MacDonnell honor, indeed! What a joke! Angus had taught him from boyhood that the two words were mutually exclusive.

Morgan had not expected to find Sabrina sitting among the frenzied gaiety, perched like a princess on a throne. He stole a glance at her. His princess, he thought, fighting a fierce rush of possessiveness. Demure in white, her folded hands and coronet of braids restoring the purity of the little girl who had so boldly and foolishly offered him her heart. But she was no longer a little girl. She was a woman now, her eyes darkened with vulnerability.

He was forced to turn in the dance, drawing his eyes away from her. Why in God’s name hadn’t he left sooner? he wondered. It had taken him a week to convince Dougal that he’d washed his hands of Sabrina for good. He was still stinging from the bitter rebuke in Elizabeth’s eyes.

“You look so fierce, my lord,” his partner exclaimed, her lashes fluttering beneath her jeweled mask. Her voice lowered to a suggestive murmur. “Perhaps we should have lingered at my lodgings for a more private celebration.”

Morgan had come to the ridotto with every intention of spending his last night in London living up to the MacDonnell reputation for drunken debauchery. Out of the many invitations he’d received, he’d deliberately chosen this young, widowed viscountess, hoping her statuesque blond elegance would be the perfect antidote to Sabrina’s dark, elfin beauty.

He refused to think of it as committing adultery. Tomorrow morning Sabrina would sign her elegant signature to an official document and his marriage would be over, wiped away as if it had never been.

He brought the viscountess’s gloved fingers to his lips. “I fear you’re right, my lady. Coming here was a grave mistake.”

He cupped her elbow, fully intending to guide her to the door, Ranald be damned, when the minuet ended and the lilting strains of an ancient Highland air filled the room.

Morgan closed his eyes, hearing not the civilized notes of violin and harp, but the bittersweet melding of bagpipe and clarsach. It cut through him like a blade. Eve and his other clansmen drifted through his memory, but this was another world, a world where they could never belong. He opened his eyes to see Ranald slinking away from the orchestra pit, and he knew who had prompted the unlikely melody.

Some of the dancers struggled to find a dance to fit it, but most wandered off the floor, seeking fresh punch and cake. Knowing it was a mistake even before he did it, Morgan allowed himself one last look at Sabrina.

Her eyes were fixed on the remaining dancers. In her face he saw none of the bitterness or jealousy he had expected, but only a wistful yearning like that of a child shown a treasure she could never have.

Murmuring an excuse to the puzzled viscountess, he crossed the nearly deserted dance floor. Every eye in the room followed him. A shocked hush fell over the crowd as he held out his hand to Sabrina.

“Would you care to dance, my lady?”

Sabrina gazed at the spot in the air just past his hips. She caught her trembling lower lip between her teeth, her every emotion written plainly on her unmasked face. Uncertainty of his expectations. Fear that this was just another of his cruel jests. And most fragile of all, hope that it was not.

Morgan held his breath, afraid to hope himself. Then, risking the laughter and censure of others and so much more than they would ever know, she laid her small hand trustingly in his.

The dark eyes she lifted to him were luminous. “I would be honored, sir.”

The spectators held their own breath as he leaned down and swept her into his arms, holding her as gently as a child against his chest.

Sabrina hooked an arm around his neck, unable to resist rubbing her cheek against the warm, familiar texture of his throat. She hadn’t felt this exquisitely alive since the accident.

The other dancers stood like statues as he twirled with her, eyes shut, cheek resting on her crown of braids. Theirs was a new dance, yet older even than the poignant ballad that sang wordlessly of love and loss. Older than the thunder rumbling its majestic hymn against the domed roof.

The music lilted to a halt. Sabrina opened her eyes to find Morgan’s mouth a hairbreadth away from hers. She parted her lips in silent invitation. Before he could accept, a clipped voice rang out.

“Unhand that woman! Have you no scruples, sir? Perhaps that’s the way you uncouth Scots treat a lady, but we English are a civilized people. We don’t tolerate such shocking displays!”

Sabrina didn’t know whether to laugh or groan as Philip Markham planted himself firmly in their path. Morgan was saved the trouble of swatting him like a fly when Ranald came charging to his defense.

“Uncouth?” Ranald bellowed. “Uncouth? What the bloody hell do ye mean callin’ the chieftain o’ Clan MacDonnell uncouth? Why, he’s worked his fingers to the bone becomin’ the most couth man in London. If ye want uncouth, I’ll give it to ye, ye prancin’ prig!”

Philip blinked, his righteous indignation quailing before the unexpected attack of this masked dervish. “Who allowed you in here?” he said weakly. “Does anyone know if this man has an invitation?”

Philip’s query met with only shrugs and averted glances. No one offered to search Ranald for it.

Ranald tore off his mask and wig and lifted his fists, ready to brawl. “These here are the only invitation I need to smash yer uppity face.”

The crowd gasped anew as the pure Gypsy beauty of Ranald’s face was revealed. Several of the women tittered behind their fans.

Sabrina’s own mouth fell open when Morgan’s roar of surprise drowned them all out. “Why, I’ll be damned! Nathanael MacLeod, as I live and breathe! Nate, you canny rascal. They told me you were dead!”

Ranald lowered his fists and puffed out his chest. “Aye, but it takes more than a wee tumble from a carriage to kill an uncouth Scot.”

Enid burst from the crowd with a theatrical sob that would have put Columbine to shame. “Oh, my darling husband! You’re alive!”

Unable to bear this fresh excitement, two of the women swooned into their partners’ arms. All Sabrina could do was stare stupidly from Ranald to Enid to Morgan, realizing the scoundrels had planned this from the beginning.

“But you can’t be her husband,” Philip whined. “I’ve already bought the wedding gown. I’m going to marry her.”

“Like hell ye are.” Ranald threw the first punch. Chaos erupted as Philip’s friends came rushing to his aid.

Sabrina ducked as a crystal cup went sailing past her head. Morgan pressed her face into his chest and plunged through the fracas, his grace serving them well.

“Shouldn’t you help Ranald?” she screamed above the din, spitting out a mouthful of his cravat.

“Help him do what?” he yelled back.

Over Morgan’s shoulder she saw two satin-garbed gentlemen reel into a limp heap as Ranald cracked their heads together. Sabrina was forced to concede Morgan’s point.

A squat young man hurled himself at Morgan, obviously intent upon her rescue. Sabrina snatched up a champagne bottle and smashed it over his head.

“Livin’ up to your MacDonnell name, aren’t you, lass?” Morgan said, crooking an eyebrow. He stumbled to a halt in the relative calm before the wide double doors and lowered her until her toes touched the floor. His boyish grin was irresistible. “Not much different from dodging Grants and Chisholms on the battlefield, is it?”

Two women rolled past, powdered faces contorted in fury, fingers curled into claws. “Oh, I don’t know,” Sabrina said, still dazed by his proximity and the bizarre events of the night. “I think the Grants might be more a tad more couth.”

His eyes sobered as he gazed down at her. His hands still rested beneath her arms, gently cradling the sides of her breasts. She drew in an unsteady breath as his thumbs stole out to caress their peaks. An angry cry went up behind them. They turned to find Ranald and Enid barreling breathlessly toward the door, hand in hand.

“Damn!” Morgan swore. “I thought we’d have more time.”

Time was definitely in short supply as the crowd stampeded toward them. Morgan propped Sabrina on a table out of harm’s way before whirling to throw open the doors.

Thunder clapped with vengeful fury. A cool blast of wind rushed through the open door, extinguishing the lamps and throwing the room into chaotic darkness. A cacophony of screams and bellows rang out.

Sabrina trembled in the shadows, wondering if Morgan had abandoned her. She didn’t have long to wonder.

With the wind and darkness came a rush of pine and sandalwood to intoxicate her reeling senses. Strong, familiar arms encircled her, drawing her into an embrace as wild and defiant as the approaching storm. Morgan’s lips seized hers in a kiss as darkly intimate as the mating of their bodies had once been. His tongue plunged into her mouth over and over again, branding her with a possessive rhythm that sent liquid heat melting from all the secret crevices of her body.

Every erotic thing he’d ever done to her was in that kiss. Every possession. Every stroke of his hand, every flick of his tongue, all wrapped in one soul-stealing kiss that left her utterly breathless and whimpering for more.

But he drew away from her, no more than a faceless shadow in the darkness. She thought she felt his hand touch her hair. Then the damp air struck her skin, empty of his presence.

A shuddering sigh tore through her. It was only then that she realized Morgan had left her standing on her own two feet.

She slid down the wall into the cushioned pool of her skirts. Touching two fingers to her trembling lips, she wondered if his kiss had been a kiss of promise or of farewell.

Late that night Sabrina sat on the terrace outside her bedroom in her wheelchair. The Belmont town house was dark and silent. Uncle Willie had locked himself in the library with a bottle of port while Aunt Honora had fled to her bedroom with a severe case of the vapors.

Sabrina didn’t think she would ever forget their flabbergasted expressions as a bloodied and disheveled Philip Markham explained that their daughter had fled the ridotto with her dead husband. Sabrina had to admire their composure. They had simply thanked the stunned young man and retreated to their separate strongholds, leaving Sabrina to the care of the servants.

She tipped her head back to study the sky. Clouds scudded in from the west, their charcoal underbellies absorbing the moonlight. Lightning danced between them, scenting the air with an acrid tang. The sculpted tops of the bay trees whipped in a frenzied dance.

Before Morgan had come to London, Sabrina would have cowered in her bed at the approach of such a storm. Now she welcomed the threat of its primal fury, yearned for a taste of it with a wild, sweet hunger she’d repressed for too long.

She got her wish when a fat raindrop pelted her in the mouth. A surprised start of laughter escaped her. The rain began in earnest, striking hard and sharp like pebbles against the thin skin of her nightdress. Instead of rolling herself inside to seek shelter, she threw back her head, letting the water cascade down her cheeks and throat, cleansing her with its crisp zeal.

In the next flash of lightning she saw him, illuminated against the darkness like a golden wildcat. He had abandoned his frock coat. His ivory shirt was open at the throat. The wind whipped his unbound hair around his shoulders. His newfound civility had been stripped away, leaving him raw and dangerous, a predator in a world of prey.

The air between them crackled with challenge. Exhilaration rushed through Sabrina, sharp and electric.

Morgan didn’t bother with the chair. He simply scooped her up and carried her inside, laying her among the pillows on the rumpled bed.

“But the chair,” she protested. “It might rust.”

“Let it,” he said, striding back to latch the terrace doors, muting the fury of the approaching storm. Wind drove the rain against the leaded panes, enclosing them in a watery haven.

Sabrina watched him stir the ebbing fire to life, suddenly shy. The damp shirt clung to his broad back.

Her words held a half-teasing note. “Surely you’ve been in London long enough to know it’s not proper for a young lady to entertain a gentleman in her bedroom.”

He faced her, all humor vanquished from his eyes. “Not even if she’s his wife?”

His wife . Morgan’s proprietary tone sent a thrill through Sabrina.

Morgan knew coming here had been another mistake in a long line that had started when he had agreed to make Dougal Cameron’s daughter his bride. The distance between them was fracturing with each of her shy smiles, each nervous dart of her tongue to moisten her lips.

His wife . The words should have been as holy and irrevocable as God intended them to be. As holy as the Bible peeking out from under the edge of her mattress. As holy as the rumpled linens and soft feathers she reclined upon.

Sabrina pressed herself into the pillows as Morgan’s shadow fell over the bed, afraid not of him, but of herself.

“I can’t,” she whispered, averting her eyes.

He sank down on the bed and cupped her chin in his hand, tilting her face to his. “Whatever may happen upon the morrow,” he said gently, “you’re still my wife tonight.”

Sabrina was struck by a wave of shyness. The tears she’d held back for so long spilled from her eyes. “You don’t understand! I’m not worthy of you. I’m not a whole woman anymore. I don’t know what to do. I can’t pleasure you as you deserve.”

Morgan kissed one tear away, then another, his tongue smearing the salty wetness. A deep chuckle rumbled from his throat. “Ah, lass, you’re more than woman enough for me. And you can pleasure me in ways you’ve never dreamed.”

The unbearably sweet heat of his mouth traveled lower, tracing the arched curve of her throat, the hollow beneath her collarbone, finally flowering on the pebbled bud of her nipple beneath the damp lawn of the nightdress. A moan escaped her as he gently flicked it with his tongue, then sucked her with a raging hunger that sent tendrils of raw pleasure cascading through her womb.

Her fingers twined in the rough silk of his hair. He lifted his head, meeting her pleasure-dazed gaze with one of his own. “Let’s get this thing off. It’s all wet and I don’t want you takin’ a chill.”

Sabrina knew there was little danger of that. Her skin tingled as he peeled the nightdress away, leaving her shivering and naked beneath him. She had never been quite so aware of her own helplessness. This man could do anything to her. Anything at all. He was her husband, she reminded herself desperately. But she still couldn’t shake the tantalizing sensation that what he would do to her in the quiet, dark heart of her aunt and uncle’s house was somehow wicked. Forbidden.

But for now all he was doing was kissing her. Softly. Tenderly. Slanting his mouth over hers. Deepening its possessive angle with each warm, sweet stroke of his tongue against her own until she was lost in his rhythm and begging for more with the arch of her naked body against his clothed one.

His teeth nipped her neck. “Lord, lass,” he muttered against her skin, “I always knew the Camerons would be the death of me.”

He slid down her, lavishing kisses on her breasts, her concave belly, the tiny mole at the arch of her hipbone. Firelight shimmered through the skein of his hair as it swept across her thighs.

“Don’t!” she whispered fiercely.

Morgan lifted his head, battered by dark bewilderment. Surely the lass wasn’t so cruel as to deny him now. If she was, it was all over. He might play at the role of bully, but if it came to actually forcing her, he might as well get up and walk out of this room with both his clothes and his pride still intact.

“Don’t,” Sabrina said more gently, drawing him up the length of the bed.

Her hands curled over his shoulders, easing him back on the pillows. Morgan stiffened, reluctant to give up that much control.

“Please,” she whispered.

Sabrina wouldn’t meet his eyes, but he could sense from the faint tremble in her hands that whatever she wanted from him was vital. Perhaps the greatest gift he would ever give her. He sank back among the pillows, surrendering to the gentle ministering of her hands.

Morgan had never allowed himself the delicious sensation of being undressed by a woman, not even as a child. He leaned up as Sabrina unlaced his shirt and drew it over his head. His breath caught as she framed his face in the soft wings of her hands and kissed him. She stroked his hair away from his face, the hypnotic motion almost making him drowsy.

But that drowsiness faded instantly as her lips glided down the column of his throat and sleeked down his chest like a touch of flame.

Sabrina felt the rigid muscles of Morgan’s abdomen quiver beneath her lips, heard his grunt of half pleasure, half pain as her tongue teased the line of gilded hair that ran from his navel to the top button of his low-slung breeches. His grunt deepened to a groan as her teeth caught the brass button and dragged it loose from its mooring.

His hips arched off the bed. “Have you any idea what you’re doin’ to me, lass?” he gritted out between clenched teeth.

“Some,” she replied, freeing the second button in like manner. The broadcloth of Morgan’s breeches was stretched taut over the swell of his flesh, its flawless seams strained to bursting.

“Damned tailor,” he muttered. “I wish I had my hands around his scrawny wee neck…” His voice broke on a hoarse groan as the last button gave, freeing his burning flesh to the tantalizing whisper of Sabrina’s breath.

He tangled his hands in her hair, forcing her to meet his smoldering gaze across the golden expanse of his skin. Her eyes sparkled with a light he’d thought never to see again.

Sabrina was captivated by him; it was as if God had created a creature of flawless masculinity just for her delight. “Please? May I?”

Those were the last words Morgan had expected to hear from her. He collapsed on the pillows with a dazed shake of his head. “How can I refuse when you ask so prettily?”

“Just close your eyes and pretend I’m Circe,” she commanded primly. “If you don’t succumb to my wiles, I shall turn you into a swine.”

He folded his hands behind his head in a deceptive posture of lazy abandonment. His heated gaze promised sweet revenge. “Never let it be said that Morgan MacDonnell doesn’t know how to go gracefully to his fate.”

Morgan was to learn more of grace beneath Sabrina’s tender dominion than he’d ever believed existed. When her soft lips enfolded him, he thought he would come apart right then, right there. He clenched his teeth and arched his throat in a guttural groan. Ecstasy spilled through him in a blinding torrent, Sabrina’s generous mouth granting him a glimpse of heaven itself.

Sabrina moaned deep in her throat, freed at last to lavish on Morgan all the love she’d hoarded in her heart for years. She savored him, glorying in her power to pleasure him. It was her first taste of power since she’d tumbled over that cliff, and she loved Morgan anew for surrendering it to her. He was her magnificent golden beast, and she realized then that she had never wanted to tame him, but only to drive him even wilder than he was.

His hands caught in her hair, enslaving her even as she held him in thrall with nothing more than the honeyed promise of deliverance from her sweet torture.

Biting off a reverent oath, Morgan reached the limits of his endurance. In a switch that left her breathless, Sabrina found herself lying beneath him. His fingertips traced her lips in wonder, as if to memorize their shape and softness around his flesh.

The sculpted planes of his face were taut with helpless need. “I cannot wait, lass. ’Tis been too long.”

He threaded his fingers through the soft, dusky curls between her legs, groaning in delight to find her already melting into his hand. Sabrina’s eyes darkened with both apprehension and passion. But even in his urgency, Morgan took the time to arrange her pliant legs, gently parting them to accommodate his girth.

His lips descended on hers, laving them, soothing their swollen contours even as his heavy manhood thrust deep within her, cleaving her body and heart with one majestic stroke. Sabrina had forgotten such raw pleasure was possible. Morgan’s mouth consumed her wild, soft cry.

“Princess,” he whispered against her ear. “My beautiful, beautiful princess. I want to spoil you. Pamper you. Indulge you.”

He proceeded to do just that. Spoil her for any other man’s touch. Pamper her with pleasure. Indulge her with the throbbing length of him until she could do nothing but cling to his shoulders, her broken cries one unending hymn of gratitude. But even that wasn’t enough for Morgan. He reached between them and gently raked his thumb over the tingling bud nestled in her silky curls.

Mindless in her ecstasy, Sabrina arched against him. Her limp legs came to glorious life, wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back to urge him even deeper into her.

Morgan had only an instant to savor his triumph before the rippling pulsations of her silky sheath shot him into rapture. He bucked hard against her, his hoarse roar indistinguishable from the voice of the thunder.

Morgan sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, and watched Sabrina sleep. He stroked the bare curve of her back, fascinated by the near translucence of her skin. It glowed in the thin dawn light, giving off a radiance that coaxed his hand lower to trace the hollows and dips of her spine. With a disgruntled murmur she burrowed deeper into the pillow.

Morgan smiled. With her hair tangled and the sheet covering only the gently rounded orbs of her buttocks, she looked less a princess than a harem girl after a rough night with the sultan.

His hand wandered to her silky calf, squeezing the tensile strength of her muscle. He would never forget that glorious moment when her beautiful legs had tightened around his waist.

Aye, the lass would walk again, he thought. He’d see to it. His smile spread to a devilish grin. He’d simply been going about it the wrong way. He should have known there was a more effective and far more pleasurable way of getting her blood flowing again.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of the house, a clock sounded five times. Morgan knew he’d best leave before the servants arose. It wouldn’t do for the poor Belmonts to find another disreputable Scot preying on their womanfolk. He also needed to send word to Dougal and Elizabeth, to tell them he’d decided to stay in London and fight for his bride.

Stroking Sabrina’s hair, he struggled against a wave of doubt. She’d trusted her body to him once before and then had only him to blame him when it had been broken. It might be a long time before she was ready to entrust her heart to his care.

Sighing, he covered her with the quilt, then rose, tucking his rumpled shirt into his breeches. An object thumped to the floor at his feet.

Morgan looked down to discover the Bible he had seen sticking out from beneath the mattress the previous night. He bent to pick it up, knowing instinctively that out of all books, this was the one to be revered the most. The fragile pages flipped open, spilling out a barren spray of twigs and leaves.

His heart started to pound in his ears.

His hands trembled as he caressed the paper-thin petals between thumb and forefinger, recognizing the gorse native to his Highland slopes. He gazed at Sabrina in fresh wonder. She had thrown him away, but hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw away this ugly clump of weeds. Instead, she had saved them, pressing them between the pages of this book like her dormant heart.

Morgan gently tucked them into the pocket next to his own heart and slid the Bible back into its nook. Excitement raced through him. He had much to do before he could return to this house.

As Morgan eased himself out of the garden gate, a thin wafer of sun was already rising in the east. Steam from the night’s rain hissed from the pavement to form a morning fog.

So intent was he on his plans that he almost stumbled when a cloaked figure lurched into his path.

“Have ye a halfpenny to spare, me lord?”

Morgan frowned, thinking it a bit early for beggars. But the beggar’s threadbare cloak was soaked through, as if he had slept outside in the storm. Remembering all the times he’d been hungry and wet, Morgan drew out his purse. He started to dig into it for a handful of silver, then plopped the entire bag into the beggar’s extended hand, wanting to share some of his own happiness and hope with someone less fortunate.

“Spend it in good health, my friend.”

“Thank ye, my lord,” the beggar called after him. “I’ll not forget ye, I swear it.”

But Morgan had already forgotten the beggar as he strode whistling down the pavement, his step jaunty, his thoughts for once not on the past, but on the future.

Sabrina awoke with a smile on her lips for the first time in months. Early morning sunlight slanted through the terrace doors. She stretched, exulting in the lazy ache of her muscles. She felt like a child again, waking to a sunny day that was filled with possibilities.

She arched her feet beneath the sheet without realizing it, then stared at them, entranced by the fluid motion. What if she were to behave as if it were one of those days? What if she simply sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and put her feet on the floor?

After slipping into her discarded nightdress, she threw back the sheet and inched her legs toward the edge of the mattress until they dangled above the floor. A trickle of sweat eased down her temple. Catching her tongue between her teeth, she pushed herself forward, using her hands, and flexed her toes until they touched the cool floor. She slid her bottom over the edge of the mattress. Her feet flattened against the polished hardwood.

Sucking in a deep breath, she slowly transferred her weight from the mattress to her feet until she was standing. Standing, but not walking. She had done as much many times before.

Ignoring the trembling weakness of her calf muscles, she inched one foot forward, then the other, digging her toes into the wood in a desperate search for balance.

Exhilaration raced through her veins. She might not be more than a few inches from the bed, but she had gotten there all by herself. She had walked. Wouldn’t Morgan be shocked when she was able to run into his arms? The thought made her giddy. She swayed. Her hand shot out to grasp the knotted end of the bellpull as she crashed to the floor.

She tugged the rope with both hands, setting up a jingling carillion of joy. “Beatrice!” she yelled. “Bea, come quick!”

The young maid burst into the room, hair braided and still wearing her nightdress. Her dumpling cheeks were flushed. “Oh, miss, what is it? Are you hurt? Did you fall?”

Sabrina was already using the bedpost to drag herself back up. “Of course I fell. Isn’t it wonderful? I can’t wait to fall again!”

She didn’t have long to wait. She let go of the bedpost, listing first to one side, then to the other. Bea rushed to catch her and they both crashed to the floor in a sprawl of tangled limbs. Sabrina’s laughter was infectious, melting Bea’s own alarm to poorly stifled giggles.

“Shall I wake the master and mistress?” Bea asked breathlessly. “I know they’d want to see this.”

Sabrina was shamed at the thought of all her dear aunt and uncle had endured for her in the past few months. “Later perhaps. But I’ve an errand to run first. Have Teddy bring the carriage around to the garden gate.”

Bea hastened to the door to do her bidding.

“Oh, and, Bea?”

“Aye, miss?”

Sabrina grinned. “Bring me some breakfast first. I’m famished.”

Sabrina poked her head out the carriage window. “Hurry, Teddy! Are you sure you have the right address? Can’t the horses trot any faster?”

“We have the earl’s address and we’re going as fast as we can, miss,” said the beleaguered footman. “We almost trampled that nice gentleman at the last intersection.”

The nice gentleman had shook his fist at the back of the carriage and loudly questioned the driver’s parentage. Sabrina bounced up and down on the carriage seat as if she could somehow urge the horses to trot faster by example. The warm morning breeze stole tendrils from her loosely done topknot. The storm had washed the narrow London streets clean and laced the air with sparkling purity.

To Sabrina’s eyes, the entire world looked fresh and full of hope, even the cloaked beggar hunched on the corner of Morgan’s street.

The carriage rolled to a halt on the opposite side of the street from a humble wooden house. She threw open the carriage door in Teddy’s shocked face. “The chair, Teddy. I’ll get the door. You get the chair.”

As Teddy went around to unhook her wheelchair from its moorings, Sabrina hoped fervently that she wouldn’t require the use of it much longer.

Smiling at the thought, she tapped her feet impatiently. But before Teddy could reappear, the door of the house swung open. A man and woman appeared on the stoop. Chattering voices and a burst of male laughter drifted to the carriage. As the woman tipped her head back to smile at the bearded man, her veil slipped, revealing thick auburn hair swept up in elegant simplicity. The sun glinted off the silver threaded through it.

Sabrina sank back into the shadows of the carriage, her smile fading.

Another man appeared behind them. A rumpled giant of a man, rakishly handsome with his unshaven jaw and stocking feet. His white teeth flashed in a devastating smile. The bearded man slapped him on the back, then paused on the stairs to toss him a fat purse.

Sabrina watched her parents walk arm in arm down the street, their steps lighter than even the iridescent air. Morgan stood on the stoop a minute longer, grinning and tossing the heavy purse in his palm as if to measure its worth. Then he turned and went back into the house.

Thirty pieces of silver .

The thought came to Sabrina fully formed, ugly, and fraught with betrayal along with the memory of Morgan’s passionate words in her father’s dungeon. A passion that had nothing to do with her.

They’re all I have. All I am. I’d do anything for them .

Even line the MacDonnell coffers with ill-gotten gold by romancing Dougal Cameron’s daughter for a price.

Sabrina remembered the man and woman she’d seen on the corner, her eerie sensation of being followed. Had her parents witnessed it all? Every fall, every tantrum, every scathing exchange? Her gloved hand flew to her mouth, choking back a hysterical sob.

Had her papa paid Morgan in one lump sum or given him an allowance for each daily call? Did his pretty smiles cost extra? His kisses? And what of last night? The three of them had obviously been celebrating. Had Morgan regaled them with the details of their liaison? Sabrina closed her eyes at the memory of her mouth on his sleek flesh, the taste of him fading to ashes on her tongue.

Humiliation burned like a live coal in her stomach, sickening her with its heat.

Her papa would do anything for her.

Morgan would do anything for his clan.

Even Eve would have approved of the terrible cunning of their scheme, its irrefutable logic.

Teddy appeared at the carriage door, flushed with exertion from wrestling with the chair. Sabrina stared at the iron and wood monstrosity, hating it, hating them all. She knew now that her father’s money had paid for it.

“Take it away,” she demanded.

A baffled frown crinkled the footman’s brow. “But, miss, you said—”

“I don’t care what I said. Take it away. I never want to see it again.”

She slammed the carriage door while waiting for him to return. He reappeared at the window, his expression as miserable as she felt. “Where to now, miss?”

“Home,” she said, staring straight ahead at nothing. “I’m going home.”