Teresa Medeiros (18 page)

She slammed the mirror down. She was a Cameron, by God! She’d be bloody well damned if she was going to let those barefoot savages hold her prisoner in her own chamber! It was far past time they learned that MacDonnell had a new mistress.

Storming to the door, she threw it open … then sneaked her head out and peered both ways before tiptoeing into the corridor.

Sabrina was sidling toward the stairs when a sharp cry, half smothered, stilled her feet. Frowning at its familiar cadence, she crept toward the nearest closed door. The sounds of muted scuffling drifted into the corridor. She pressed her ear to the door. A low moan pierced the silence. A cold sweat broke out over Sabrina’s skin as she recognized it as the same terrified keening Enid had made when cornered by the spider at Cameron.

Someone was hurting her cousin.

Sabrina shoved at the door. It was bolted from within.

Her frantic fists pounded the wood, but at that moment something within the room began banging in rhythm, drowning her out. An agonized groan was followed by a hellish caterwauling that made the hair on Sabrina’s nape writhe in horror. Dear God, they weren’t just hurting her cousin! They were killing her! It was all her fault for turning Enid loose in this nest of vipers. They wouldn’t care that she was an innocent Belmont. They would see her only as another Cameron, deserving of their tortures.

She beat madly at the door. Tears streamed from her eyes, blinding her. When her throat went raw from
screaming, she shoved her knuckles between her lips, tasting blood, and eyed the unyielding oak.

Morgan. Morgan was the only one who could help her.

Lifting her skirts, she tore down the stairs, screaming her husband’s name. Her lungs ached as if they would burst as she shot through the archway leading to the hall and into a dank cloud of peat smoke and unwashed men.

They reeked of stale sweat and malt whisky. Her empty stomach spun. She shoved her way through them, calling for Morgan.

She stumbled. One of the men caught her by the arm to steady her and shoved his face into hers, giving her a toothless leer. “Och, lass, if Morgan ain’t around, won’t I do?”

The anger she’d nursed earlier infused her. She whipped her arm out of his grip with surprising strength. Ignoring the smirks and catcalls, she fought her way through their ranks. They were practically drooling at the unexpected bounty of discovering a hysterical Cameron in their midst. A wave of relief surged through her when she finally broke out of the throng, but it faded quickly as she realized there was still no sign of Morgan.

The jeers and hoots subsided to mocking silence.

Sabrina could feel dozens of green and gray eyes boring into her back, all sharpened by predatory amusement. Alwyn chose that moment to detach herself from a sniggering circle of women. She sauntered forward to plant herself in Sabrina’s path.

She stared down her aquiline nose at Sabrina. A triumphant smile curved her lips. “What ails ye, lass? I never had no trouble keepin’ Morgan in my bed.”

Sabrina didn’t see the massive iron-banded doors at the end of the hall swing open. All she saw was red.

Alwyn’s smile vanished as Sabrina curled both fists in the bodice of her filthy gown and drove her back until she slammed into a wall.

The MacDonnell women gaped as Sabrina Cameron, a true lady born and bred, jerked Alwyn’s
face down to hers and snarled, “I’ve had just about enough of your sass, you ill-mannered strumpet! Where the bloody hell is my husband?”

A masculine voice, rich with suppressed laughter, cut through the shocked silence. “Turn around, lass. He’s right behind you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The MacDonnells wasted no time on mercy.

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

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

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

Their hearty guffaws spread into roars of laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

Disgusted, Morgan dropped Ranald back to the bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It doesn’t take long.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Imagine that,” she murmured.

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

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

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

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