Teresa Medeiros (20 page)

“ ’Tis a man’s duty to protect his woman. To cherish her.”

Considering Eve and the other MacDonnell women Sabrina had met, she found it extraordinary that Morgan was speaking from the heart. His notions of
honor and pride confounded her. They were contrary to everything she had been taught to believe about his clan.

“Are you certain you’re not a changeling?” she asked softly. “Perhaps the fairies left you in a basket on your father’s doorstep.”

A wry smile twisted his lips. “My da accused me of the same thing on occasion. But I had a mother. She died when I was born.”

His thumb stroked the carved folds of the queen’s skirt. An emotion akin to jealousy unfolded within Sabrina. She shivered at a vision of those bronze hands moving against her own skin with such aching tenderness.

Unable to endure any more of his sweet, unwitting torture, she snatched the queen away from him and sat to sort the pieces. “ ’Tis only a game, Morgan.”

He dropped into his chair, arms crossed. “ ’Tis not seemly. I won’t play.”

Sabrina folded her own arms, and they sat in sullen silence. Pugsley lost interest in the disgraced monarch and spit him out. Morgan finally leaned across the table. “I suppose there’s no help for it, then. I’ll have my good-night kiss now.”

Sabrina closed her eyes and dutifully puckered. When nothing happened, she opened them to find Morgan surveying her, his own eyes narrowed to lazy slits. He cupped her face in his hands much as she had done his own the previous night. Her heart thundered against her ribs in warning as both of his thumbs brushed her lips, probing, stroking, testing their softness, their resistance to his will.

She felt them melting like warm wax beneath the startling intimacy of his touch, opening for him in shameless invitation to pierce her yet deeper. His breath was warm and sweet against her skin. Still, he continued his persuasive stroking, ravishing her mouth with nothing more than the broad, callused pads of his thumbs.

She writhed in her chair as tendrils of flame licked through the dark, mysterious passages of her body,
tightening her breasts and slicking her secret folds with an unfamiliar dew. Then and only then did Morgan’s tongue delve into her, caressing her own with a single deep stroke that rendered her mindless.

Ignoring her agonized moan, he drew back to plant a brisk kiss on the tip of her nose. “Good night, brat.”

Dreading the breathless sound of her voice, she waited until he’d reached the door to say, “I thought you MacDonnells weren’t well versed in the art of good-night kissing.”

“Ah, but that’s why we must practice with such diligence.” He gave her a devilish wink. “Sleep well, lass.”

When he was gone, Sabrina let her head fall limply on her folded arms, her body so inflamed with the potent seeds of desire he’d planted that she doubted she would ever sleep again.

Sabrina chose the next night to introduce her husband to Homer, hoping the Greek bard was clever enough to hold Morgan’s attention and too dry to stir his passions, passions that had proved devastating to both her sleep and her peace of mind. She had lain awake half the night, aching and tossing until the sheets were twisted around her like the tendrils of Morgan’s unbreakable hold.

She curled her stocking feet beneath her and began to read, feeling a bit like Scheherazade entertaining the emperor. Only it wasn’t her head she risked losing to Morgan, but her heart.

Her fears were unfounded. Morgan was soon perched on the edge of his chair, listening raptly as the fearless Odysseus outwitted his enemies and battled his way back to his beloved Penelope. Sabrina stole a look at Morgan over the top of the book. Boyish wonder had softened his rugged features. When Odysseus blinded the terrible Cyclops, he leaned forward so far, she feared he might tumble out of the chair. She found herself
caught up in the ancient tale as if hearing it for the first time.

She began with relish the story of Odysseus and the clever enchantress Circe. Morgan shifted his weight back in his chair, her first clue that something was amiss. The telltale lines of his scowl deepened. Sabrina began to read faster, stumbling over simple words as her concentration faltered and her mind danced ahead to their impending kiss.

“Fool!” Morgan’s fist crashed on the table.

The book snapped shut in her hands.

“Damnation! The man’s a bloody fool! I would never have made such a mistake. The canny witch turned his men into pigs and now he’s fallen into her bed? Hasn’t he an ounce of pride?”

Morgan’s obsession with pride was beginning to wear thin on Sabrina’s nerves. She met his gaze boldly. “Circe enchanted him with her beauty. Perhaps he was willing to forsake his pride for a taste of her pleasures.”

“Any man who forfeits his pride for a woman is a bloody fool.”

Sabrina read the warning in his stormy eyes clearly. If she allowed him, he might someday give her his body, even his son, but he would never give her his heart. To her horror, unexpected tears stung her eyes.

Letting the book slide to the floor, she moved to the window, where the breeze could burn the tears away. The wind bore the crisp threat of an early snow. “Perhaps you’re right. Odysseus’s decision cost him dearly. According to Homer, he was killed by one of the offspring of that union—his very own son.” She faced him, dry-eyed and confident now in her anger. “But if you’d have let me finish the story, you would have understood. Odysseus shared Circe’s bed only to free his men. He valued their lives above his paltry pride. Surely you of all men would understand such a sacrifice.”

Morgan understood only too well. Circe wasn’t half the enchantress Sabrina was. She had woven a spell around him with her mellifluous voice, binding him tighter with each shy smile she had stolen at him, each
gentle shaping of her lips around Homer’s words. He wasn’t sure if he had erupted in fury over the magnitude of Odysseus’s folly or his own.

She faced him now, no less magnificent in her defiance than Circe. Her delicate features were taut with emotion; the night wind coaxed strands of hair from her prim coronet. He could envision her on a sea-washed rock, her unbound hair shimmering with spray, boldly meeting any challenge the sea could offer. Perhaps Odysseus wasn’t a fool for surrendering to Circe. Perhaps he was a fool for leaving her.

When Morgan crooked a commanding finger at her, Sabrina considered refusing his summons. But curiosity won out and she marched over to him. He patted his knee in invitation. After a moment’s hesitation, she stiffly sat, feeling like a puppet dancing from Morgan’s strings.

His warm fingers curled around her bare nape, eliciting a shiver of pleasure. “Perhaps your cunning Odysseus only soothed his pride by pretendin’ it was a sacrifice.”

Sabrina knew that was the closest Morgan might ever come to an apology. He drew her down until their lips touched and ignited in the pure, hot flame she was coming to both crave and dread. She slid inexorably down his thigh into the unyielding cradle of his lap. He gently laved her lips, flicking and nibbling at the sensitive skin until she parted them in a plea for more.

This time he did not deny her. His tongue swept out in a flare of heated satin, exploring the tender crevices of her mouth and evoking a response that sent her own tongue dancing over the strong, even line of his teeth. She kneaded his plaid like a satiated cat, squirming in his lap without realizing it. A hoarse rumble of reaction escaped him, sending both exaltation and fear roaring through her veins. If she ever truly broke Morgan’s control, she wondered, would she be woman enough to handle him?

She buried her burning brow against his throat, wishing he would make the choice for both of them, wishing he would rise, carry her to the bed, and make
her forget her foolish vow to deny him. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed when he stood and set her gently on her feet.

“Will you read to me again tomorrow, brat?”

She reached up to toy with a silky strand of his hair, hoping her mischievous smile would hide the helpless need hazing her vision. “Oh, indeed I shall. I have just the story. It’s about a bold warrior named Samson and a spirited lass called Delilah.”

Sabrina emerged from her chamber the following afternoon, her steps sharpened by purpose. As mistress of MacDonnell, she could hardly spend the rest of her life skulking in her chamber, awaiting Morgan’s sporadic attentions. She was already beginning to chafe at being treated like an exotic pet—albeit a pampered one.

As she passed the mouth of a crumbling stairwell, the sound of voices drew her attention. Voices lifted in anger were a common occurrence at MacDonnell and were usually followed by the thud of fists and the clatter of falling teeth. But these voices were lowered to hissed growls, and Sabrina sensed this was more than a simple quarrel. She wavered, remembering the cost of her earlier inadvertent snooping, but the next words held her riveted.

“How could ye have been so damn clumsy, woman? He should’ve never trusted ye with the task.”

“Trusted? ’Twas my idea in the beginnin’, or have ye forgotten? God knows a dimwit like ye couldna have mastered such a plot. The chieftain pronounced it a bold stroke o’ genius.”

“Aye, and look what it got him. Ol’ blind Galvin could have done as well! I knew yer leg was faulty, but in truth, I thought yer eyes were sound.”

“Go to hell!”

Before Sabrina could pretend to be doing anything more than eavesdropping, booted feet clattered up the stairs. She was dismayed to see Ranald emerge. His swarthy face paled at the sight of her. Doffing his
bonnet, he mumbled, “My lady” before dashing off down the nearest corridor like a startled hare.

Eve appeared and leaned against the stone wall, her lips twisted in a contemptuous smirk. Her hair was loose now, and Sabrina realized with a shock that Eve was not as old as she had first believed. Although wind and sun had weathered her skin and washed the gilt from her hair, she couldn’t have been much older than Sabrina’s own mother.

“You have lovely hair,” Sabrina said, maintaining her wary stance. “You should wear it down more often.”

“Ah, but that I canna do.” Eve circled her like a wildcat scenting its prey. “Long hair ain’t nothin’ but a noose in battle. I once caught a foolish Grant lassie by her curls and split her from stern to gullet.”

Sabrina gave the neat coil anchored at her nape a nervous pat. “Do tell.”

“Aye,” she pronounced proudly. “Angus always said I could slit a man’s throat and the fool wouldna know it till he arrived at the gates of hell.”

“I’m sorry about Angus. Morgan tells me the two of you were very close.”

Eve shrugged, her stoic response reminding Sabrina more of Morgan than she would have liked. “He died as he lived. By the blade.”

“But by whose blade?” Sabrina dared softly.

She started as Eve drew a callused finger across her cheek, her touch surprisingly gentle. “So pretty. So smooth. Morgan likes it that way, don’t he? Smooth skin. Soft voice. Just like yer ma, ain’t ye? Just like Angus’s precious Beth.”

Eve’s eyes had taken on a dim haze and Sabrina began to suspect the real reason for the woman’s hatred of the Camerons. Conflicting emotions assaulted her. Fury at Angus’s thoughtlessness. Compassion for the girl Eve had been—homely, crippled, forced to live in the shadow of the fine lady Angus had failed to woo.

But before she could speak, Eve’s face hardened. “Has the lad even troubled to bed ye, lass? Morgan’s more like his da than he cares to admit. He’d rather
pine for what he canna have than pleasure himself with what he can. After all, ye’re nothin’ but a pale imitation o’ the woman they both wanted.”

Sabrina backed away, desperate to escape the taunt in Eve’s eyes. They seemed to see inside of her, to pierce her darkest and most secret fears. “What are you saying?”

“More than I should. Ye’ll find out soon enough.” A pity more terrible than contempt flickered through her eyes. “Don’t give yer heart to him, lass. He’ll only feed it back to ye, piece by piece, until ye damn near choke on it.” She shuffled away, her lame foot dragging on the uneven stone.

Sabrina stared after her, the cryptic words echoing through her brain. She had not forgotten that Eve and Ranald had been the only MacDonnells conspicuously absent from the hall when Angus was murdered. Did she dare share her suspicions with Morgan? Would he believe her, or would he accuse her of seeking a scapegoat to clear the Cameron name? She sighed. It was simply too soon to jeopardize their fragile regard with accusations. She abhorred the notion of once again drawing the line of Cameron and MacDonnell between their divided hearts.

Shoving aside her lingering unease, she continued on her mission.

As Sabrina entered the smoky hall, she resisted the urge to rub her hands together in gleeful anticipation. Homer had given her an idea. If Circe had woven her enchantment to turn men into pigs, why couldn’t she use her own particular charms to turn pigs into men? But even Circe would have been challenged to choose a victim from so many delicious prospects.

She found it ridiculously easy to imagine snorting, snuffling pig heads perched on the broad shoulders of the MacDonnell men. Three of them slouched before the fire, tossing dice. When one of them shot a stream of tobacco into his partner’s matted hair, a scuffle ensued. At another table, a wrestling match over a
haunch of venison ended with one man crashing a jug of whisky over another’s head, knocking him out cold.

A snorting roar of laughter from the center table drew her attention. Ah, now, there was a challenge worthy of a mighty enchantress!

Mr. Fergus MacDonnell himself, swilling ale and making ribald toasts, his grimy hand shoved down the bodice of the giggling woman draped across his lap. His bulbous nose even had a porcine tilt to it.

Sabrina lifted her skirts and picked her way gingerly over the bones and ominous stains that littered the floor. The other men at the table quietened uneasily at her approach, but Fergus was too busy fondling the girl’s breast to notice. He tilted a jug to his lips, wearing its earthenware handle as a pinkie ring. Ale trickled down his grizzled whiskers into the thick, bullish folds of his neck.