Teresa Medeiros (23 page)

The playful clarity of Sabrina’s voice rose above the din:

“Sabrina!” Morgan roared.

The whisky bottle exploded in his hand. He shook off the amber bits of glass as if they were of no more consequence than rose petals. The rhythm of the tambours faltered and died. The clapping hands stilled in mid-motion.

“ ‘Tempers?’ ” Sabrina whispered, mesmerized as Morgan lunged to his feet and started toward her.

She had hoped that goading any response from him would be better than none, but his predatory grace reminded her that she had been tweaking the tail of a dragon. And judging from the feral glitter of his eyes, a hungry one.

The crowd melted before Morgan’s thundering strides. Sabrina fought to hold her ground, but her feet had other ideas. They lured her back until her rump struck the edge of a table and she could flee no farther. Morgan’s shadow towered over her. For a terrible instant, she wondered if he might break his vow and strike her there before them all.

She mustered her defiance by tossing her hair out of her eyes. “I hope my humble tune did not displease you. I thought you would be honored at such a tribute to the MacDonnell …” She trailed off, her husband’s resolute expression robbing her of words. Her teeth worried her lower lip.

“Stamina?” he offered. “Prowess?”

He caught her arms, his fingers stroking her flesh in a caress rendered more brutal by its mocking tenderness. The wicked slant of his lips reminded her that some punishments could be far more diabolical than a mere cuffing.

She forced her gaze away from the awesome
breadth of his chest. “ ’Twas only a song. There was no insult intended.”

“None taken.” He released her, but her sigh of relief caught in her throat as one of his hands slipped beneath her hair to cup her nape. His deft fingers worked their way through the thick mass of her hair. “I feared you might believe the bard had flattered us, lass. Perhaps you’d care for a private demonstration?”

Morgan’s fingers sought and found the tingling nerves buried in her scalp. Sabrina’s head fell back of its own volition, arching against the beguiling pressure. “No, thank you. I’ll take your word for it.”

Morgan angled his body to block the avid gazes of his clansmen. “Then perhaps you’d prefer a public one?” The silkiness of his tone warned her that she had pushed him too far too fast, that he was fully capable, equipped, and willing to live up to his dangerous reputation.

That still didn’t prepare her for the shock of his other hand slipping into her drooping bodice and closing gently over her bare breast. He kneaded the tender globe in his palm, his thumb stealing out to rake its sensitive peak. Her body responded with humiliating swiftness. The raw triumph in Morgan’s expression warned her that he knew it.

This betrayal was far worse than the bullying he had done as a boy. His impersonal caress violated not only her body, but the deepest, most tender secrets of her heart.

All the wounded pride and hurt she’d suppressed for years was in her voice when she bit off, “As you wish, Morgan MacDonnell. I expected no more from the likes of you.”

“Then I shouldn’t wish to disappoint you.”

Without betraying even a flicker of remorse, he freed her breast and laced his fingers in hers, hastening her from the hall as would any husband eager to share a tender moment with his wife. Sabrina threw a helpless glance over her shoulder to discover Eve watching them go, a satisfied smirk carved on her lips.

•  •  •

Sabrina resisted the urge to drag her feet like a truculent child as Morgan whisked her through the darkened maze of Castle MacDonnell.

But she could not resist a rebellious mutter. “Isn’t walking a bit civilized for your tastes? Shouldn’t you throw me over your shoulder or drag me by my hair?”

He stopped so fast that she stumbled into his back. As he swung around, his breath scorched her like a blast of dragon’s fire. She was surprised it didn’t singe her curls. “Don’t tempt me,” he said between clenched teeth.

“Why, you’ve been drinking,” she accused him, primly sniffing the air.

“You’re enough to drive a monk to it.”

“Ah, but you’re no monk, are you?”

His low-pitched growl made the hair on her nape tingle. “No, but I’ve been livin’ like one. And I’m damned weary of it.”

He pulled her along, slowing only when she stumbled over a pile of crumbled mortar and would have fallen had he not reached back to steady her. As they careened around a blind corner, Sabrina recognized the dead-end corridor she had discovered her first day at MacDonnell.

Snow unfurled through the shattered windows, sparkling like motes of fairy dust in the brittle air. Gusts of wind whipped the shredded tapestries into a frenetic dance. The snow cast a luminous curtain against the night. The cracked mirror threw back their looming reflections.

Leaving Sabrina standing in the middle of the corridor, Morgan marched to the mirror. “Damn it all! I would have sworn there was a door here.”

It seemed their mad flight had been a flight to nowhere. A hysterical giggle welled up in Sabrina’s throat. She tried to smother it with her palm, but failed.

Her mirth faded at the sight of Morgan’s expression. “It’s all just a joke to you, isn’t it? My crumbling castle. My pathetic clan. Just like that foolish ditty
someone wrote to keep the MacDonnells in their proper place. Beneath your dainty Cameron feet.”

His anger didn’t shock her as much as the depth of the other emotion lurking in his eyes. She couldn’t have hurt him, she reassured herself. She didn’t have the power.

“So did you decide to sink to our depths tonight?” he asked. “Is that why you’re dressed like a—a—” He sputtered to a halt.

“Slattern?” she generously offered. “Those are obviously the sort of women you prefer in your arms.”

“Alwyn
approached
me,
” he thundered.

“And how many times has she
approached
you since we were wed?”

A predatory smile touched his lips. His voice softened. “Jealous, brat? Guard your words well or I just might think you care.”

“God help me if I did!”

Her impassioned declaration seemed to catch him off guard. He cocked his head to the side and studied her.

Sabrina shivered beneath his regard, suddenly aware of how cold the drafty corridor was. She had never realized how much warmth her voluminous undergarments provided. Without them, she felt naked, exposed, vulnerable to the cold wind licking up her thighs and the heat simmering in Morgan’s eyes. As his gaze dropped, the contrast between the two extremes tightened the peaks of her breasts. Protectively she crossed her arms over her chest.

Morgan’s jaw tightened. He paced away from her. “What would your mother say if she could see you now?”

“Who gives a damn!”

At Sabrina’s choked cry, Morgan swung around, both provoked and fascinated by a glimpse of a passion he had only suspected. She snatched up her tattered skirts and paced into the path he had abandoned.

“I’m not my mother. I can’t behave like her. I can’t bear to be polite to idiots, I’ve never seen the point in embroidering those teeny little flowers on the
bedclothes, where no one will ever see them, and a drawing room full of ladies who talk of nothing but babies and sewing bores me to tears.”

She switched paths, brushing recklessly past him. Morgan closed his eyes, soaking up the fragrance of her unbound hair. It struck him harder than the whisky, making him weave on his feet.

“Cursed roses,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“Roses!” Sabrina snatched the word as if he’d tossed her a rope on a stormy sea. “Why, that’s it exactly! Mama wants her roses imported from England. She wants them to have pedigrees longer than Pugsley’s. She plants them in precise arrangements, and if one of them dares to rebel, even to stretch its poor thorny limbs toward the sun, then
snip
!” Sabrina snapped the air with a pair of imaginary shears. “She whacks its head off.”

An odd weight curled in Morgan’s chest. Sabrina’s eyes were shining. A wistful smile played around her lips. It was the same look he had seen on her face when she had first laid eyes on Castle MacDonnell, the same look that had devastated him as a boy.

Her Scottish lilt deepened, slurring the precise echo of her mother’s tones, giving her voice a resonance all its own. “Aye, but I love wild roses with prickly thorns that rip your sleeves and scratch you bloody. I love to spot a flash of pink or yellow on a barren hill and to climb until I arrive at the top all dirty and out of breath to find a single spray of roses tangled among the stones, too stubborn to be choked by the rocky soil.”

She caught his plaid in her balled fists and gave him a gentle shake. “Those blooms are glorious and free. You have to shed your blood just for the privilege of touching them. They won’t bloom in captivity.” She inclined her head, lightly resting its crown against his chest. Her voice softened to a whisper. “Neither will I, Morgan. I can’t spend my life in a gilded cage to please you.”

Sabrina pleased him more than she would ever
know. It pleased him to know that being dressed like a whore did not make her one. Even barefoot, her hair hanging in a wild tangle around her face, her lips stained a lush scarlet, she was as much a lady as she had been as a six-year-old child. Her purity transcended the carnal. Even his selfish masculine possession would not destroy it.

He smoothed a stray snowflake from her hair. “Sabrina?”

“Yes, Morgan?”

“You still chatter too much.”

Sabrina shivered as Morgan’s arms slipped around her waist, turning her away from him to face the mirror. The sleepy glitter of his eyes made her mouth go dry. The smoky tang of the whisky on his breath mingled with his crisp scent, enveloping her in an intoxicating cloud. The warmth of his body was an alluring contrast to the chill of the air. It took all Sabrina’s resistance to keep from sinking against him in surrender. Their entwined reflections shimmered in the hazy glass.

“You don’t have to be anyone but yourself, Sabrina. You’re pleasin’ enough for any man.” His voice tainted with the huskiness of desire, he stroked the sun-browned backs of his hands down her cheeks. “You’re white where I’m dark.” Mesmerized, she watched as his hands continued their provocative descent, easing her bodice down until it clung precariously to the rosy tips of her breasts. His knuckles grazed the skin between them. “Smooth where I’m rough. Soft”—the fall of his hair veiled his expression as he reached down and gently cupped her feminine heat in his hand, then dipped low to mold his hips to the curves of her bottom—“where I’m hard.”

Sabrina gasped at the bold evidence of his regard. Her head fell back and Morgan emblazoned whisper-soft kisses along her throat. She could hardly recognize the woman in the mirror—a wanton creature, moist lips parted in need, splayed against the masterful body of a man who held the very heart of her in his hand.

Their gazes met in the mirror. Was this how
Alwyn had felt? she wondered. Was this how all the other women had felt in Morgan’s arms?

A memory assailed her, so sharp she could smell the tart aroma of baking gingerbread. A leaner, younger Morgan sitting on a stool in the kitchen of Cameron, a flushed maid no more than fifteen herself, straddling his lap and kissing him avidly. Sabrina had walked in on them, then turned around and walked back out without either of them seeing her. She had skipped supper that night and the next, unable to meet the besotted eyes of the maid without losing her appetite.

Morgan gave her a gentle squeeze; his hoarse groan resounded with triumph. Panic spilled through Sabrina. Was Morgan making love to his wife or was she just another woman, a fresh conquest for the victory-starved MacDonnells? She couldn’t bear it if her innocence was no more to him than another bloody trophy to sport on his belt.

Biting back a cry of denial, she stiffened and arched away from the coaxing pressure of his fingers. Morgan sensed her withdrawal immediately. His hand stilled; his head lifted. His eyes darkened in the mirror with an emotion Sabrina might have thought was betrayal in another man.

Before she had time to form an excuse, a lie, or a plea, Morgan swung her around and pushed her back against the mirror, imprisoning her between the unyielding glass and the tempered steel of his body.

His eyes sparkled, reminding her once again of that wicked boy she had known. “What ails you, lass? Afraid I might steal a moment’s pleasure? You cringe from my touch. Don’t you want your husband’s filthy MacDonnell hands on your precious flesh?”

Sabrina clutched her gown closed at the throat. “Please, Morgan …”

“Please what? Please don’t dirty me with your unworthiness? Or are you only doin’ what the Camerons have always done best. Flauntin’ somethin’ of unspeakable beauty before our eyes only to jerk it away when we finally choke up enough courage to reach for it!”

Sabrina blinked in miserable confusion.
Unspeakable
beauty?
How dare he mock her now! A battle raged in Morgan’s eyes, as if his intelligence and control were warring with the centuries of savagery bred into his massive frame. Sabrina turned her face away to hide her fear. In the past, his cruelty had held only the power to wound. Now she knew it would destroy her.

He caught her shoulders in his implacable grip. “You’ve always hated me, haven’t you, lass? Maybe it’s far past time I gave you a real reason.”

The injustice of his words struck Sabrina a harsh blow, shattering the silence of thirteen years. She tossed back her hair, baring far more than just her face to him. “I never hated you! I adored you! I worshipped the ground beneath your arrogant feet!”

For a timeless moment the only sound was the muffled whisper of snowflakes striking the stone floor. Morgan was frozen, paralyzed by the luminous glitter of Sabrina’s eyes. Tears, he realized. Tears he’d been waiting for for half his life. They were stunning, like liquid diamonds trembling on her lashes, slipping down her pale cheeks. She’d finally broken her oath. This beautiful girl was crying for him. For Morgan MacDonnell, the no-good, overgrown son of a ruthless scoundrel.