Teresa Medeiros (31 page)

Befuddled to find himself the victim of such an attack, he could do no more than stammer an incoherent greeting. “G-g-good day, sir. I presume you are the—”

Morgan’s words hammered the air. “Stop the pain. Do you understand? I don’t care what it takes. Just don’t let her hurt anymore. If you do, I’ll kill you myself.”

Morgan unclenched his fists. The doctor slid into a limp puddle, held on his feet only by Brian’s bracing hand at his elbow. “Yes, yes, I dare say you will,” he muttered, drawing off his spectacles with shaking hands to polish them on his ruffled stock. “Can’t say I blame you.”

As Morgan stormed from the chamber, Dougal
followed, doubling his pace to keep up with Morgan’s long strides. “Damn you, Morgan MacDonnell, don’t you dare go storming off! You owe me some answers! Brian almost killed you, you know. When he saw you drop and fire, he thought you’d shot Sabrina. If Alex hadn’t realized you were going to fling yourself after her, I’d have shot you myself. As it was, I barely got there in time to stop you from throwing yourself over that cliff.”

Morgan didn’t slow his determined pace. “Don’t do me any favors next time, Cameron.”

“Dammit all, man! What happened? What in the bloody hell happened here yesterday?”

Morgan swung around. Dougal forced himself not to recoil from the murderous wrath in his narrowed green eyes. “I’m about to find out.”

As Morgan vanished down the shadowed corridor, a wave of helpless exhaustion washed over Dougal. He sank against the wall, not knowing whether to pray for the hapless man in the dungeon or for his son-in-law’s immortal soul. But when he closed his eyes, he found his mumbled pleas to God were all for Sabrina.

Ranald shielded his eyes against the blaze of torchlight. He looks like a rat, Morgan thought viciously, a scrawny rat caught in a trap of his own making.

His cousin huddled against the wall, his knees drawn up, his pale hand gripping his wounded shoulder. Noting that his plaid had been knotted in a clumsy bandage, Morgan felt a grim smile touch his lips. He was gratified to know that self-preservation was still the most consistent MacDonnell trait.

Ranald quailed before his mirthless grin. As Morgan dropped the torch into a rusted sconce, Ranald’s feet scrambled at the floor as if he could somehow make himself part of the featureless stone. Shadows wavered across his handsome features.

His voice was raw. “Ye’ve always been more than just a cousin to me, Morgan. Ye’ve been a brother.”

“As Abel was to Cain?” Morgan folded his arms
over his chest. His smile spread a dangerous degree. “With kin such as you, who needs the Camerons for enemies?”

From somewhere within the depths of his fear Ranald summoned up enough pride to push himself up the wall to stand and face him.

Morgan ruthlessly squelched a flare of admiration. “What did they promise you, cousin? Gold? A fresh mutton pie? The chieftainship after I was dead?”

“No! It was nothin’ like that. I swear it. Ye know I’d never do anythin’ to hurt ye. She said—” Ranald plunged into silence, fingering the bloodstains on his plaid.

“Who
said?” Morgan’s tone was ominous.

Ranald kept his silence.

The final thread of Morgan’s control snapped. Ignoring his cousin’s cry of pain, he caught him by the nape and gave him a savage shake. “The truth, Ranald,” he roared. “Or do I have to beat it out of you?” He drew back his fist.

Their harsh breathing mingled, both of them knowing that if Morgan laid a fist on him, if he unleashed the terrible violence he’d restrained for most of his life, he wouldn’t stop until it was done. But even more damning was the hopeful sheen in Ranald’s eyes, willing Morgan’s fist to fall, willing him to end his guilt with the punishment he deserved.

Shaken to the core, Morgan lowered his fist. Tears tumbled from Ranald’s dark eyes. “It weren’t my idea. I swear it weren’t. Ye know I ain’t ne’er been smart like ye. Eve said the Camerons were comin’ to kill us all in our beds. That their visit was nothin’ but a trick. That we had to get them before they got us. Yer lady was kind to me. I dinna mean to hurt her. I swear I dinna.”

Taking care not to jar Ranald’s wounded shoulder, Morgan wrapped an arm around his cousin and drew him into a fierce embrace, his own eyes dry and bleak. “I know, lad,” he whispered. “Neither did I. God help me, neither did I.”

•  •  •

On the third day after the accident, Ranald appeared among his clansmen at Morgan’s side, wearing a sheepish expression and a clean white sling. While the Camerons cast him contemptuous glances, the MacDonnells shunned him. Only Enid dared to approach him, her placid face alive with the fear that the terrible stories she had heard might be true. When Ranald kept walking, his eyes downcast, she turned away, smothering a broken cry into her handkerchief.

As the short winter days and interminable nights passed, the web of Eve’s deceit untangled, the rumors slowly sifted through a skein of truth.

Eve had disappeared. Two of the renegade MacDonnells had been killed by the Cameron men who had closed ranks around their laird when the first pistol was fired. The other three had fled to the harsh northern mountains to escape Morgan’s wrath.

The Cameron men passed among the MacDonnells unmolested, enmity forgotten as the two clans united their hopes and prayers for the woman who lay in a laudanum-induced stupor in the bed above them. Even the worldly Fergus was overheard mumbling a rusty prayer.

One morning near dawn Morgan sat at Sabrina’s bedside, stroking her fevered brow and whispering Gaelic endearments only he could understand. Dr. Montjoy snored from his bench by the fire. Pugsley kept his own vigil at the foot of the bed, his brown eyes sorrowful. Dougal sprawled in a chair, an untouched book lying open across his lap. He and Morgan’s eyes met in bitter accord across the splinted length of Sabrina’s legs.

Ranald’s confession had failed to answer the question that haunted them both. Why? Why had Sabrina plunged down that icy road on a horse that terrified her? Morgan had spent hours searching her lax features for the answer. He could not forget that elusive instant when she had pulled back on Pookah’s mane. Had she been struggling to veer toward the meadow, or was it only a desperate attempt to slow the horse’s wild flight? Had she sought to warn him of Eve’s treachery or to
save her family from a betrayal she believed to be his own?

Looking into Dougal’s eyes chilled him. It was like looking into a mirror of his own emotions. He saw shock, rage, guilt, and a bitter accusation that made it even more imperative that he hear the truth from Sabrina’s own lips.

She stirred against his hand, her delicate brow puckered in a twinge of pain. For now it would have to be enough that she lived. Stroking his finger across the downy curve of her cheek, Morgan began to sing softly, a child’s lullaby from a memory he’d never realized he had.

Someone was singing.

A man’s voice, rich and sonorous, endearingly off key, more compelling than the siren song that had lured Odysseus’s ship toward the deadly rocks. Sabrina could make no sense of the words, but their tenderness was irresistible. She tried to turn her head to seek their source only to find herself, like Odysseus, bound against the temptation of surrender.

Dread heightened her struggle. She knew from harsh experience that after the voices would come the jagged edges of the pain. But worse than the pain were the gentle hands that would follow, familiar hands that smelled of camphor and peppermint, hands from her childhood pouring the thick poison, bitter and sickly sweet, down her unresisting throat. It made her want to gag, but she was robbed of even that feeble rebellion by the inevitable spiral into oblivion.

A callused palm cupped her jaw. The song faded to a weary mumble, its hoarse timbre striking a note of recognition. Morgan’s voice. Morgan’s touch. Morgan’s hands on her. Her urgency escalated to panic. Dark slashes of memory battered her. Hoofbeats pounding down a twisting road. Glimpsing Morgan in the meadow through her streaming hair. Hauling back on Pookah’s mane until the coarse strands cut like threads of steel into her palms. She must reach Morgan. Warn
him about Eve. Assure him that her faith in him had never faltered.

She struggled against the shards of pain, fought the seductive whisper of unconsciousness. Clawing her way to the surface, she opened her eyes a slit to find herself dazzled by the firelight shining through the brilliant skein of Morgan’s hair. After the infernal darkness, it was like a beacon, bathing the chiseled planes of his face in gilt. She lifted her hand, aching to touch him. A fierce joy seized her. She had succeeded! Morgan was alive! Tears of gratitude welled in her eyes as she struggled to form the words.

“Doctor. She’s gettin’ restless. You’d best come.” Morgan’s voice, harsh and implacable.

There was a frantic scrabbling as if of a large, nervous animal as someone else rushed toward the bed. Even as she screamed a silent denial, the first bitter draft hit her lips, burning like acid down her raw throat.

As she sank back into the sea of oblivion, a despairing moan escaped her, for she had failed to make them understand that feeling pain was better than feeling nothing at all.

Two days later Sabrina opened her eyes. Both puzzled and amazed at the ease of it, she squinted. The chamber was fuzzy, but not impossible. A narrow band of sunlight crept across the quilts, announcing the winter morning with simple grace.

Two men were silhouetted against the window, their unkempt hair haloed by the light. Their voices bumped and slurred to her unpracticed ears, finally separating into tones she could recognize: her papa’s gentle Highland lilt; the other man’s familiar rasp forever linked with childhood hurts and peppermint comfits pressed into her chubby hands. Dr. Montjoy’s presence baffled her. She could not remember being ill or even having the sniffles.

So steeped was she in those confusing memories of childhood that her father’s aged profile startled her. Haggard lines had been carved around his expressive
mouth. The silver at his temples had cast its net over the rest of his dark hair. A wave of shock and pity washed over her, tempered by a thread of thanksgiving as she realized that Eve’s ambush had failed.

“Papa?” Her lips formed the word, but no sound came forth. Her tongue was thick from disuse.

Her father rubbed a weary hand over his untrimmed beard. “We’ve waited long enough. He must be told.”

Dr. Montjoy gave the door a furtive glance. “Would you be so kind? I don’t think he cares for me. If he took it in his head that I were somehow to blame …” He trailed off on an ominous note.

“There’s no hope at all?”

The physician shook his head sadly. “Her legs …”

His words slurred back into incoherence as icy fear paralyzed Sabrina’s rediscovered senses. At that moment her legs seemed the most substantial thing about her, weighted with a dull ache. But even she knew there was only one commonly accepted cure for a badly broken leg. And hadn’t she heard of soldiers who had lost their limbs on the battlefield and lived to complain of pain or even itching? Swallowing hard, she summoned up the strength to lift the quilt a furtive inch. A sigh escaped her to find her legs still there, splinted but intact. She couldn’t quite swallow a rusty shadow of a grin.

Dr. Montjoy went on. “…  The ledge broke her fall, but the horse’s weight crushed the bones in her lower legs. Since her husband wouldn’t let me amputate …”

Thank you, Morgan
, Sabrina whispered silently.
Thank you, God
.

“…  Splints are being tried in London by the more reputable bone-setters, but no one knows if they’re truly of any benefit. It’s my opinion that the girl will live, but I’m afraid she’ll not walk again.”

Sabrina’s grin faded.

The men were moving away from the window, turning to face her. There was no time to act, no time
to think. She slammed her eyes shut, buying herself the only thing within her power—time.

Sabrina held herself motionless as Morgan stormed past the bed, pacing the confines of the chamber like a caged lion. “Shouldn’t she be awake now, Doctor? You quit givin’ her the laudanum three bloody days ago.”

As her husband’s steps retreated, Sabrina sneaked one eye open. Morgan’s plaid flared around his broad shoulders. He had entered the musty sickroom in a jarring blast of juniper and winter sunshine. His very vitality hurt her eyes.

Exchanging a nervous glance with her father, the doctor shook his head. “I’ve seen cases like this before, son. The body simply shuts down, saving all its energies for healing. She’ll come around when she’s ready.”

Sabrina slammed her eyes shut as Morgan approached the bed. She could almost feel the waves of suspicion rolling off him.

“I wonder …” he murmured. She heard his pause, the whisper of pages being turned. “I would have sworn this book was at the foot of the bed this mornin’.”

Her pillow gave beneath the exacting pressure of Morgan’s palms on each side of her head. The heat of his scrutiny scorched her. She was afraid to move, afraid even to breathe. His hair tickled her nose and she swallowed a tormenting urge to sneeze.

Her father bought her a reprieve, his calm, rational tone brooking no arguments. “Enid was in earlier for a visit. Perhaps she read to Sabrina.”

Morgan snorted. “Aye. Or perhaps Pugsley was readin’ to while away the hours.”

Still shaking his head, he strode from the chamber, his absence more keenly felt than his presence. The other men trailed after him, Dr. Montjoy murmuring platitudes, her father strangely silent.

After they were gone, Sabrina propped her head up on the pillows, crossed her arms, and glared at her legs.

Hateful, useless things
.

Morgan’s own voice came back to damn her.
The MacDonnells won’t stomach any show of weakness. They’ve no tolerance for cripples
.

Sabrina had learned from eavesdropping on her father and Alex that Eve had beat a coward’s retreat. Yet it seemed the vindictive woman had won after all. ’Twas a pity she hadn’t lingered to enjoy her handiwork. Wouldn’t she have savored the irony of it all?

She heard Fergus’s voice, thick with contempt.
Why, I’d as soon bugger lame old Eve than bed a Cameron
! Now she was both, Sabrina thought, lame and a Cameron.