Teresa Medeiros (36 page)

It had tested even Uncle Willie’s jovial good nature to send his daughter away to avoid scandal only to have her return pregnant. Even more galling was Enid’s obvious lack of repentance and her poorly concealed delight at the prospect of bearing the nameless bastard of a reprobate Highlander.

Tugging at his sparse hair, the beleaguered duke had locked Sabrina’s father in his library before he could escape, where they had labored around the clock to concoct a fictitious husband for Enid—an obscure Highland laird named Nathanael MacLeod who had both wooed and wed her in the wilds of Scotland, then had the misfortune to perish during their honeymoon in the same alleged carriage accident that had crippled Sabrina.

The romantic tale had made Enid something of a celebrity in London. The men clucked over her while the women offered their heartfelt condolences. Even her priggish ex-fiancé, Philip Markham, had appeared on her doorstep, obviously seeking to bolster his own reputation for noble sacrifice by graciously accepting
the child of a deceased Highland lord as his own. Enid soaked up the unexpected attention, glowing and swelling so profusely that Sabrina half feared she might pop with pleasure. The two of them had entered into an unspoken agreement to never discuss their time in the Highlands, both finding the subject too painful.

Sabrina gazed over the neatly clipped lawns and clean-swept pavements. Sunlight crept across her lap rug, teasing her face with a promise of warmth. At least Enid had the comfort of being believed a widow. She had an excuse for the wistful expression that sometimes darkened her eyes. Sabrina had nothing. Nothing but pity.

To ease the annulment process, her father had decided that no one in London but the magistrate was to know she had ever been wed. It was as if her time with Morgan had been nothing more than an illusion, a tender erotic dream from some other woman’s life. She would awaken in the night, confused by the darkness, the smothering curtains of the four-poster, the pathetic uselessness of her legs.

Trembling with the panic of doubting her own sanity, she would scramble for the Bible she kept tucked beneath the feather mattress. She would claw at the worn pages until the dried spray of gorse came tumbling out. Only then would her breathing ease. Only then would she remember the stricken expression on Morgan’s face and find the courage to press the blooms between the pages, her hands no longer trembling, but resigned.

As Sabrina watched, a little boy with hair the color of sunshine went scampering across the street, chasing a rotund puppy. A man and woman strolled hand in hand, her laughing face turned to his adoring one. A hedge thrush warbled into song, piercing Sabrina’s heart with the bittersweet vibrance of its melody.

She huddled deeper into her shawl. “Would you close the window, Enid? I do believe I’m taking a chill.” As Enid laid the book aside and rose to obey, the sunlight
struck Sabrina’s face with full force. She flinched and pressed her eyes shut. “And draw the drapes, won’t you? The light hurts my eyes.”

She sighed with relief as the heavy drapes swept shut, bathing her in undemanding gloom.

“C’est magnifique
!” the Frenchman proclaimed, kissing his bunched fingers.

Morgan trembled and snorted like a prize stallion about to bolt as the tiny tailor minced around him, pausing only to prod the muscled planes of his abdomen. Pugsley roused himself from his contented stupor to growl low in his throat at the tailor’s daring.

The little man leered at Morgan.
“Quelle bête jolie
!”

“What did he say,” Morgan demanded, glowering at Dougal. “Should I kill him?”

“He said you were a pretty beast, and I’d rather you didn’t,” Dougal replied dryly from his seat by the window. “At least not until after he bills us for his services. I’ve heard they’re dreadfully overpriced.”

Ranald kissed his bunched fingers and blew Morgan a mocking kiss. “Don’t be so hard on the wee feller, Morgan. I do believe he’s taken a fancy to ye.”

Within the space of a week, the Cameron solar
had been transformed into a tailor’s shop. Bolts of broadcloth and silk covered every available surface. A tailor’s dummy watched the proceedings with faceless amusement.

As the tailor tucked a paper of pins between his rouged lips and disappeared behind him, Morgan swiveled his neck, not trusting the bewigged man out of his sight. His worst suspicions were confirmed when he felt a stealthy pressure on his plaid. He jerked back, resulting in a fierce tug-of-war over the threadbare tartan.

“Why so shy, Morgan?” Ranald chided. “I’ve seen ye drop yer drawers with far less urgin’ than that.”

“Not for the likes of him!” Morgan gave the plaid such a tug that the tartan gave and the little man went spinning across the chamber. Dougal caught him before he could tumble out the open window.

The tailor spat out a mouthful of pins, followed by an outpouring of vituperative French. His face flushed to an alarming scarlet. He waved his clenched fists in the air and stamped his feet. Morgan stared with new respect, astonished that such a wee creature could work up such an impressive rage.

The diatribe ended in broken English. “I come far from Paris. He must allow me to measure him,
mais oui?
”

Obviously afraid the little tailor was working himself into an apoplexy, Dougal laid a diplomatic arm around his shoulders. Throwing a warning glance back at Morgan, he guided the man away from the object of his wrath and began to croon in soothing French.

Feeling both foolish and vulnerable, Morgan adjusted the tatters of his plaid with as much dignity as he could muster.

Ranald sobered. “Don’t get discouraged, man. Remember what the Cameron’s wife told ye. The poor lass is wastin’ away without ye. She could die if ye don’t help her.”

Neither of them saw Dougal’s eyes roll heavenward. The Cameron himself didn’t know if he should be petitioning for forgiveness or for the heavenly aid he would require when his son-in-law learned the truth.

•  •  •

“No, Morgan. Not that fork, the other one.”

Morgan snatched his hand back as if the gleaming silver had burned it.

“The one on the right, next to your napkin.”

Elizabeth’s voice chimed like bells inside his aching head. She never lifted her voice, never lost patience with him no matter how unfailingly stupid he appeared to be. He would have almost preferred that she scream at him and tear at her hair as she must have longed to do.

He fumbled with the myriad of silver, every clink echoing in the condemning silence. By the time he had located the proper fork for spearing the tiny oysters, a maid had appeared to whisk them away. A bowl of soup materialized in front of him, its meaty aroma making him feel desperate with hunger. He raised the bowl to his lips, already anticipating a long, thirsty gulp.

“Morgan! You must learn to use your spoon.”

He lowered the bowl, sloshing soup down his ruffled stock. Brian and Alex were staring at him from the other end of the table. Dougal coughed sharply, and they devoted their attentions to their own soup. A buxom maid hid a giggle behind her apron. Winking at Morgan, Ranald picked up his bowl and drained it in one gurgling slurp.

To Morgan, a wee bowl with a handle seemed a ridiculous way to eat soup. Before he could ease two mouthfuls down his throat, the irksome maid had reappeared to take it away. His stomach rumbled its disapproval.

A plate appeared to appease it, layered with steaming mutton, fat white potatoes, and bread slathered with golden butter. Determined that this portion would not escape him, Morgan flipped his dirk out of the waistband of his tailored breeches and stabbed it toward the plate.

Elizabeth’s hand came down over the bread. The
blade thudded to a halt between her fingers, missing her pinkie by half an inch.

She shook her head in sad reproach. “You must never use your dirk when eating, Morgan. How many times must I remind you?”

A betraying heat flooded his face. “I’m not hungry,” he muttered, pushing away from the table.

As he turned to go, his mother-in-law cleared the delicate, swanlike throat that Morgan longed to wrap his fingers around. He swung back and gave all a crisp bow that earned her approving nod.

After he was gone, Ranald said, “I’m glad
he
ain’t hungry ’cause I’m bloody famished.” He scraped Morgan’s mutton and potatoes on his heaped plate. “I don’t know what ye’re all lookin’ so gloomy about. He’s comin’ along nicely. Why, I’ll wager ye’ll make a gentleman out o’ him yet!”

It was a full fortnight before Morgan discovered a genteel skill at which he might excel. Oblivious of the pale, gangly music master seated before the harpsichord, he tilted his head, savoring the angelic strains of Bach pouring from the keys. His palm met Elizabeth’s as they circled the space cleared in the middle of the solar.

Here his natural grace served him well, the elaborate steps of the minuet no different from those required for swordplay or dodging pistol balls.

As they came together, bodies brushing in the briefest of contacts, Morgan closed his eyes, stealing a breath of roses from her upswept hair. Remembered desire struck him low in the gut, but when he opened his eyes, it was not to ebony curls and sparkling sapphire eyes, but to auburn hair streaked with silver and green eyes softened with compassion. He stumbled, but Elizabeth’s flawless rhythm corrected him easily.

They stepped apart. Morgan held her hand aloft as she twirled around him in a rustle of satin. “Dougal has arranged for you to have a secretary at your disposal in London,” she said.

“Sabrina was goin’ to teach me how to write. But
there always seemed to be somethin’ better to do …” He trailed off, remembering who he was talking to. He cast Elizabeth a guilty glance.

A knowing half-smile curved her lips. “I dare say there was.”

They met in the center of the floor again. A smile touched Morgan’s own lips as his hand briefly encompassed the narrow curve of her corseted waist. He found it a subtle delight to touch a woman this way, a courtship ritual rendered all the more compelling for its delicacy and grace.

“I can’t wait to dance this way with …” His words faded on a sharply indrawn breath as he remembered he would never dance this way with Sabrina. She would never know this alluring wedding of motion and music. Guilt and agony flooded him. His feet froze in place.

The harpsichord faltered. Elizabeth shot the music master a fierce look and he resumed playing, his gaze glued to the music stand.

Without missing a step, she came into Morgan’s arms. “The last thing my daughter needs is your pity.”

After a moment of hesitation, he nodded. As the final notes of the dance chimed, Elizabeth sank into a graceful curtsy at his feet. He bowed and lifted her hand to his lips.

Tilting her face to him, she said, “Had your mother lived, she would have been very proud of the man you’ve become.”

Morgan pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “I should like to think so, my lady. I should truly like to think so.”

“Who’d’ve ever thought ye’d let a Cameron with a blade near yer throat? Yer poor da’s probably turnin’ in his grave.” Ranald chortled and tossed a handful of dried raisins in his mouth.

“As well he should be,” Morgan muttered. “Since the wretch is to blame for most of this.”

The icy steel of the straight razor rounded his Adam’s
apple and swept upward, scraping the angle of his clenched jaw. He forced himself to remain utterly still beneath the cool competence of Elizabeth’s hands. She would have made an able surgeon, he thought. Or an assassin.

Perhaps she and Eve shared more qualities than he had realized. But Elizabeth had lived her pampered life secure in the adoration of her husband and children, while Eve had fought a constant battle against his clan’s contempt and his father’s apathy. His eyes clouded at the thought of his banished clanswoman. She had always been part of his life, and her absence stung almost as deeply as her betrayal.

Elizabeth wiped away the scented soap, gestured for him to stand, and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Morgan felt the tension drain from his shoulders. A mistake, he quickly realized, for a brisk clap of her hands summoned forth a bevy of maids and menservants. They flooded the solar, swarming like gleeful ants around a pool of spilled honey.

Even Ranald was cowed by the invasion. Gulping, he grabbed the bowl of raisins and retreated behind the drapes.

Morgan would rather have faced a legion of bloodthirsty Chisholms than this plague of eager Lilliputians. They poked and prodded, tugged and measured, buttoned and tucked until he wanted to scream. The simian tailor crawled around his feet, muttering French obscenities around a mouthful of pins and seeming to take great pleasure in jabbing him at unpredictable intervals. Morgan swallowed a bellow as a pin pierced his calf.

“Pardonnez-moi,
” the wee tyrant muttered with a moue of feigned regret.

A dapper manservant whipped a foamy linen cravat around Morgan’s throat. Morgan felt as if he were choking. Surely no hangman’s noose could have been so binding. Yet he bore it all with a show of stoic indifference until he saw Elizabeth approaching through their ranks, a powdered and curled bagwig perched on one fist and a glass pot of ceruse in the other.

“Enough!” he roared.

The servants froze in a silent tableau of apprehension. The tailor’s rouged cheeks paled.

Shaking off every humiliation he had endured in the past month for Sabrina’s sake, Morgan drew himself up and pointed straight at Elizabeth. “I have never struck a woman, my lady, but if you are laboring under the delusion that you are going to put that—that—hideous
thing
on my head and paint my face, then you may very well be the first.”

Dougal had slipped into the solar just in time to hear Morgan’s speech. Seeing the first traces of a genuine sulk on his wife’s face, he lifted his hands and slowly applauded, each clap falling like thunder in the shocked silence.

“Congratulations, my darling. I do believe you’ve created a gentleman.” The servants stepped back in deference as Dougal circled Morgan, looking him up and down. “The precise speech, the arrogance, the regal bearing. Quite impressive, wouldn’t you say?”