Teresa Medeiros (45 page)

Morgan kissed one tear away, then another, his tongue smearing the salty wetness. A deep chuckle rumbled from his throat. “Ah, lass, you’re more than woman enough for me. And you can pleasure me in ways you’ve never dreamed.”

The unbearably sweet heat of his mouth traveled lower, tracing the arched curve of her throat, the hollow beneath her collarbone, finally flowering on the pebbled bud of her nipple beneath the damp lawn of the nightdress. A moan escaped her as he gently flicked it with his tongue, then sucked her with a raging hunger that sent tendrils of raw pleasure cascading through her womb.

Her fingers twined in the rough silk of his hair. He lifted his head, meeting her pleasure-dazed gaze with one of his own. “Let’s get this thing off. It’s all wet and I don’t want you takin’ a chill.”

Sabrina knew there was little danger of that. Her skin tingled as he peeled the nightdress away, leaving
her shivering and naked beneath him. She had never been quite so aware of her own helplessness. This man could do anything to her. Anything at all. He was her husband, she reminded herself desperately. But she still couldn’t shake the tantalizing sensation that what he would do to her in the quiet, dark heart of her aunt and uncle’s house was somehow wicked. Forbidden.

But for now all he was doing was kissing her. Softly. Tenderly. Slanting his mouth over hers. Deepening its possessive angle with each warm, sweet stroke of his tongue against her own until she was lost in his rhythm and begging for more with the arch of her naked body against his clothed one.

His teeth nipped her neck. “Lord, lass,” he muttered against her skin, “I always knew the Camerons would be the death of me.”

He slid down her, lavishing kisses on her breasts, her concave belly, the tiny mole at the arch of her hipbone. Firelight shimmered through the skein of his hair as it swept across her thighs.

“Don’t!” she whispered fiercely.

Morgan lifted his head, battered by dark bewilderment. Surely the lass wasn’t so cruel as to deny him now. If she was, it was all over. He might play at the role of bully, but if it came to actually forcing her, he might as well get up and walk out of this room with both his clothes and his pride still intact.

“Don’t,” Sabrina said more gently, drawing him up the length of the bed.

Her hands curled over his shoulders, easing him back on the pillows. Morgan stiffened, reluctant to give up that much control.

“Please,” she whispered.

Sabrina wouldn’t meet his eyes, but he could sense from the faint tremble in her hands that whatever she wanted from him was vital. Perhaps the greatest gift he would ever give her. He sank back among the pillows, surrendering to the gentle ministering of her hands.

Morgan had never allowed himself the delicious sensation of being undressed by a woman, not even as
a child. He leaned up as Sabrina unlaced his shirt and drew it over his head. His breath caught as she framed his face in the soft wings of her hands and kissed him. She stroked his hair away from his face, the hypnotic motion almost making him drowsy.

But that drowsiness faded instantly as her lips glided down the column of his throat and sleeked down his chest like a touch of flame.

Sabrina felt the rigid muscles of Morgan’s abdomen quiver beneath her lips, heard his grunt of half pleasure, half pain as her tongue teased the line of gilded hair that ran from his navel to the top button of his low-slung breeches. His grunt deepened to a groan as her teeth caught the brass button and dragged it loose from its mooring.

His hips arched off the bed. “Have you any idea what you’re doin’ to me, lass?” he gritted out between clenched teeth.

“Some,” she replied, freeing the second button in like manner. The broadcloth of Morgan’s breeches was stretched taut over the swell of his flesh, its flawless seams strained to bursting.

“Damned tailor,” he muttered. “I wish I had my hands around his scrawny wee neck …” His voice broke on a hoarse groan as the last button gave, freeing his burning flesh to the tantalizing whisper of Sabrina’s breath.

He tangled his hands in her hair, forcing her to meet his smoldering gaze across the golden expanse of his skin. Her eyes sparkled with a light he’d thought never to see again.

Sabrina was captivated by him; it was as if God had created a creature of flawless masculinity just for her delight. “Please? May I?”

Those were the last words Morgan had expected to hear from her. He collapsed on the pillows with a dazed shake of his head. “How can I refuse when you ask so prettily?”

“Just close your eyes and pretend I’m Circe,” she commanded primly. “If you don’t succumb to my wiles, I shall turn you into a swine.”

He folded his hands behind his head in a deceptive posture of lazy abandonment. His heated gaze promised sweet revenge. “Never let it be said that Morgan MacDonnell doesn’t know how to go gracefully to his fate.”

Morgan was to learn more of grace beneath Sabrina’s tender dominion than he’d ever believed existed. When her soft lips enfolded him, he thought he would come apart right then, right there. He clenched his teeth and arched his throat in a guttural groan. Ecstasy spilled through him in a blinding torrent, Sabrina’s generous mouth granting him a glimpse of heaven itself.

Sabrina moaned deep in her throat, freed at last to lavish on Morgan all the love she’d hoarded in her heart for years. She savored him, glorying in her power to pleasure him. It was her first taste of power since she’d tumbled over that cliff, and she loved Morgan anew for surrendering it to her. He was her magnificent golden beast, and she realized then that she had never wanted to tame him, but only to drive him even wilder than he was.

His hands caught in her hair, enslaving her even as she held him in thrall with nothing more than the honeyed promise of deliverance from her sweet torture.

Biting off a reverent oath, Morgan reached the limits of his endurance. In a switch that left her breathless, Sabrina found herself lying beneath him. His fingertips traced her lips in wonder, as if to memorize their shape and softness around his flesh.

The sculpted planes of his face were taut with helpless need. “I cannot wait, lass. ’Tis been too long.”

He threaded his fingers through the soft, dusky curls between her legs, groaning in delight to find her already melting into his hand. Sabrina’s eyes darkened with both apprehension and passion. But even in his urgency, Morgan took the time to arrange her pliant legs, gently parting them to accommodate his girth.

His lips descended on hers, laving them, soothing their swollen contours even as his heavy manhood thrust deep within her, cleaving her body and heart
with one majestic stroke. Sabrina had forgotten such raw pleasure was possible. Morgan’s mouth consumed her wild, soft cry.

“Princess,” he whispered against her ear. “My beautiful, beautiful princess. I want to spoil you. Pamper you. Indulge you.”

He proceeded to do just that. Spoil her for any other man’s touch. Pamper her with pleasure. Indulge her with the throbbing length of him until she could do nothing but cling to his shoulders, her broken cries one unending hymn of gratitude. But even that wasn’t enough for Morgan. He reached between them and gently raked his thumb over the tingling bud nestled in her silky curls.

Mindless in her ecstasy, Sabrina arched against him. Her limp legs came to glorious life, wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back to urge him even deeper into her.

Morgan had only an instant to savor his triumph before the rippling pulsations of her silky sheath shot him into rapture. He bucked hard against her, his hoarse roar indistinguishable from the voice of the thunder.

Morgan sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, and watched Sabrina sleep. He stroked the bare curve of her back, fascinated by the near translucence of her skin. It glowed in the thin dawn light, giving off a radiance that coaxed his hand lower to trace the hollows and dips of her spine. With a disgruntled murmur she burrowed deeper into the pillow.

Morgan smiled. With her hair tangled and the sheet covering only the gently rounded orbs of her buttocks, she looked less a princess than a harem girl after a rough night with the sultan.

His hand wandered to her silky calf, squeezing the tensile strength of her muscle. He would never forget that glorious moment when her beautiful legs had tightened around his waist.

Aye, the lass would walk again, he thought. He’d
see to it. His smile spread to a devilish grin. He’d simply been going about it the wrong way. He should have known there was a more effective and far more pleasurable way of getting her blood flowing again.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of the house, a clock sounded five times. Morgan knew he’d best leave before the servants arose. It wouldn’t do for the poor Belmonts to find another disreputable Scot preying on their womanfolk. He also needed to send word to Dougal and Elizabeth, to tell them he’d decided to stay in London and fight for his bride.

Stroking Sabrina’s hair, he struggled against a wave of doubt. She’d trusted her body to him once before and then had only him to blame him when it had been broken. It might be a long time before she was ready to entrust her heart to his care.

Sighing, he covered her with the quilt, then rose, tucking his rumpled shirt into his breeches. An object thumped to the floor at his feet.

Morgan looked down to discover the Bible he had seen sticking out from beneath the mattress the previous night. He bent to pick it up, knowing instinctively that out of all books, this was the one to be revered the most. The fragile pages flipped open, spilling out a barren spray of twigs and leaves.

His heart started to pound in his ears.

His hands trembled as he caressed the paper-thin petals between thumb and forefinger, recognizing the gorse native to his Highland slopes. He gazed at Sabrina in fresh wonder. She had thrown him away, but hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw away this ugly clump of weeds. Instead, she had saved them, pressing them between the pages of this book like her dormant heart.

Morgan gently tucked them into the pocket next to his own heart and slid the Bible back into its nook. Excitement raced through him. He had much to do before he could return to this house.

As Morgan eased himself out of the garden gate, a thin wafer of sun was already rising in the east. Steam
from the night’s rain hissed from the pavement to form a morning fog.

So intent was he on his plans that he almost stumbled when a cloaked figure lurched into his path.

“Have ye a halfpenny to spare, me lord?”

Morgan frowned, thinking it a bit early for beggars. But the beggar’s threadbare cloak was soaked through, as if he had slept outside in the storm. Remembering all the times he’d been hungry and wet, Morgan drew out his purse. He started to dig into it for a handful of silver, then plopped the entire bag into the beggar’s extended hand, wanting to share some of his own happiness and hope with someone less fortunate.

“Spend it in good health, my friend.”

“Thank ye, my lord,” the beggar called after him. “I’ll not forget ye, I swear it.”

But Morgan had already forgotten the beggar as he strode whistling down the pavement, his step jaunty, his thoughts for once not on the past, but on the future.

Sabrina awoke with a smile on her lips for the first time in months. Early morning sunlight slanted through the terrace doors. She stretched, exulting in the lazy ache of her muscles. She felt like a child again, waking to a sunny day that was filled with possibilities.

She arched her feet beneath the sheet without realizing it, then stared at them, entranced by the fluid motion. What if she were to behave as if it
were
one of those days? What if she simply sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and put her feet on the floor?

After slipping into her discarded nightdress, she threw back the sheet and inched her legs toward the edge of the mattress until they dangled above the floor. A trickle of sweat eased down her temple. Catching her tongue between her teeth, she pushed herself forward, using her hands, and flexed her toes until they touched the cool floor. She slid her bottom over the edge of the mattress. Her feet flattened against the polished hardwood.

Sucking in a deep breath, she slowly transferred
her weight from the mattress to her feet until she was standing. Standing, but not walking. She had done as much many times before.

Ignoring the trembling weakness of her calf muscles, she inched one foot forward, then the other, digging her toes into the wood in a desperate search for balance.

Exhilaration raced through her veins. She might not be more than a few inches from the bed, but she had gotten there all by herself. She had walked. Wouldn’t Morgan be shocked when she was able to run into his arms? The thought made her giddy. She swayed. Her hand shot out to grasp the knotted end of the bellpull as she crashed to the floor.

She tugged the rope with both hands, setting up a jingling carillion of joy. “Beatrice!” she yelled. “Bea, come quick!”

The young maid burst into the room, hair braided and still wearing her nightdress. Her dumpling cheeks were flushed. “Oh, miss, what is it? Are you hurt? Did you fall?”

Sabrina was already using the bedpost to drag herself back up. “Of course I fell. Isn’t it wonderful? I can’t wait to fall again!”

She didn’t have long to wait. She let go of the bedpost, listing first to one side, then to the other. Bea rushed to catch her and they both crashed to the floor in a sprawl of tangled limbs. Sabrina’s laughter was infectious, melting Bea’s own alarm to poorly stifled giggles.

“Shall I wake the master and mistress?” Bea asked breathlessly. “I know they’d want to see this.”

Sabrina was shamed at the thought of all her dear aunt and uncle had endured for her in the past few months. “Later perhaps. But I’ve an errand to run first. Have Teddy bring the carriage around to the garden gate.”

Bea hastened to the door to do her bidding.

“Oh, and, Bea?”

“Aye, miss?”

Sabrina grinned. “Bring me some breakfast first. I’m famished.”