Teresa Medeiros (41 page)

Oblivious of their concern, Sabrina turned the page. She’d been reduced to reading one of Enid’s lurid pamphlets and was less than fascinated to learn that Mrs. Mary Toft’s prolific production of rabbits had ceased after being threatened with a gruesome female surgery by the most notorious male midwife in London. A prison sentence for Mrs. Toft was forthcoming.

The clock ticked away the minutes. Sabrina peeked at her reflection in the polished base of the candelabrum sitting on the venetian table at her elbow. Under pretext of scratching her ear, she eased a tendril loose from her stern topknot and unclenched her jaw, making a conscious effort to soften her expression.

A stranger stared back at her. A woman, shy, uncertain, lips parted in trembling awareness of her own vulnerability. She bore no resemblance to the brittle creature Sabrina had come to expect.

Discomfited by the realization, she smoothed the skirts of her pale jade dressing gown. It was one of her prettiest, but she hadn’t worn it for Morgan, she assured herself. He probably wasn’t even coming. He’d only been teasing her as he’d always done. He was as insufferable a man as he’d been a boy.

Enid interrupted the serene nip and tuck of her knitting. “Shall I read to you, cousin?”

“No, thank you,” Sabrina replied absently. “Why should I be read to when I have two perfectly good eyes?”

Enid and the duchess exchanged another puzzled glance.

A maid tiptoed into the salon. She offered Sabrina afternoon chocolate from a silver tray, her chapped hands trembling as if she expected to have the steaming liquid dumped over her head. As soon as Sabrina took the porcelain cup, the servant crept toward the door.

“Beatrice.”

The maid cringed to a halt. Two bright spots of color appeared on her dumpling cheeks. “Aye, miss?”

Sabrina smiled at her. “It’s quite good. Thank you.”

Bea gaped at the young miss, amazed at her transformation. Somehow she’d always thought of the master’s niece as sallow and plain. But she was actually pretty without her lips puckered as if she’d been sucking lemons. Bobbing a hasty curtsy, Bea rushed out, eager to share her discovery with the other servants.

Laying the cup aside, Sabrina licked a chocolate mustache from her upper lip like a nervous cat. The hands of the clock swept away the precious minutes until she felt her heart must surely be beating to its rhythm. She feared the hollow chime that would signal the half hour might stop it altogether.

A masculine voice reverberated in the corridor, its
rich tones speeding Sabrina’s heart anew. She dropped the pamphlet, then snatched it back up, studying its pages without realizing it was upside down. She peeped over the top of it as Uncle Willie escorted Morgan into the salon, slapping his broad back as if they’d been friends for years. Sabrina suppressed a shiver, fearing their amity did not bode well for her.

Morgan once again played the solicitous gentleman with flair. He fawned over Aunt Honora until her ringlets were dancing with delight and complimented Enid on the skill of her knitting. When he swung his smug charm toward her, Sabrina ducked behind the pamphlet, wishing herself invisible.

He bent to bring her hand to his lips. The pamphlet fluttered to the carpet.

He brushed his lips over her knuckles, maddening her with a taunting flick of his tongue invisible to the others. The disappointment that clouded his sunny expression would have wrung tears from a rock.

“Why, Miss Cameron, I’m afraid I’ve been remiss. I should have told you to dress. We’re going out today.”

Sabrina stiffened, beset by fresh images of disaster. Pointing fingers. Mocking glances. Sly whispers.
Why would a magnificent man like Montgarry dance attendance on a cripple?

“Out,” she echoed dumbly, as if he’d suggested they charter a carriage and fly to the moon. “I don’t go out.”

“You do now.” His smile was so pleasant and his eyes so completely devoid of patience that Sabrina could already see her mangled body lying in a London ditch. “I shall wait while you dress.” Bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, he leaned forward and whispered, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer I assist you.”

His words invoked visions of blinding clarity: sun-browned hands unlacing her corset to reveal the pale, tender skin of her back; petticoats collapsing in a deflated heap; heated lips brushing her thigh as deft fingers peeled away her lacy garters. Sabrina struggled to
catch her breath, afraid to examine why they were all visions of disrobing, not dressing.

Aunt Honora’s trill broke his spell. “…  quite improper without a chaperone.”

Morgan straightened, his smile as smooth as a swallow of fine brandy. “Nonsense. I’m sure Lady MacLeod would be more than happy to accompany us. As a matron and widow, her reputation should be beyond reproach.”

Uncle Willie’s cheek twitched with the nervous tic he was developing when faced with Morgan’s skewed but irrefutable logic. “Yes, well, my man, I suppose if you say so …”

In an uncharacteristic fit of self-preservation, Enid took charge of the situation. Casting aside her knitting, she swept across the salon and began to roll Sabrina’s chair toward the door. “If the earl will be kind enough to wait for us, I shall help my cousin dress.”

They all ignored Sabrina’s plaintive wail of “But I don’t want to go with him. He’s a lunatic!”

Sabrina endured Enid’s fussing in sullen silence. Using every maternal skill at her disposal, Enid gowned, coiffed, and fluffed Sabrina, even daring to press a kiss to her taut cheek before delivering her into the hands of the enemy.

“Judas,” Sabrina hissed as Morgan rolled the chair toward the side door being thrown open by a beaming footman.

Sabrina had her revenge when they emerged into the bright sunlight and Enid came face-to-face with a liveried and bewigged Ranald. It had obviously never occurred to Enid that Morgan would forgive a crime as heinous as Ranald’s and actually allow the scoundrel to accompany him out of the Highlands.

She turned white, then bright pink. Ranald gaped at her rounded stomach in open astonishment.

Morgan’s amused murmur underscored their shock. “I didn’t tell him he was going to be a da. I thought he’d rather hear it from you.”

Sabrina allowed herself a waspish grin, but her mean satisfaction was short-lived. Morgan snatched her out of the chair, holding her as tightly as if he feared she would bolt, all the while knowing she couldn’t. Their noses brushed as he settled her on the leather seat.

“Bully,” she muttered.

“Brat,” he countered.

Enid tilted her own nose skyward and swept in after Sabrina while Morgan hooked the cumbersome chair on the back of the carriage. He climbed inside, folding his imposing form on the opposite seat with lazy grace.

“Why don’t you just hang a placard on the door?” Sabrina suggested as the vehicle rolled into motion. “
A HALFPENNY TO SEE THE FREAK
. They might even publish a pamphlet on me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His insolent gaze raked her from the dangling lappets of her cap to the pointed toes of the slippers peeping out from beneath her flounced underskirt. “You’re worth at least tuppence.”

Sabrina folded her gloved hands in her lap, trapped into uneasy silence by the glittering challenge of his eyes. As they rounded a corner, Ranald’s face popped up at the carriage window. Enid snapped down the embroidered shade.

All of their gazes shifted upward at the great noise overhead as if a giant spider were clambering over the roof. Ranald’s face appeared at the opposite window, his nose pressed flat against the glass. Enid ducked behind her fan.

The carriage rolled to a stop. Even in the closed vehicle the air was permeated by the tangy smell of the river. The chatter and bustle of a crowded thoroughfare surrounded them. Sabrina craned her neck to find herself staring up at the forbidding edifice of the Tower of London.

“How fitting,” she said dryly. “Puts one in mind of Castle MacDonnell, although I dare say it’s a trifle cozier.”

“Would you have preferred Bedlam?”

“I would have preferred
bed
. My
own
bed at my uncle’s house.”

He slanted her a wicked grin. “A pity you didn’t tell me sooner. It could have been arranged.”

Sabrina’s fists clenched. The wretch was even more infuriating than she remembered.

She held herself rigid as Morgan climbed out of the carriage and lifted the chair down to the stone bridge built over the ancient moat. Disdaining Ranald’s hand, Enid clambered down after him, her pretense of indifference wearing thin beneath Ranald’s pleading gaze. She folded her plump hands over her stomach, looking acutely miserable.

But Morgan left Sabrina little time to brood on her cousin’s unhappiness. As he lifted her gently to the chair, she gripped his forearms, her nerves strumming a discordant tune. People streamed around them. Laughing. Gawking. Whispering. Just as she had feared they would.

A red-haired little boy tugged his haggard mother to a halt and pointed. “Look, Ma, there’s somethin’ a matter wi’ the pretty lady.”

Sabrina bowed her head. At least children had the decency not to whisper.

Morgan saw the color breach Sabrina’s cheekbones as the careless stares of the crowd pierced her armor of defensiveness.

He tucked the lap rug around her legs, his voice resonant enough to be heard even over the curious murmurs of the crowd. “Will that be to your liking, your highness?”

Sabrina’s head flew up. A tendril of genuine hatred curled from her heart. How dare he mock her now! But as she searched his eyes for treachery, all she saw was their sunlit flame burning steady and bright. It was a sight she had long ago forgotten—kindness without pity, compassion without the cloying burden of sympathy. For the first time she felt the joke was not on her, but between them.

The crowd was now staring with open awe and respect, speculating aloud on whether she might be foreign
royalty come to visit their beloved Tower. An elderly gentleman paused to explain that the odd wheeled conveyance was probably a variation of the more common sedan chair borne by two footmen.

Words of gratitude caught in Sabrina’s throat. All she could manage was a regal smile for Morgan and an imperious wave toward the gate.

Ranald’s face fell when Morgan skirted the armory, where they might have examined the sword that cleaved off Anne Boleyn’s head. Enid looked crestfallen when he disdained the Jewel Office, where they could have beheld the shimmering glory of the imperial crown. But as he rolled the chair into a nearly deserted yard off the western entrance, where each stone archway was fitted with an iron lattice, Sabrina knew it had been his destination from the beginning.

Morgan hadn’t brought her to see weapons or treasures. He’d brought her to the Tower menagerie to watch the white bear shambling around his den, to laugh at the monkeys scampering free over the courtyard, to marvel at the lion, whose haughty stare was ruined by a yawn of immense proportions. Morgan’s delight at seeing such creatures for the first time was infectious. Sabrina caught herself watching his face more than the animals, starved for a glimpse of that rare genuine smile.

As Morgan fed a handful of nuts to a raccoon, Sabrina felt a prickle of unease at her nape. The scarlet-garbed keeper was dozing by the gate. Ranald and Enid stood a few feet away, casting shy glances at each other. The shadowed archways revealed nothing. She shrugged the feeling away. It had been so long since she’d been out among people that she was given to fancy. It was probably one of the onlookers from outside stealing a peek at the mysterious “royalty.”

She felt a shy tug on her skirt and looked down to discover a tiny monkey. She was so captivated with the little fellow that she didn’t see Morgan give Ranald a signal behind her back.

Ignoring her sputtered protests, Ranald captured Enid with one arm and the bored keeper with the other, leading them toward the far end of the yard. Enid’s dismay turned to fascination as the keeper began to regale them with the tale of an unfortunate viscount who had wandered too close to the lion’s cage.

“Two fingers?” she echoed in delighted horror. “Did the lion gobble them up or spit them out?”

Morgan waited until they were out of sight before dropping to one knee at Sabrina’s feet.

Sabrina started violently as a pair of warm masculine hands slid beneath her skirt. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Your legs have just been sitting for months. We’ve got to get the blood stirring again.”

Sabrina gazed at his inclined head as his powerful hands massaged her calves, his fingers firm and sinuous against the silk of her stockings. A stubborn strand of hair had escaped his queue. She resisted the urge to brush it back, to test its tensile strength between her fingertips. His deft ministrations were certainly effective. Blood was pounding in her heart, thrumming through her ears, melting through all the sly, greedy pathways of her body.

Everywhere but her legs.

“You’re wasting your time,” she snapped. “I cannot walk.”

Morgan tipped his head back to meet her gaze. “Are you afraid of walking, lass? Or afraid of falling?”

As Sabrina stared into the quicksilver depths of his eyes, she feared she was already falling. There was still no trace of pity in them, nothing to feed the mewling monster that had lodged itself in her soul.

The pads of his fingers fanned in a hypnotic stroke against the back of her calf, glided over the racing pulse behind her knee, wandering up until they caught between the edge of her garter, brushed like feathers against the naked skin above. Morgan’s breathing lost its rhythm. The knowing chatter of the monkeys broke their reverie.

He snatched his hands down and began to rub
her calves, chafing her flesh so briskly that a helpless “Oh!” escaped her.

He shot her a guilty look. “Did I hurt you?”

No, but you will
. Biting her lower lip, she shook her head.

Without bothering to explain what he planned, he circled behind the chair, bracing his hands beneath her arms, and lifted her. She dangled in the air like an expensive doll. He eased the chair away with one foot, then lowered her until her slippers touched the stones.