Teresa Medeiros (46 page)

Sabrina poked her head out the carriage window. “Hurry, Teddy! Are you sure you have the right address? Can’t the horses trot any faster?”

“We have the earl’s address and we’re going as fast as we can, miss,” said the beleaguered footman. “We almost trampled that nice gentleman at the last intersection.”

The nice gentleman had shook his fist at the back of the carriage and loudly questioned the driver’s parentage. Sabrina bounced up and down on the carriage seat as if she could somehow urge the horses to trot faster by example. The warm morning breeze stole tendrils from her loosely done topknot. The storm had washed the narrow London streets clean and laced the air with sparkling purity.

To Sabrina’s eyes, the entire world looked fresh and full of hope, even the cloaked beggar hunched on the corner of Morgan’s street.

The carriage rolled to a halt on the opposite side of the street from a humble wooden house. She threw open the carriage door in Teddy’s shocked face. “The chair, Teddy. I’ll get the door. You get the chair.”

As Teddy went around to unhook her wheelchair from its moorings, Sabrina hoped fervently that she wouldn’t require the use of it much longer.

Smiling at the thought, she tapped her feet impatiently. But before Teddy could reappear, the door of the house swung open. A man and woman appeared on the stoop. Chattering voices and a burst of male laughter drifted to the carriage. As the woman tipped her head back to smile at the bearded man, her veil slipped, revealing thick auburn hair swept up in elegant simplicity. The sun glinted off the silver threaded through it.

Sabrina sank back into the shadows of the carriage, her smile fading.

Another man appeared behind them. A rumpled
giant of a man, rakishly handsome with his unshaven jaw and stocking feet. His white teeth flashed in a devastating smile. The bearded man slapped him on the back, then paused on the stairs to toss him a fat purse.

Sabrina watched her parents walk arm in arm down the street, their steps lighter than even the iridescent air. Morgan stood on the stoop a minute longer, grinning and tossing the heavy purse in his palm as if to measure its worth. Then he turned and went back into the house.

Thirty pieces of silver
.

The thought came to Sabrina fully formed, ugly, and fraught with betrayal along with the memory of Morgan’s passionate words in her father’s dungeon. A passion that had nothing to do with her.

They’re all I have. All I am. I’d do anything for them
.

Even line the MacDonnell coffers with ill-gotten gold by romancing Dougal Cameron’s daughter for a price.

Sabrina remembered the man and woman she’d seen on the corner, her eerie sensation of being followed. Had her parents witnessed it all? Every fall, every tantrum, every scathing exchange? Her gloved hand flew to her mouth, choking back a hysterical sob.

Had her papa paid Morgan in one lump sum or given him an allowance for each daily call? Did his pretty smiles cost extra? His kisses? And what of last night? The three of them had obviously been celebrating. Had Morgan regaled them with the details of their liaison? Sabrina closed her eyes at the memory of her mouth on his sleek flesh, the taste of him fading to ashes on her tongue.

Humiliation burned like a live coal in her stomach, sickening her with its heat.

Her papa would do anything for her.

Morgan would do anything for his clan.

Even Eve would have approved of the terrible cunning of their scheme, its irrefutable logic.

Teddy appeared at the carriage door, flushed with exertion from wrestling with the chair. Sabrina stared at
the iron and wood monstrosity, hating it, hating them all. She knew now that her father’s money had paid for it.

“Take it away,” she demanded.

A baffled frown crinkled the footman’s brow. “But, miss, you said—”

“I don’t care what I said. Take it away. I never want to see it again.”

She slammed the carriage door while waiting for him to return. He reappeared at the window, his expression as miserable as she felt. “Where to now, miss?”

“Home,” she said, staring straight ahead at nothing. “I’m going home.”

Sabrina’s parents appeared at the house on Hanover Square barely an hour later, their expressions fairly bursting with secret delight. A subdued Bea ushered them into the morning room, where Sabrina was sitting behind the delicate shield of her aunt’s writing desk. They rushed across the room to her, even her mother’s graceful gait marred by an exuberant bounce.

“Darling!”

“Ah, there’s my wee princess! We’ve missed you so!”

Sabrina turned her cheek to their kisses with cool aplomb as if it had been only hours since they’d parted instead of weeks. They exchanged knowing smiles, convinced her composure was a ruse.

After exchanging pleasantries about Alex and Brian and the spring planting at Cameron, her father cleared his throat and affected a stern expression.

He drew a folded document from his pocket. “I
don’t have to tell you why we’ve come, lass. I’ve finally obtained your annulment papers.”

“Does it always take such a dreadfully long time to secure an annulment?” she asked him.

Her parents exchanged another guilty look, both mumbling something about, “constraints” and “extenuating circumstances.”

“At any rate,” her papa said heartily, snapping open the paper with a flourish. “All you have to do is sign above the magistrate’s seal and you’ll be rid of that nasty MacDonnell lad forever.”

He dangled it in front of her nose, obviously expecting her to refuse.

Sabrina snatched the paper from his hand and smoothed it on the desk. Her mother’s mouth fell open. An odd sound escaped Dougal, and Sabrina knew he was one syllable away from betraying himself. Without even bothering to read the document, she dipped a quill into the ink bottle and signed her name below the official seal with none of its usual embellishments. She sprinkled sand across her signature, shook the paper clean with a brisk motion, and handed it back.

“There. It’s done. May we leave now?”

“Leave,” her father repeated stupidly. His hand clenched around the paper as if he were resisting the urge to wad it into a ball. “Leave for where?”

Elizabeth plucked at her handkerchief, her expression bereft.

“Home,” Sabrina said. “Cameron. My bags are packed and in the corridor.”

“Aye, lass, whatever you say,” her father said vaguely. “We shall go now if that’s what you wish.” He turned away from the desk as if he could not bear to look at her, his steps weighted as if he’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

“Papa?” Sabrina held out her arms. “You’ll have to carry me. Don’t you remember? I can’t walk.”

At precisely two o’clock that afternoon, Morgan strode up the steps to the Belmont town house, forced to peer
over the towering bouquet of hothouse roses in his hand. It had taken every ounce of his control to keep from coming earlier, but he felt such a momentous occasion required a touch of ceremony.

His eager knock was answered not by the butler, but by a freckled maid with red-rimmed eyes. She was too preoccupied to even comment upon the flowers.

“I’ll fetch His Grace right away, sir.” She dabbed at her nose with her apron as she led him into the entranceway. “I’m sorry. I must be a frightful mess. I once would have done anything to be rid of her. But now that she’s gone …” She dissolved into fresh sniffles.

Morgan didn’t want anyone to suffer today. “There now, lass. There’s no need to carry on so. I’m sure Miss Enid will come home for Christmas and the like. You should be happy for her now that her husband has returned from the dead. That baby of hers needs a father.”

“Oh, I am happy for Miss Enid, sir. I was referring to the young miss.”

“The young miss?” A chill of foreboding seized Morgan. He stopped in his tracks.

The maid kept walking. “Miss Sabrina, sir.”

Morgan dropped the roses. He strode after the maid, catching her by the shoulders and spinning her around. He searched her tear-stained face for a truth he was afraid to learn. “Sabrina? Sabrina’s gone? Where? When? How long?”

The maid trembled in his implacable grip. “Since her mum and dad came to take her back to Scotland.”

Morgan gave her a shake without meaning to. “When?
How long?
”

“A few hours. Since about ten this morning.”

Conflicting emotions buffeted Morgan. Bewilderment. Fury. Despair. Was this yet another Cameron betrayal? But whose betrayal? Dougal’s or Sabrina’s?

The maid quailed before his fierce expression. He released her and stormed for the door, crushing the fallen roses beneath his heels.

Morgan’s mount flew over the heathered turf, its iron-shod hooves barely skimming the earth. If he wanted, he could close his eyes and pretend for an instant that he was back on Pookah, the wind whipping through his hair, the scent of freedom flaring his nostrils.

But Pookah was dead and Morgan had learned that there were some things more precious than freedom. More precious even than pride. Pride would have dictated that he return to Castle MacDonnell and mass his clan for an attack on the treacherous Camerons.

Instead, he was thundering toward Cameron alone to lay final siege to a woman’s stubborn heart, his only concession to pride the bright new tartan that enveloped him.

Violet clouds tinged the horizon. The sky slowly darkened to the sapphire blue of Sabrina’s eyes. A fat moon hung above the mountain peaks like a frosted pearl. Morgan aimed the horse for that guiding beacon,
praying he wouldn’t be too late to catch it before it drifted forever out of his reach.

It might have been any peaceful spring night at Cameron Manor.

Brian and Alex played chess before the drawing room fire. Pugsley dozed on the hearth. Elizabeth tucked a slender needle through the ivory linen of an embroidered fire screen, her sewing basket open at her feet. Dougal sat behind a walnut desk, surrounded by the leather-bound registers of the spring planting. Pugsley’s snores counted off the unfolding minutes.

They all started baldly as a thunderous banging sounded on the door. Pugsley lifted his head. His curly tail began to wag.

Dougal flipped a page, his eyes still riveted on the ledger. Elizabeth tied off a knot and snapped the excess thread away with her teeth. Alex captured Brian’s rook and removed it from the board, his face grim.

The massive wooden door trembled in its frame beneath the force of the blows being rained upon it. A manservant rushed in from the kitchen, but Dougal stayed him with a warning glance. Pugsley leapt up with more enthusiasm than he’d shown in weeks and began to caper back and forth in front of the door.

Dougal stroked his beard, weariness etched in every cranny of his brow. He wasn’t sure his family could survive another MacDonnell siege. He knew his daughter wouldn’t.

The ancient wood of the door splintered beneath one mighty blow. Pugsley scampered out of the way, then began to bark in short, excited yips as the chieftain of the MacDonnells stepped through the debris. Morgan quieted him with a single look. Chastened, the dog slunk to his belly and buried his nose beneath his paws.

“I’ve come to see my wife.” Morgan’s voice rang in the taut silence.

Dougal stood. Elizabeth continued to sew, her needle flying through the linen with flawless rhythm.
Brian scrutinized the chessboard as if his entire future hinged on his next move.

“Sabrina is no longer your wife,” Dougal said.

A spasm of pain crossed Morgan’s impassive countenance to be replaced by dark fury. “Perhaps not in the eyes of your English laws. But in the eyes of God, I’m still her husband.”

Alex lumbered to his feet to stand at his father’s side. “Now, friend, there’s no cause to be unreasonable—”

“I’m not your friend,” Morgan snarled. “Nor am I interested in reason. Not when the Camerons twist it to suit their purposes. The only thing I’m interested in is Sabrina.”

Dougal’s shoulders slumped. “Very well. Brian, fetch your sister.”

“No!”

Morgan’s sharp command made them all flinch. But it was the pistol in the MacDonnell’s hand that stilled Brian half out of his chair and made Elizabeth gasp.

“No,” Morgan repeated. “I’ll stomach no interference from any of you this time. Especially not you, Dougal. I’ve had enough of your meddlin’ to last me a lifetime.”

Dougal stepped in front of his wife. “Don’t do something you’re going to regret, lad.”

The lamplight gleamed off the sleek barrel of the weapon as Morgan leveled it at the laird’s chest. “I already have. I trusted a Cameron.”

Morgan thundered up the stairs, clearing three of them with each stride. He marched around the gallery, his steps echoing eerily off the wooden floor as if the manor had never known the ripple of human laughter or the joyous strains of song. A darkened corridor unfurled before him.

He plunged down it without hesitation, seeking the door he remembered from boyhood, the door he
had so often endeavored to pass, lured by the tinkling music of girlish laughter.

He threw open that door now to find that time had stopped for all but him. The chamber was deserted, the bed’s coverlet as smooth and undisturbed as the faceless visage of the rag doll perched on the pillow. A miniature tea set still sat on a rosewood table. Morgan picked up one of the tiny cups, his fingers grown suddenly too big for his hand.

Then the little chairs were no longer empty, but filled with the ghosts of his regrets: Sabrina, eyes sparkling, spiral curls dancing; the faceless doll slumped over her cup; a paint-spattered kitten licking cream from a saucer and looking absolutely ridiculous with a doll’s feathered hat tied beneath his furry chin.

A little girl’s pleading voice bled through the silence.
Come have chocolate with me, Morgan. Isabella, Doll, and I are having gingerbread today
.

The cup slipped from his graceless fingers, shattering on the floor.

Morgan eased the chamber door gently shut as if to preserve its memories intact. He flew through the darkened corridors of the manor, throwing open door after door to find only more ghosts, more regrets. He burst back onto the gallery, fists clenched and chest heaving with frustration.