Teresa Medeiros by Whisper of Roses Read Free Book Online

to her ear and whispered, “I don’t trust just any lass with my gun. Be gentle with it, won’t you?”
    As Morgan descended the stairs, his step much lighter than when he’d ascended, he wondered if perhaps the time hadn’t long passed to call a permanent truce between one bullheaded MacDonnell and one luscious Cameron princess.
    Sabrina slumped against the door frame, dazed. She finally looked down to find Morgan’s pistol cradled tenderly against her breast. She jerked it away, dangling it between two fingers.
    Be gentle with it indeed! She should have shot the wretch. It would have served him right to be done in by his own pistol.
    She stared down at her nightdress. She felt branded, marked with Morgan’s blood like some sort of primitive trophy. Lord, she thought, what sort of hysterics would Enid pitch if she woke to find her beloved cousin spattered with blood and cosseting a loaded pistol? At least Sabrina assumed it was loaded. Morgan didn’t seem the sort to go around waving an empty pistol. Pointing the flared muzzle at her face, she closed one eye and peered into it, but saw nothing but darkness.
    “That’s of no help at all,” she muttered.
    Refusing to attribute the languid weight of her limbs to the lingering effects of Morgan’s kiss, she stuffed her father’s sword under the settee and tucked the pistol behind a Venetian mirror. She cast a wistful look back at the moonlit solar before pulling the door shut. In the harsh light of morning she knew their encounter would seem to be only a dream.
    Hugging the shadows, Sabrina slipped around the gallery, fully intending to bundle both Enid and herself off to bed before anyone else discovered their flummery. But a burst of laughter—rich, deep, and compelling—stopped her in her tracks.
    She drifted to the railing and sank to her knees, lured by the unfamiliar sound and the ripple of gold as Morgan tossed back his head at one of Brian’s jests. A boyish smile transformed his face, erasing its weary lines and crinkling the taut skin around his eyes. Sun, wind, and responsibility had aged him far past his years. Some men would always be boys, but Sabrina sensed that Morgan MacDonnell had been born a man.
    The intensity of his raw masculine beauty struck her anew; her heart spasmed as if someone had reached through her chest and squeezed it. Her hands clenched on the balusters.
    On Morgan’s other side, Alex filled his own goblet with fresh wine and lifted it in a toast. Morgan’s gaze flicked to the gallery, catching Sabrina unawares. A more intimate smile teased his lips as he lifted his mug of water in a silent tribute that made all the noise and chaos between them fade to a meaningless hum. Brian slapped him on the back and Morgan lowered his gaze and his mug, taking care not to alert the others to her hiding place.
    A fragile happiness welled in Sabrina’s heart. Fearful of betraying an emotion so new and precious, she forced her gaze away from him. As she watched, the dark-haired MacDonnell rose and slipped out the main door, clutching his stomach. A burst of night wind fluttered the banners.
    Probably ill from too much venison, Sabrina thought, grinning.
    Their animosity softened by wine and camaraderie, Angus and her father seemed to be faring as well as their sons. The hooded servant who had hovered behind Angus had disappeared, probably to curl up in some forgotten nook of the manor. Sabrina’s glassy-eyed mother looked as if she would like to do the same.
    From the corner of her eye Sabrina saw the tapestry behind them ripple. She glanced toward the door, expecting to see the hoggish MacDonnell stumble back in, mopping his mouth with the back of his hand. The door remained closed.
    Sabrina frowned. Almost without realizing it, she rose to her feet, beset by a terrible premonition that something was wrong. She leaned over the rail, staring hard at the tapestry. Was that a flicker of movement she saw, or just a trick of the guttering