Teresa Medeiros Read Online Free

motley remains of Clan MacDonnell to Cameron was like herding a flock of quarrelsome children. During the eight-hour journey, Morgan had broken up three fistfights, thwarted two rapes, and buried a great-uncle. His uncle hadn’t even the dubious honor of being dispatched by a relative. He’d simply fallen off his horse in a drunken stupor. Before his head had struck the rock that would kill him, his more resourceful clansmen had relieved him of both purse and boots. Morgan had dug the grave in stony silence while the others wept loudly, passed around a jug of malt whisky, and toasted the old man’s journey to hell.
    “Sorry ’boot your uncle, lad,” one of the mencalled out as Morgan picked his way up the rocky path. “Ol’ Kevin was a bonny fellow, he was.”
    “Kerwin,” Morgan growled under his breath.
    “Aye,” another agreed. “No one could spin a tale ’round the fire on a cold winter night like puir ol’ Derwin.”
    Christ, Morgan thought, the man had been dead an hour only and they couldn’t remember his name. He wondered if they would forget him so easily.
    “Morgan! Damn it to blasted hell, where’s that lad o’ mine?”
    Morgan ground his teeth. There were times when he wished his father would forget him altogether. He drove Pookah into a lope until he reached the old man’s side.
    Angus MacDonnell’s eyes twinkled in their deep crannies as he gazed up at his son. “Ah, there’s the fruit o’ me loins.” He nudged the hooded figure riding beside him. “Took a mighty oak to plant such a strappin’ seed.”
    “Aye, but even the mightiest of oaks can wither with age,” Morgan shot back.
    His father cackled at the gentle jibe. “The lad’s wit draws more blood than his ax. As sharp as his ol’ da, he is.”
    Morgan grunted, refusing to commit himself. He’d never worn the mantle of his father’s pride comfortably. It had been too long mixed with cunning, jealousy, and the willingness to use his only son as a pawn against Dougal Cameron. Since Morgan had last returned from being fostered by his father’s enemy, he’d been the true leader of Clan MacDonnell, and they both knew it.
    “Greedy wee bugger.” Angus’s voice rose with each word. “Never had a mother, so he just latched on to whatever comely teat he pleased.”
    “Still does,” Ranald called out, evening the score for Morgan’s earlier interference.
    The men burst into bawdy laughter. Morgan aimed, cocked, and fired his finger at Ranald. Ranaldclutched his heart in mock distress and weaved in his saddle.
    Angus’s shoulders were hunched beneath the weight of his moth-eaten plaid. A yellow pallor tinged his leathery skin. “A glorious day this is,” he called out, “when those scoundrel Camerons come crawlin’ to us on their bellies, beggin’ for peace!”
    A cheer rose from his clansmen. Angus took advantage of the pause to tip an earthenware jug to his lips. Morgan exchanged a glance with the hooded figure at his father’s side. The hood bobbed in understanding, and Morgan winked gratefully. The faithful shadow had ridden at his father’s side for as long as Morgan could remember, tugging off Angus’s boots when he lapsed into stupor, covering him from the damp night chill and watering his whisky to keep him from meeting the same fate as the unfortunate Kerwin.
    His father had an audience now. He no longer needed a son. Morgan sent Pookah cantering down the hillside, leaving his clansmen to their dreams of remembered glories and imagined victories. He preferred the warm, sinewy reality of Pookah. The approaching twilight shed cooling pockets of air in their path.
    As badly as it chafed him to admit it, Morgan knew the Cameron’s invitation was an errand of pity, not humility. The MacDonnells had wenched, robbed, and skirmished their way into too many graves, leaving Morgan master of little more than a band of rash outlaws. Only the tattered armor of their ferocious reputations kept the Grants and Chisholms to