She did disapprove of him, an attitude she strongly suspected amused him. Prudish, Sabrina was sure he would define it. “In most circles it is considered scandalous to pursue an affair with a married lady.”
“Apparently we move in different circles,” he responded dryly. “I don’t suppose you would credit it if I told you the lady was pursuing me?”
She could well believe that might be the case. The brazen Highlander would be idolized for his startling physical beauty alone. Yet there was an air about him that was utterly irresistible to women. To her as well, Sabrina acknowledged reluctantly.
“I don’t remember you putting up any resistance,” she said, mimicking his dry tone.
“But then ’twould hardly have been the act of a gentleman to disappoint the lady.”
She was amusing him, Sabrina realized. Even in the darkness she could see his arresting eyes were lit with a mocking sparkle.
“I assure you, mistress, this would not be the first time a lass has lured me into a secluded garden.”
She bit back a smile at the thought of this bold rogue hiding from over amorous females. “It must be a great trial, being hounded by languishing ladies eager to be seduced.”
His grin was unwilling—and devastating. “You might be surprised by the tribulations I must endure to uphold my reputation.”
Sabrina shook her head. She should know better than to enter into a duel of words with an expert in verbal swordplay. Indeed, she should leave at once. Simply being alone with this man could compromise her.
Yet before she could respond, the Highlander spoke. “If you were not spying, what brought you out here to the garden when a ball is in progress?”
Sabrina suddenly looked down at her clasped hands. She had no intention of divulging the true reason she’d fled the ballroom: to escape the painful sight of her former suitor dancing with his betrothed—her own cousin. “Is it a crime to partake of fresh air, sir?”
“Not that I’m aware. I do not recall seeing you earlier this evening, mistress.”
There was a simple reason for that, Sabrina reflected. Niall McLaren simply hadn’t noticed her. Such a man would scarcely give her a second glance, a wren among a flock of peacocks. She was still in half mourning for her mother, so she had worn her plain gray bombazine gown, much to her aunt’s dismay. Now she wished she had swathed herself in armor of silk and lace, for it might have helped disguise her lack of beauty.
“Doubtless,” Sabrina forced herself to reply, “it was because I sat with the spinsters and chaperons while you held court with your legion of admirers.”
“You are unmarried, are you?”
Sabrina found herself fighting a swift surge of wanton rebellion. At one-and-twenty, she was past the common age for marriage and considered almost on the shelf. “I am, sir.”
“I own surprise that an heiress would lack for suitors.”
She averted her gaze from his measuring scrutiny. He could not know how deeply his casual remark wounded her. She’d had a suitor. She and Oliver had met during her mother’s illness and developed an understanding after her death: they would marry only after an appropriate period of mourning. But then Oliver had caught one glimpse of her cousin Frances and tumbled head over heels. When he pleaded with Sabrina to release him from his pledge, she had agreed. What else could she do? And indeed, her pride had suffered most. If her heart had also shriveled a little, if his defection had killed something elusive inside her, well she didn’t delude herself that she was the only female who had ever been jilted.
“My mother was ill for some months before passing away,” Sabrina answered defensively, “so I had little time for suitors. I have not yet wholly put off mourning.”
To her dismay, his gaze raked over her, coolly appraising. Sabrina tensed. Tall and angular, she lacked the soft prettiness that characterized the other women in her family. Her mother had been a celebrated beauty, as was her Aunt Helen and her cousin Frances.
Moreover, she was not in her best looks this evening, Sabrina knew. She wore face paint, which washed any color from her complexion and rendered her features pasty and indistinct. And the hairstyle she’d adopted at her aunt’s insistence covered her most attractive attribute, her rich brown hair. It was dressed and powdered and artfully arranged in intricate puffs and rolls, yet she felt awkward and pretentious in it.
“Duncan…” he mused, not taking his eyes from her. “I call numerous Duncans friend. Would I know your kin?”
“No doubt you are acquainted with my grandfather, laird of Clan Duncan. I understand you hail from the same region of the Highlands.”
“Your grandfather is Angus Duncan?” One black eyebrow rose. “Aye, I know him well. We are near neighbors, in fact. Angus once saved my father’s life in a feud with the Buchanans, a debt I am not likely to forget. But I do not recall him ever speaking of a granddaughter.”
“Oh, Grandfather Duncan would doubtless prefer to disregard my existence. I was not the right gender, you see. A granddaughter was useless to him, since I could not carry on the clan name. And he never really approved of my mother, either.”
“Ah, yes…I recall your father married against Angus’s wishes during a visit to Edinburgh.”
“For which he was never wholly forgiven. Papa was expected to marry a Highlander to uphold our clan honor. A lowland Scotswoman was not good enough.”
“Ranald died in his prime, did he not?”
“Yes, a tragic mishap—a fall from his horse.”
A grim frown claimed Niall’s features. “’Twas no mere mishap. It transpired during a raid by the bloody Buchanans, if memory serves.”
“So I understand. I have little recollection of him, or the Highlands, though I’ve heard tales. I left when I was quite young. After Papa’s death, my mother returned with me to her family here in Edinburgh, and remarried some years later. My stepfather is a merchant who trades successfully in wool and fine cloth.”
“You must return to the Highlands someday, mistress,” he commented in a tone of polite boredom.
“I doubt that will be possible,” she replied, a bit vexed by his apparent dismissal of her. “My stepfather has need of me. He holds little faith in clerks, and with his failing eyesight, he relies on me to check his accounts each evening.”
“Brains in a woman. How fascinating.”
His languid tone held a hint of teasing and made her stiffen.
“I have found it just as unusual to discover brains in a man,” Sabrina retorted.
His half smile was indulgent. “Reviewing accounts is a rather odd occupation for a lass, you must admit.”
“Perhaps,” she said a little too sharply. “But I have a head for figures—and I’ll not apologize for it.”
“Apparently you also have a temper that is easily provoked,” Niall said, sounding amused.
That wasn’t quite the case, Sabrina reflected. Normally she was remarkably even-tempered. Yet tonight she was feeling defiant, reckless, rash. Definitely not herself. This man seemed to bring out the worst in her.
“My temper is usually considered quite serene.”
“I confess surprise. For a wallflower you lack a decided meekness.”
“For a hedonist, you possess an amazing degree of frankness. I expected more subtlety.”
His slow smile was wickedly disarming. “Is that what you think me? A hedonist?”
“Hedonist, pleasure-seeker, libertine…Rumor paints you in rather unflattering terms.”
He laughed with careless amusement. “Rumor claims that I regularly engage in perversions and bacchanalian orgies as well, but not every tale you hear is true.”
“I’m not aware of any specific perversions. Merely that you seduce every woman you meet.”
“Now that is a bald untruth. I only seduce the ones who interest me, I assure you.” He paused, gazing down at her, a speculative gleam in his deep blue eyes. “I wager I could seduce you, little mouse.”
Sabrina caught her breath. She cou
ld not possibly interest a man such as he. He was merely amusing himself at her expense. “I sincerely doubt it. I have a great regard for my virtue.”
“How tiresome.”
She wanted to laugh, but she forced it back.
Lazily he adjusted the froth of lace at his cuff. “’Tis just as well, I warrant. Despite my vaunted reputation, I have yet to be accused of deflowering prudish maidens.”
Strangely Sabrina felt disappointed. “I own relief to know I am safe.”
“Did I say ‘safe’?”
He took a step closer. “It seems a pity to waste such a braw evening.” His tone was casual, but all her senses went on full alert. “I think I could truthfully promise you would enjoy my attentions, mistress.” His sudden smile, part wolfish, was wholly enticing.
Sabrina took a step backward, feeling very much the vulnerable lamb. He was far taller than she, broad of shoulder and powerfully muscled, and when he turned the full force of his charm on her, she felt overwhelmed. He was remarkably good at this game of seduction, but that was all it was to him, a game. He knew very well his power over women. Over her. Sabrina felt a mutinous flash of stubbornness course through her. “You’ll not have any effect on me, I promise you.”
“No?”
How did he manage to invest so much sensual promise, such beguiling tenderness, in a single word? In a glance? There was something warm and exciting in his eyes. Dangerous.
Suddenly the night seemed alive with sound and sensation. Sabrina was overwhelmingly conscious of how alone they were, of how hazardous this situation had become. What idiocy was she indulging in, remaining out here with such a man? She lacked the experience needed to bandy words with a celebrated rake. His earlier banter with Lady Chivington had obviously been a sophisticated game between carnal equals, but she was no match for him in that regard.
Evidently she’d taken leave of her senses—or been bewitched by the moonlight and this legendary rogue.
“I should go…” she said rather too breathlessly.
“No…stay.” He reached up to touch her cheek, a featherlight caress.
“This…isn’t wise,” she murmured, startled by the delicate sensation.
“And do you always do what is wise, sweeting?”
“Y-Yes…always…”
“Surely you cannot fear me.”
Sabrina bit her lip. What she feared was the temptation he offered. The timbre of his voice had changed; it was low, muted, as liquid silver as moonlight. She couldn’t stop the warmth that suffused her body at that enchanting voice.
She watched, spellbound, as his sensual lashes lowered lazily to shadow even more sensual eyes. “It would be the work of a moment to kindle your passion, sweet mouse.”
Sabrina felt herself tremble to realize she’d become the target of his seduction. He was close enough for her to share his fluid warmth, to detect his scent, a faint natural fragrance that was disturbingly male. It made her feel disturbingly feminine and fragile.
He moved even closer, his voice a seductive murmur, hot and deep and full of temptation as he said, “Would you like me to make your skin burn, sweeting? Would you like to flame at my touch?”
Her lips parted in a wordless protest, but no sound came out. She couldn’t have spoken had her life been at stake. Nor could she move when, with gentle boldness, his palm cradled her face.
Sabrina closed her eyes, trying to resist the hypnotic stroke of his thumb on her cheekbone. His fingertips fluttered across her skin…downward over her lips, his touch lingering and provocative.
“Look at me, cherie.”
Helplessly she obeyed to find him scrutinizing her.
She had the wild idea he meant to kiss her. His head was bending, his beautiful mouth descending toward hers. With a mixture of desire and excited apprehension, she waited tensely.
When his breath fanned warm against her lips, Sabrina gave a shiver of pleasure. Her own breath seemed suspended, even as it mingled with his.
Then his mouth brushed hers tantalizingly, and the primitive sensations that rippled through her were like nothing she’d ever felt before. The sensual assault of his lips made her feel wanton, helpless, weak.
Her cousin was right, Sabrina thought, dazed. Niall McLaren knew how to draw a woman’s soul from her body.
When he lifted his head, a fierce and unexpected pang of disappointment shook her. She raised trembling fingers to her lips.
Her bewilderment must have shown in her eyes, for his smile held amusement. “Have you never been kissed before, sweet mouse?”
Not like that, she wanted to cry.
His palm cupping her cheek, he lowered his head once more, while his voice dropped to a rough, seductive whisper. “Shall I show you what you have been missing?”
Reason urged her to resist, to make him stop, yet she didn’t want to resist. She wanted to know what it was to feel desired, to be the object of this legendary man’s passionate attention.
Her silence was all the invitation he needed. His lips covered hers, seducing her with heart-stopping tenderness.
His kiss was a slow, intimate knowing of her mouth. His lips stroked hers, playing, conducting an exercise in sensual pleasure, his passion leashed for the sake of her sensibilities.
Sabrina felt lost in a thick, dreamy pleasure as he filled her with his tongue in a sensual invasion. Need broke over her, warm, rich, loosing a tide of longing. The slow glide of his rough-soft tongue was sleek, wet, intoxicating beyond anything she’d ever known, arousing a hot flush of desire and excitement within her.
Helplessly, her hands rose to his shoulders, clinging to him for support, while his mouth and tongue tantalized and coaxed in a slow erotic dance that probed and explored and expertly enticed.
Her limbs grew warm and honeyed, her body liquid and weak. She was only dimly aware when McLaren shifted his stance slightly. His pliant fingers moved to caress her shoulders with practiced sensuality, drawing her even closer against him, gently accommodating her body to his, making her feel an ache that began imperceptibly in her breasts and gradually spread downward to gather between her thighs.
A whimper escaped her lips as she felt the bold press of his body, his maleness. She couldn’t fight the sweet tempest he was arousing in her, didn’t want to fight…
He was caressing her again, stroking the column of her throat with his long fingers, making her intensely aware of her bare skin above the square neckline of her bodice. Then his hand slid lower, to brush her breast. A sweet blinding hunger flooded her.
Suddenly alarmed by the fierce sensation streaking through her, Sabrina gave a soft cry and abruptly pulled free of his embrace.
Her breath coming in soft pants, she stared at him in shock.
The Highlander returned her stare, his gaze hooded.
When he finally spoke, his laughter was muted, softly triumphant. “I think we can safely say you enjoyed that, mouse.”
Sabrina felt all color drain from her face. He was entirely correct; she hadn’t wanted his embrace to end. For a few brief moments, he had made her feel special, cherished, sought after. Yet his mockery was like a douse of cold water. Absurdly she felt spurned, when she should be grateful he had ended his seduction before it went too far.
She understood his intent now in kissing her, though. He had meant to prove his power over her, perhaps in punishment for interrupting his liaison with his latest paramour.
It was impossible to recover her dazed senses so abruptly, but Sabrina summoned every shred of dignity she possessed as she stepped back on shaken limbs.
She took a deep, steadying breath and forced a feeble laugh. “I suppose I should thank you for your instruction, sir. After all, one isn’t honored every day with such noted attention from a renowned rake. But in truth”—she lifted her chin defiantly—“I found your kiss rather overrated.”
A frown of irritation swept his handsome features. Yet before he could reply, a sudden commotion from beyond the yew hedge made him turn his head
abruptly.
Sabrina gave a start. What if she should be discovered here with him, like this?
“Niall?” a man’s voice called out in a harsh brogue. “Niall, are ye here, lad?”
“John?” the Highlander replied sharply.
From the direction of the terrace came the sound of booted feet running down the stone steps.
When Niall McLaren strode swiftly around the hedge, Sabrina followed, a vague sense of alarm raising the hair on the backs of her arms.
“What brings you here, John? What’s amiss?”
“I’ve come to fetch ye, lad. Ye’re needed at home. I fear…I have terrible tidings. ’Tis yer da.”
A powerful hulk of a man came to a halt before Niall. He wore the McLaren plaid, Sabrina noted, and looked savagely out of place in the moonlit garden, dressed in Highland battle gear, complete with claymore and leather-covered targe, the round shield carried by fighting men.
“Lad, I fear yer father has met with treachery,” John rasped, his voice rough with emotion and fatigue. “Caught in an ambush. ’Tis suspected the hand of the bloody Buchanans at work. Hugh is not expected to live through the night. He calls for you, lad. Yer the last of his sons now.”
“The last?” The word was a hoarse whisper.
“Aye, there’s worse. Jamie was killed.”
“Merciful God, not Jamie…” McLaren staggered, his hand rising to his temple, and Sabrina caught a glimpse of his expression. Stunned disbelief and savage pain warred in his eyes.
Instinctively she reached out to support him, her hand grasping his arm. Reflexively he clutched her wrist with a force violent enough to crush it, yet his devastation hurt her more than his grip. He had been the youngest of three sons, she recalled, but now he was the last.
Sudden tears blurred Sabrina’s gaze. She had lost her mother last year, but after such a long illness, she’d had time to prepare herself for the loss. She could only imagine the anguish of losing a father and a brother in one fell stroke. She wanted to reach out to Niall, to hold him to her breast and comfort him. Powerful feelings for a man who until a few moments ago had been a stranger. Yet she was dimly conscious of the throng of ball guests gathering on the terrace.
The Lover Page 2