Since leaving Edinburgh early that morning, Geordie had kept her entertained with his constant prater, regaling her with vivid tales of feuds and battles and risings, when clan swords ran with blood and vengeance meant more than daily bread.
“There’s no’ so long a memory as a Highlander’s, nor greater loyalty,” Geordie had boasted but an hour ago.
A savage feud raged even now, according to her kinsmen. Angus Duncan was a proud Scottish chieftain, but not powerful enough to protect his clan from the Buchanans, who had been their enemies for generations. Reportedly, the situation fretted him greatly; she’d listened to little else for the past seven hours.
She’d been surprised at Angus’s acknowledgment of her after so little contact over the years. Once, several years ago, he’d written to ask her to return to the Highlands for a visit, but she couldn’t possibly have left her ailing mother then. And the offer had never been renewed. Their last correspondence was when he’d sent condolences upon the death of her mother.
She remembered Angus Duncan as a gruff, blustery figure who was always shouting, yet she was saddened to be summoned to his death bed. She had no notion what he wished of her, except perhaps a desire to see his closest kin one last time. But as her grandfather’s sole surviving heir, she felt obligated to pay her final respects.
In truth, she had been eager to come, even though it meant leaving her stepfather to fend for himself with the household and his bustling trade. The visit afforded her an opportunity to avoid a particularly persistent suitor who was more interested in her dowry than her person. And if she were entirely honest with herself, she would admit relief in escaping the proximity of her former suitor and the constant reminder of her loss. Her cousin Frances had made a radiant bride, her happiness with Oliver apparent. Sabrina could not help but experience a twinge of envy whenever they met.
But all that was behind her, Sabrina vowed, her spirits lifting as they neared the large village of Callander. She was here now, and she felt an inexplicable attachment for her father’s homeland. The Highlands held a powerful enchantment for her…the promise of excitement and adventure and romance, so different from her own tame existence. She felt drawn by this magnificent land, as if it were in her very blood.
The tavern where they paused to rest was a two-story, rambling hostelry with a thatched roof and mullioned windows. Her muscles aching, Sabrina gingerly allowed Liam to aid her to dismount in the yard.
“I trow the McLaren is here,” Geordie observed, nodding at a band of horses tethered to one side.
Sabrina felt her heart skip a beat, knowing he referred to Niall McLaren, now the Earl of Strathearn and laird of his clan. To her dismay, she’d thought of him much too often since that moonlit night so many months ago when he’d kissed her in her aunt’s garden. Despite her dislike of him and his bold arrogance, he’d invaded her dreams far more intimately than was proper. When she’d agreed to come to her grandfather’s side, she couldn’t help but wonder if she would see the dashing Highlander during her visit. Now it seemed as if she might before she even arrived.
Willing herself to calm, she called to Rab and followed Liam stiffly inside, while Geordie saw to the horses.
She spied Niall McLaren at once. Across the smoke-hazed taproom, a half dozen men sat gathered at one long oaken table, quaffing mugs of foaming ale. She felt her pulse quicken in response—yet, fortunately, he seemed to take no notice of her arrival.
“We’ll take a wee bite, mistress,” Liam informed Sabrina.
When she had settled on a bench at an adjacent table, she pointed to the floor beside her. “Rab, lie.”
The great hound flopped down obediently, his chin on his paws, his brown eyes gazing adoringly up at her.
Liam ordered their dinner from the harried innkeeper, while Sabrina found her gaze drawn to the McLaren. He sat in profile to her, but she was still afforded a view of the startling physical beauty that made women’s hearts scamper and men’s grow green with envy.
Niall McLaren was unforgettable under any circumstances, but she had good reason to recall him.
Remembering their one confrontation, Sabrina felt her cheeks flood with color, yet she couldn’t drag her gaze away. He was dressed much less formally than their last encounter, his broad-shouldered frame garbed in a full-sleeved saffron shirt unlaced at the neck; his powerful legs clad in black jackboots and trews—close-fitting knit trousers made of tartan cloth.
At his waist he wore a belted sword, and over one shoulder he’d flung the McLaren plaid of vivid green crisscrossed with squares of sky blue and thin lines of red and yellow. His unpowdered raven hair, which was clubbed at the nape, gleamed with blue-black highlights as he turned his head toward her—
Sabrina gave a start as his bold gaze collided with hers.
Unnervingly, she realized he was watching her, his eyebrows meeting in a thick black line over incredibly blue eyes.
He seemed unsurprised to find her here—or perhaps he simply had no remembrance of her. She wore no hair pomade this time, or any of the elaborate puffs and rolls that had adorned her coiffure the evening of her cousin’s betrothal ball. And doubtless kissing strange females in moonlit gardens was so common an occurrence for him that he thought nothing of it.
Absurdly the thought disappointed Sabrina. She would never forget his brazen arrogance the night he had breathed life and excitement into her dull existence, never forget the sensual feel of that hard body flush against hers, the taste of his lips….
Forcing herself to release her bated breath, Sabrina chided herself roundly. She was no swooning maiden, to be swept off her feet by a handsome face and form, or to be unsettled by his odd scrutiny. The McLaren was regarding her intently from under dark lashes, his expression almost grim. She couldn’t explain the glitter in his sapphire eyes, but it seemed somehow menacing…a menace unaccountably directed at her.
Just then, a rosy-lipped serving maid entered the taproom and commenced doling out ale to her male patrons at the McLarens’ table.
“Cora, lass, I’ve missed ye,” one Highlander exclaimed. “Have ye missed me?”
“’Tisn’t likely, Colm McLaren,” she retorted with a laugh. When he patted her derriere, she hauled back and slugged his beefy arm with her fist with an admonition to stop. She finished pouring and set down the pitcher, yet rather than leave, she remained hovering over Niall McLaren.
“It isna fair, Cora,” the first complained, “ye saving yer charms for the laird.”
“Aye,” another Highlander chimed in, “I dinna ken why ye’d let yer head be turned by a bonny face.”
Cora gave a saucy sway of her hips. “For sure my head wouldna turn at the likes of ye, ye great lout.”
Guffaws of laughter followed, making Sabrina grateful when the innkeeper delivered her dinner.
Trying to disregard the revelry at the other table, she applied herself to the thick barley soup and black bread, yet she was palpably aware of Niall McLaren’s presence, of the smoldering vitality that emanated from him even across the room.
She was able to discern his murmur from among the din as he spoke to the serving wench. His lilting brogue was more pronounced than Sabrina recalled, but it had the same effect on her; the rippling burr echoed through her like the memory of his caress.
It disturbed her that merely the sound of his voice could affect her so—and disturbed her even more that he shared an obvious intimacy with the tavern wench.
Cora was laughing down at him, openly flaunting her ample charms. She appeared to be challenging him to join her abovestairs.
At first Niall appeared disinclined to accept her invitation, but when her flirtations progressed to rubbing her full breasts against his arm, he acquiesced. Reaching out casually, he drew Cora onto his lap and, amid much ribald male laughter, kissed her full on the mouth.
Sabrina went rigid as the lass fairly melted in his arms.
With a lazy, heart-stopping grin then, Niall tucked a silver coin in her bodice
and set the wench on her feet. “Go, sweeting, we’ll talk later.”
For a moment Cora stood straightening her disheveled apron, glancing down at him with a flustered, yearning look that Sabrina recognized as desire.
She winced at the familiar emotion.
She had no notion why that shared look should disturb her so. She knew very well Niall McLaren’s sexual appetites were legendary. He was every inch the rakehell who stole female hearts for sport. It shouldn’t surprise her that he would avail himself of what was offered so willingly.
Suddenly, though, his gaze returned with relentless precision to her. It seemed almost as if he were gauging her reaction to his dalliance.
To Sabrina’s utter dismay, then, Niall rose and casually strode toward her. She felt her heart flutter wildly as she watched his long, powerful legs come ever closer. He gave the impression of effortless grace, of power and strength held lightly under control.
She was grateful when her dog Rab rose to his feet and stood at attention.
Niall paid the huge mastiff no mind. Pausing before her, one hand on the hilt of his sword, he swept her a deep bow. “Welcome to the Highlands, Mistress Duncan,” he said in a lilting Scottish voice that somehow mocked her.
Against her will, Sabrina lifted her gaze to meet his stunning blue one. Managing to swallow the dryness in her throat, she replied, “I confess surprise that you even recognize me, my lord.”
“Your grandfather mentioned that you would be arriving today. And I know your kinsmen.” He nodded to Liam in greeting, then raised one dark eyebrow. “She does not know?”
The elder Highlander shook his head. “Angus wished to broach the matter himself.”
“Know what?” Sabrina asked, puzzled.
Niall’s penetrating blue eyes returned to her. “Your grandfather will apprise you soon enough.”
Frowning uncertainly, she queried, “You have seen my grandfather? Is he very ill?”
“I fear so. He asked that I act as your escort for the last leg of your journey.”
“Oh…” The thought of having to endure this man’s company for the next two hours was distinctly unnerving. “That is not really necessary, is it? Liam and Geordie are accompanying me.”
“The Highlands can prove dangerous to the unwary, mistress.”
His tone seemed hard, almost as if he were issuing her a warning. Sabrina fell silent, not knowing quite how to react. Finally she said quietly, “I hope we meet under happier circumstances than the last?”
She could see the challenge in his eyes swiftly banked, to be replaced by a fleeting look of sadness. She was struck, not for the first time, by the suspicion that there was far more to Niall McLaren than met the eye. He apparently held more complex feelings than the usual libertine. She had seen his pain at his kinsmen’s deaths, and knew he must have cared deeply for his family.
“I suppose you could call them happier,” he replied with cryptic dryness. He glanced around the taproom. “Have you no tire-woman attending you?”
“I did not like to impose on any of the women in our household. They are unaccustomed to traveling such a distance or being away from home for any length of time.”
“Still, you should have female companionship.”
“I am not entirely without companionship. In addition to my kinsmen, I have Rab for protection. Rab,” she said lightly, “guard.”
Bristling, the giant dog bared his teeth up at the man—but only for an instant. When the McLaren offered his hand for the animal to sniff, Rab whined once, uncertainly, and then licked the laird’s fingers hungrily.
Sabrina winced in dismay. Her canine guardian did not appear fierce enough to frighten a rabbit.
Niall must have had the same thought, for his beautiful mouth curled at one corner.
“He is usually more cautious with strangers,” Sabrina said defensively.
“I trust so.”
Sabrina froze when he propped one booted foot on the bench beside her. Reaching down, he gently fingered a tendril of her hair as it fell across her cheek.
“I wondered what the true color was.”
The intimate gesture startled her, as did his intent scrutiny. She felt her breath cease. If he intended to intimidate her, he was succeeding. That careless, indiscreet charm was so potent it was almost a visible force—reaching out to her, enveloping her. For an instant the others faded away. It was as if she and Niall McLaren were the only two people in the room.
“You should never hide your hair beneath powder, mistress. It is more fetching without it.”
She found herself glad that as a general rule Scotswomen didn’t cover or powder their hair, and sorry that the hood of her traveling cloak had disheveled the careful arrangement of her rich brown tresses she had made that morning.
When Niall McLaren continued studying her, she felt a dissatisfaction with her looks such as she hadn’t felt in years. But then Sabrina shook herself. She could hold her own with this rake. The blood of Scottish kings ran in her veins. She was a chieftain’s granddaughter, even if she had lived away from the Highlands for much of her life.
With cool aplomb, she lifted her chin. “I shall take your opinion under advisement the next time I dress for a ball.”
“And you should loosen that severe knot, as well,” he murmured. “The style is not right for you.”
“Are you such an expert on ladies’ coiffures, then?”
“Say rather, I am a connoisseur.” He grinned casually. “I’ve always considered a lass’s hair much bonnier flowing free, spread over my pillow.”
Sabrina felt her breath catch at his outrageous remark. Pretending a sophistication she didn’t feel, though, she said pointedly, “Perhaps you should return to your companions, my lord. They doubtless are missing you.”
The McLaren’s dark blue eyes widened fractionally in mock dismay. “I believe I have just received my dismissal. How lowering.”
Ignoring his dry commentary, Sabrina glanced at Liam. “Should we not be on our way?”
“Aye, if ye’ve rested enough.”
“Are you certain then,” Niall asked, “that you won’t accept my escort?”
“I thank you, but no,” Sabrina assured him. “I should not like to take you away from your pleasures.” Glancing at the other table where Cora had been, she added archly, “You seem well occupied in ruining the local wenches.”
His eyes gleamed in appreciation. “More disapproval, mistress?”
“How you choose to spend your leisure is no affair of mine.”
“Indeed. But that has yet to prevent you from voicing your opinion of me.”
“I believe I have confined my remarks to common knowledge. Your exploits are adequately documented.”
“Aye, I’m a reprobate of the first order. You would do well to remember it.”
“You have given me scant reason to forget it,” she retorted tartly. “Both times we have met, you’ve been indulging your libertine propensities.”
When his lips tilted in arrogant amusement, Sabrina wondered if he had any notion just how devastating that half smile was. But of course he did. He looked as though he could read every thought that passed through her head.
Yet it was difficult to dislike him. His mind was uncommonly sharp, and his boldness appealing, even if it often caught her off guard—as it did now when he reached out to take her fingers and bow over her hand. The facile charm was automatic, effortless, yet it disturbed her all the same.
“I shall take my leave, then.”
She wanted desperately to withdraw her hand from the sensual invasion of his, but he wouldn’t release her. As he raised her fingers to his lips, Sabrina silently cursed him. It was unfair, how this man’s mere touch left her breathless and set her heart to pounding. Indeed, it was criminal that this dangerous rogue should be left free to unleash his compelling sexuality on helpless females.
He seemed aware of his potent affect on her, too, for his eyes were wickedness itself as he pressed a del
icate kiss on the sensitive skin at her wrist.
The careless caress sent wanton images flooding through her mind, images of her surrendering to his seduction in a moonlit garden. The appalling realization struck her that she wanted to surrender again…
In almost a daze, she heard his low, musical voice saying, “As you please, mistress. But we will follow close on your heels,” he added for Liam’s benefit, “should you require aid. Never let it be said that a McLaren shirks his duty.”
Sabrina was infinitely grateful when he at last released her trembling hand—and rather startled when his striking features suddenly turned cool.
“There’s danger in the Highlands,” he repeated. “You would do better to return home to Edinburgh where you belong.”
Sabrina glanced up at him sharply. The menace she had sensed in him before was back, as was the hint of smoldering anger she’d glimpsed in his eyes when she’d first arrived at the tavern. She wasn’t imagining that the air was filled with a new kind of tension as Niall McLaren stepped back a pace.
“We shall doubtless meet again,” he murmured grimly, making Sabrina certain he was not looking forward to the occasion.
Chapter
Two
“Wed?” Sabrina gasped, feeling the air flee her lungs. “You wish me to wed the McLaren?”
She stared at her grandfather as he reclined weakly against the pillows.
“Aye, lass,” the old Highlander rasped. “You’re the last hope of Clan Duncan. Your union with our McLaren allies will secure the future of our clan.”
Dazed, she shook her head. So this was the meaning of her grandfather’s urgent summons. She had scarcely arrived at his bedside when Angus launched baldly into his proposal, with no thought to sparing any sensibilities she might have.
“I’m dying of a weak heart, lass, and I must settle my affairs before I go. ’Tis left to you to save our clan.”
The fierce Highland chieftain she remembered from her childhood didn’t look as ill as she’d feared, Sabrina thought distractedly. The natural ruddiness of his age-lined cheeks shone through his pallor. And while he seemed to suffer a shortness of breath, his constitution appeared nowhere near as frail as she expected.
The Lover Page 4