The Lover

by Nicole Jordan

  He seemed fully prepared to go through with the marriage, though. He wore full Scottish dress, his tartan kilt and short jacket accentuated by a silver-embroidered waistcoat, white silk hose, and lace cravat. A silver broach secured the McLaren plaid at his shoulder, while a black ribbon bound his ebony hair in a queue at his nape, emphasizing the rugged beauty of his face—broad forehead, finely chiseled nose, and carved cheekbones.

  Sabrina had never seen such a combination of polished elegance and raw virility in a man. He was devastatingly, dangerously male, and he brought out every feminine instinct she possessed.

  “You look bonny, mouse,” he murmured in greeting.

  Sabrina glanced sharply up at him to divine if he were mocking her, but he wore an enigmatic look that gave little clue.

  “How is your arm?”

  “Well enough, thank you.”

  “Does it pain you?”

  “Nothing to signify.” When she felt her stepfather press her elbow, she cleared her throat to make the introductions. “My lord McLaren, this is my stepfather, Charles Cameron.”

  Niall offered a polite bow. “I’ve had the pleasure. Mr. Cameron called last eve at Creagturic.”

  She eyed the older man in surprise, wondering why he had made such an endeavor after so wearying a ride.

  “He came,” Niall explained with a bland smile, “ostensibly to present a wedding gift…French brandy, Lyon silk, Brussels lace. But he vowed to break my head should I make you unhappy.”

  Sabrina felt herself flush with warmth, both at the absurd notion of an aging merchant challenging a Highland warrior, and the comforting thought that her stepfather would champion her even against overwhelming odds.

  All the leaders of the nearby clans had gathered in the kirk, it seemed when she entered on her intended’s arm. It was a major event when a Highland chieftain wed the granddaughter of another laird. She was grateful to recognize a number of familiar faces among the crowd: Geordie, Liam, the beautiful Widow Graham, Niall’s cousin Colm, the gruff John McLaren.

  The ceremony was simple, and over too soon. The McLaren presented her with a nuptial ring, a simple gold band, and the Presbyterian minister pronounced them man and wife before God.

  Then Niall bent to kiss her.

  It was only a brief brushing of lips, but it roused fresh panic within Sabrina. Her fate was cast, her decision irrevocable. She was wed to the greatest lover in Europe, and she was totally inadequate to the task. She scarcely felt the warmth of her husband’s mouth as it touched hers in a fleeting caress, she was trembling so badly.

  The moment they left the kirk, however, her anxiety was overshadowed by a deeper fear. Sabrina’s heart lurched to see a party of armed Highlanders ride up to the church steps, with the black-bearded Owen Buchanan in the lead.

  Beside her, Niall went rigid, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. “What do you here, Owen?” he demanded when the horsemen came to a halt.

  “I ken I was invited to the weddin’.”

  Niall’s face was set like granite. “’Twas a courtesy, no more. Meant to serve notice that Clan Duncan is no longer fair game for the butchering Buchanans.”

  “Butchering, ye say?” His black eyes flashed. “Two of my kinsmen lie wounded, and ye call me a butcher?” With a creak of saddle leather, the Buchanan shifted his fierce gaze and fixed Sabrina with a dark glare. “Nay, ’tis a bloody gomeril, I am. I should hae known better than to bargain with a mere lass and leave ma herds unguarded.”

  Sabrina stared back at him. She was still furious at Owen Buchanan for deceiving her and breaking their pact before it had even begun, yet she could not understand his anger. He was the one to blame for the cattle raids and the resultant bloodshed.

  “Such a guileless mien,” Owen sneered. “Who do ye think to deceive, lass? I suppose now ye’ll claim ye couldna control yer clan.”

  Niall’s jaw clenched. “My wife’s veracity is not in dispute, but if you care to settle the issue with swords—”

  “No!” Sabrina exclaimed, vexed with them both for resorting to violence. “That will be quite enough. This should be a day of peace.”

  The two men eyed each other savagely. Sabrina hoped they would not start a battle on holy ground, with so many of their kin present who would undoubtedly enter the fray.

  Willing herself to calm, she pressed her lips together, hoping reason could prevail. “My lord Buchanan, perhaps we may defer this discussion for a more auspicious date. You and your clansmen are welcome to join us at Banesk for the wedding celebration, if you can forswear violence for the moment and put away your swords.”

  Owen gave her a scathing glance. “I’ll no’ break bread with a thieving Duncan.”

  Beside her, Niall gripped the hilt of his sword and took a threatening step forward.

  Still fuming, Owen turned his mount and spurred it into a canter, his kinsmen following hard on his heels.

  Sabrina let out her breath in relief. All it needed was a bloodbath at the steps of the church to make her wedding day uniquely memorable.

  It was a somber crowd that filed out of the kirk, despite the brilliance and ripening warmth of the sun high overhead. Niall joined Sabrina in the carriage to return to Banesk, while the other guests followed on horseback or on foot.

  Her new husband said little during the short journey, but Sabrina was aware of the undercurrent of anger emanating from him.

  “I cannot understand,” she ventured at last, “why the Buchanan seemed so outraged by the resumption of the feud. He seemed to blame me for the raid.”

  “What does it matter? There will never be peace between our clans.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the bloody Buchanans butchered my kin in the act of a coward.”

  Sabrina winced. She understood why Niall held such hatred for the Buchanans; they were responsible for the deaths of his father and brother. Yet Owen reportedly had not instigated the ambush…

  At present, however, was not the best time for a discussion of the feud. Niall could not view the issue rationally, and in truth, she was in no state to be objective, with her wounded arm throbbing and her nerves in tatters.

  When Niall fell silent, lapsing into a dark mood, Sabrina followed suit, gazing mutely out the carriage window, bracing herself against the sway and lurch of the vehicle.

  She could hear the skirl of the bagpipes long before they reached the castle grounds, but the cheers of the crowd which greeted their arrival stunned her. They were shouting her name.

  “Did I not tell you, mouse?” Niall murmured at her bewildered look, rousing himself from his grim preoccupation. “There’s naught a Highlander admires more than bravery. You’re a credit to your Highland blood.”

  The clans had gathered in the yard for the noontide wedding feast, Sabrina saw. Angus had ordered kegs of whisky and barrels of Lowland-brewed ale and French wine broken out for the guests, and it seemed the Highlanders were taking full advantage of his hospitality.

  To her surprise, after Niall had aided her down, he raised their joined hands high and declared in a strong, clear voice, “I give you Lady Sabrina McLaren, Countess of Strathearn!”

  A roaring cheer went up, and the guests surged forward to greet the laird’s new lady.

  Niall remained at her side, gravely accepting the congratulations and good wishes of his clansmen. When someone pressed a goblet of wine into his hand, he solicitously held it to Sabrina’s lips. He gave all the appearance of a tender lover enamored of his bride.

  The women of Clans Duncan and McLaren had outdone themselves with the wedding feast. Wooden planks laid over barrels formed tables, which had been piled high with hearty fare as well as delicacies: venison, mutton pasties, haggis, syllabub, and plum pudding. When Niall offered to fetch a plate for her, though, Sabrina declined. She was too unsettled to eat.

  Angus joined them then, hobbling weakly on his cane and supported by his manservant. When he proposed a toast to his granddaughter, the crowd
raised their cups to salute her.

  Hardly crediting their generous welcome, Sabrina felt an ache in her throat at their acceptance. She had won over their stubborn affection with her actions the night of the raid—by fighting the Buchanans and foiling their deadly aim—as well as giving them the protection of a powerful laird by marrying an ally.

  “Drink up, lass,” Angus urged, pressing a cup in her hand. “’Twill give you heart.”

  Sabrina swallowed a mouthful of the pure malt whisky, and wheezed as it burned a path down her throat. “’Tis more likely to pickle my heart,” she said, gasping.

  Her grandfather gave a weak chuckle, while her clansmen roared with laughter.

  “Ye’ll need to do better,” Geordie chided. “Such good Scotch brew is mother’s milk to a Highlander.”

  She flushed at the ensuing jocular remarks concerning her fortitude, a color which deepened when she realized her new husband was watching her with unabashed amusement.

  Before she could respond, though, the lilting strains of an ancient Highland air filled the yard.

  “Ah, I believe we are expected to dance,” Niall murmured, holding his hand out to her. “Will you honor me, madam wife?”

  Sabrina placed a trembling hand in his and allowed him to lead her into the movements of the minuet. To her surprise, Niall gave her his complete attention, watching her solely, his blue gaze making her feel as if she were the only woman in the world. It was an act for him, Sabrina knew. A skill he had honed for his repertoire of seductions. And yet it was supremely effective—with her and others as well.

  She was an object of envy among the women, she could sense it in their longing looks. She had captured Niall McLaren as husband, and half the females present would give their souls to have landed so great a prize.

  All too soon the dance was over. Sabrina felt a wave of disappointment as Niall returned her to the sidelines, a sentiment which turned to dismay as Eve Graham made an appearance.

  All Sabrina’s doubts and insecurities came rushing back with a vengeance. She felt her heart give a painful jolt when Niall bowed over the beautiful widow’s hand.

  “You are as lovely as always, my dear.”

  Eve gave a trilling laugh, as musical as crystal bells. “Not so lovely as your bride, I see.”

  “Indeed,” Niall said noncommittally.

  Although Sabrina had no tangible proof, she sensed an undercurrent of emotion between her husband and the widow. The two of them obviously shared an intimacy of longstanding.

  “I suppose,” Eve observed lightly, “it would not be wise to insist on a dance.”

  “It would not,” Niall replied with a glance at Sabrina. “I must fulfill my duty with the Dowager Lady Ross, in any case.”

  Sabrina was profoundly grateful to them both for forbearing to dance together, where the entire company could witness their closeness.

  “Why do you not ask Seumas McNab to partner you?” her husband asked Eve. “He is recently widowed and will fawn over you properly. It will permit you an opportunity to display your charms to best advantage.”

  “Wretched, exasperating creature,” Eve said, laughing again. “You know full well Seumas is seeking a broodmare for a wife.” She turned to Sabrina. “Did I not tell you, you will have your hands full as his bride? The man is a rogue, Sabrina, not to be trusted.”

  She could see the corner of Niall’s mouth curve sardonically. “My bride has had full warning on that score.”

  He gave both ladies an elaborate bow that held a hint of mockery. When he had gone in search of the dowager, Sabrina forced herself to smile. She would have preferred to avoid the widow altogether, yet her being seen conversing amicably with Eve would help still the gossips’ tongues.

  Eve apparently shared her reasoning, for she slipped her arm through Sabrina’s.

  “I meant what I said,” the lady remarked kindly. “It will be difficult being wed to so practiced a cavalier.”

  Sabrina nodded. She feared she was in store for a vast deal of loneliness and heartache.

  “But I must confess,” Eve added with a wistful sigh, “I do envy you.”

  Sabrina saw little of her husband for a space, for he was in great demand with the female guests. After his obligatory dance with the dowager, he favored a half dozen fortunate damsels with his attentions, making them flush with pride at being chosen.

  Sabrina supposed she could not blame him for his conquests. Niall McLaren was recklessly amorous and irresistible to women, his flirtation as natural and effortless as breathing.

  Fortunately she was given little time to dwell on her abandonment. First she was claimed by her stepfather and then several of her clansmen in various Scotch reels that left her breathless and parched. When Geordie offered her another whisky, she accepted gladly.

  It was midafternoon before Niall returned to her side. Sabrina felt her heart thrum and her nerves dance at his nearness. Why did she have this overwhelming feeling her life had begun again? She would prefer to attribute her weakness to the potent drink she’d consumed. She’d been sipping on the whisky, and although it made her light-headed, she was glad for the courage it gave her. She could face her new husband stoically.

  To her dismay, though, Niall smiled at her in apology, a devastatingly attractive expression that made her pulse race. “Forgive me for deserting you, sweeting. I could not excuse myself sooner.”

  Sabrina took a deep breath in an effort at calm. “Far be it from me to interfere with your pleasures,” she said, striving for indifference.

  “It was not as great a pleasure as you credit.”

  “Oh, yes, I recall. You prefer more active sport. Perhaps I should remove myself from the company so that you might proceed with seducing the ladies present.”

  Niall eyed her sharply, but Sabrina forged bravely ahead, although her senses seemed to be swimming. “There is no need for you to remain at my side, my lord.”

  “It would be wiser for me to do so, for appearances sake.”

  “Ah, of course,” she retorted with an irrepressible hint of bitterness. “You would not wish these good people to learn of the travesty of our courtship, or realize that you were forced to wed me.”

  “I told you, mouse, I am resigned to our marriage.”

  Her spirits plummeted further. Resigned was not what she wished her husband to feel for her.

  Before she could answer, Niall placed a finger under her chin, scrutinizing her intently. “It seems you have little head for whisky after all.”

  “My head is perfectly clear, thank you.” Sabrina lifted her chin regally, but spoiled the effect by raising a hand to her temple. “It is my vision which troubles me.”

  He chuckled, which vexed her profoundly. She was amusing him again.

  “You needn’t worry, sir. I am resigned as well. My expectations of our union are meager. This is to be a marriage of convenience, only. I won’t require you to dance attendance on me.”

  She could see one jet-black eyebrow winging upward. “You seem eager to be rid of me.”

  “I simply wish to spell out the terms of our relationship. You made it perfectly clear that you desire your freedom. Well”—she took a deep breath—“I wish to make clear that you are free to take your lust elsewhere. I shall raise no objections.”

  Niall regarded her soberly, trying to judge her sincerity. His new bride seemed to be giving him permission to seek his carnal pleasures in other beds.

  Her generosity relieved him, yet strangely piqued him at the same time. He wanted no fits of temper or tearful pleas to deal with in a wife, no clinging limpet who fancied herself in love and expected vows of undying devotion in return.

  It should delight him to find her so agreeable; this was precisely what he wanted, was it not? Sabrina was an inexperienced virgin. He doubted she could satisfy a man of his lusty nature, or that she would even wish to try. He should be pleased that she would not complain if he were forced to fulfill his sexual needs outside the marriage bed.


  “Perhaps in future,” he replied, his voice liquid and smooth, “I will ‘take my lusts elsewhere,’ as you put it. But not this night. On the eve of a wedding, it is usual to consummate the marriage vows. Or have you forgotten?”

  “No,” Sabrina said in a suddenly small voice, unable to meet his eyes. “I have not. But I…I thought perhaps you might prefer a marriage in name only.”

  “I’ll have no one question the validity of this union. On the morrow you will be my wife in every respect.”

  Sabrina felt her heart falter. She would be required to bed Niall after all. She’d thought—hoped—he might forgo the duty, given the circumstances. She was certain he had no true desire for the task. And the prospect of having Niall McLaren initiate her into the act of lovemaking daunted her. She could never measure up to his other lovers.

  “Very well,” Sabrina replied, summoning remarkable aplomb. “But after tonight, you have full license to take up with your paramours, if you so wish.”

  “I am all gratitude for your consideration,” Niall said wryly.

  The graceful evasion told Sabrina little, and she couldn’t help stubbornly pressing the matter. She glanced pointedly at the Widow Graham to make certain he could not misunderstand her. “I would, however, appreciate a warning as to which ladies are your discarded love interests, so I might attempt to avoid embarrassment in future.”

  “Are you certain she is discarded?”

  Sabrina caught her breath at the sudden shaft of pain that shot through her.

  Seeing the hurt in her eyes before she lowered her gaze, Niall voiced a mental oath. He had baited her for a response, out of pique or in an effort to test her indifference, he wasn’t sure. But his mouse with tiger’s claws did not deserve to have his former mistresses flaunted in her face. She had wanted this marriage as little as he did.

  He bent closer. “Come, let us cry pax, sweeting. This is no time to be quarreling.”