The Lover

by Nicole Jordan

  Her confession sounded entirely sincere, not at all like an anxious attempt to placate a jealous mistress.

  Relieved that Niall had not been seducing the maids, Sabrina managed a smile. “You have eased my mind, Jean. I too hope we may begin with a fresh slate. If you will forget the incident, I surely will.”

  Jean bobbed a curtsy and fled the room, leaving Sabrina to her restless thoughts. She was comforted to think she needn’t fear her husband’s betrayal in her own home at least, but vexed that the confession had to come from a stranger. Niall could have simply explained to her about his wounds and set her mind at ease, but he had purposely let her believe the worst.

  Her stepfather awaited her with Rab in the great hall. The dog, who had been banished from the wedding festivities, barked with excitement and fawned around Sabrina’s legs joyously.

  When she eventually straightened from embracing her pet, it was to find Charles Cameron studying her intently. Her cheeks flushed with warmth as she hugged him as well.

  When she would have stepped back, though, he prevented her, his lean hands gentle on her shoulders. “He has treated you well?”

  Sabrina had no need to ask who “he” was. “Quite well,” she murmured, a bit embarrassed to be discussing so intimate a subject as her wedding night.

  Charles shook his head. “I confess I find these Highlanders too savage for my taste, but then I forget you’re half Highlander. Well…I’m off to Edinburgh, lass, unless you have need of me. I shall miss you more than you know.”

  An ache knotted her throat. “Never more than I will miss you.”

  “It goes against the grain, but I intend to release your dowry as soon as I return.”

  “Thank you, Papa Charles.”

  His gray eyes concerned, he took her hands in a gentle grip. “Sabrina…I’ve always been of a mind that one who makes his bed must lie in it…but I wish you to know, if you find yourself truly unhappy, you may always make your home with me.”

  “Thank you, Papa,” she said huskily through her tears, and embraced him again with all the love in her aching heart.

  She greatly regretted her stepfather’s departure, and was glad for her dog’s companionship. Yet her new position as laird’s wife left her little time for melancholy. And happily, she discovered a friend in the McLaren housekeeper, Mrs. Paterson.

  Over a breakfast of oatcakes and honey, the elderly woman welcomed Sabrina with genuine warmth.

  “’Twill be good to have a mistress of the house again,” Mrs. Paterson admitted with a sigh. “And good for the laird to have a wife, no doubt. Mayhap marriage will settle him down and persuade him to abandon his wild ways.”

  Sabrina wanted very much to ask about the laird’s “wild ways,” but did not consider it appropriate.

  Immediately after breakfast, Mrs. Paterson gave her a detailed tour of her new home. The three-storied fortified manor had been built two centuries ago to withstand seizes by English armies and warring clans, yet everywhere she turned, Sabrina spied touches of elegance and comfort inspired by the late Lady McLaren.

  The walls of the banqueting hall were lined with tapestries and leather hangings to relieve the cold stone, while other chambers had been wainscotted or papered in flocked damask. The most formal rooms boasted molded ceilings, rich wood paneling, brass chandeliers, and intricately carved firescreens, while the family living quarters were decorated with thick carpets, gleaming furniture, and landscapes and portraits done in oils, with the prize possession, the exquisite pianoforte, in the drawing room.

  With Mrs. Paterson, Sabrina reviewed the household accounts, yet she was wary of overstepping her bounds, and anxious to discuss her role as mistress with her new husband.

  Regrettably Niall remained gone much of the day, returning barely in time for supper. Mrs. Paterson had prepared a special meal to honor the bridal couple, so they ate alone in the blue parlor, in an atmosphere made cozy by candlelight.

  As she faced him across the small table, Sabrina found herself dismayingly tongue-tied. After the carnal intimacies she had shared with Niall the previous night, she could scarcely meet his gaze.

  “You are too quiet, mouse,” he said finally as she toyed with the braised mutton on her plate. “Is something amiss?”

  “No. I was…simply thinking.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow.

  “I think…Do you not agree we should discuss how we are to go on?”

  “Go on?”

  “As husband and wife. How we are to live our lives.” Niall sipped his wine. Of course Sabrina would wonder how she was to fit into his life, his clan. “Aye, that might be prudent. What do you wish to discuss?”

  “Well…I am a stranger here, and a Lowlander, but I don’t care to remain idle. I should like something to occupy my time.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I wondered…Shall I have the running of your house, for instance?”

  Humor lit Niall’s blue eyes. “I have no knack for managing a household. You may have the office with my blessing.”

  Sabrina let out a pent-up breath. She had been prepared for a major battle. “I am good with accounts, as well. I often examined my stepfather’s books to verify his clerks’ tallies.”

  “Ah, yes.” A smile curved his beautiful mouth. “I recall you claiming that you have a head for figures. I would be glad of the assistance. I’ll show you the estate accounts at the first opportunity.”

  She hesitated. “And I should like to meet your tenants.”

  Niall nodded, pleased she cared enough to involve herself with his clan. “You are mistress here now. On the morrow, if you wish, we shall tour the McLaren lands together.”

  Sabrina felt her tension ease measurably. This would not be as difficult as she had expected. Niall was being entirely reasonable. He might not have wanted to wed her, but he seemed prepared to accept her as mistress, at least. “I would like that a great deal.”

  They conversed about his clan then, with Niall explaining the relations of his kinsmen and describing the people Sabrina might meet on the morrow. Some time later, he asked if she had finished her meal. “We should retire now if we are to get an early start in the morning.”

  “Retire?” Sabrina repeated, her tension rising abruptly again.

  Amusement lit his remarkable blue eyes. “Are you not acquainted with the word, mouse? It means to sleep.”

  She flushed. “I know what it means. I simply…I did not expect us to retire together. I assumed we would have separate chambers.”

  “Are you so eager to leave my bed, then?”

  Sabrina lowered her gaze. She wanted to pretend indifference to his magnetic charm, but couldn’t manage it. “It is not uncommon for a husband and wife to sleep apart, especially in a marriage of convenience. Indeed, you made it clear you desired us to go our separate ways after the…bedding.”

  Niall grinned. “You must needs grow accustomed to the carnal side of marriage. After a time you may go your own way, if you so wish.”

  Sabrina felt her heart sink. She would never manage to maintain a safe distance from Niall if they were to continue in such intimate proximity.

  Reluctantly Sabrina accompanied him abovestairs to the master bedchamber. The bed-hangings had been opened and the covers turned down invitingly, she saw, while a fire burned in the grate.

  “Do you require assistance undressing, pet?”

  Sabrina gave a start, realizing she was staring at the bed. “No. I can manage.”

  But she tarried as Niall stripped off his clothing and folded it away in the clothespress. When she saw him settle in the bed nude, she was surprised enough to ask, “You do not sleep in a nightshirt?”

  He grinned a heart-stopping grin. “What need have I of a nightshirt if I have a willing lass to keep me warm?”

  Sabrina felt her mouth go dry at his implication that she would keep him warm.

  Niall gave a husky chuckle at her expression. “Cease your dawdling, pet, and come to bed. I sh
an’t bite you.” He smiled wickedly. “At least not tonight. You are not yet experienced enough for that.”

  He reclined leisurely against the pillows, his hands behind his head, while Sabrina found the courage to undress. It unnerved her to have him watch her—which was perhaps absurd, considering the knowledge of her body he had gained the previous night. It unnerved her more that he objected when she reached for her nightsmock.

  “No, sweeting. We need no garments between us. I want you naked in my bed.”

  She hesitated, flushing at his frankness.

  Niall understood her shyness, but he refused to indulge it. It wouldn’t suit his purpose, for he meant to free Sabrina of her inhibitions. “Pray, contrive to relax, love. You are far too tense.”

  “I am not accustomed to being on public display,” she snapped, “or parading in the altogether for your enjoyment.”

  “Your inexperience can be easily remedied. Indeed”—he regarded her thoughtfully—“you are sorely in need of instruction.”

  “Instruction?”

  “Aye. I propose to teach you the art of passion, Sabrina.”

  When she remained mute, he added, “I fancy you would make an apt pupil. You have the right instincts. It remains only to uncover the hidden fire in you.”

  Sabrina eyed him warily, wondering what new game he was playing. “Why? To what purpose?”

  Niall shrugged. “Perhaps because I would gain a proficient bed partner?” His smile softened. “It might prove diverting to discover the kind of woman you can be. I think you could make a magnificent lover, cherie.”

  Sabrina stared at him in disbelief.

  Niall returned her gaze blandly. “You could benefit from lessons in the art of dalliance, as well. You are clever enough to match wits with any man, but it would serve you better to take the sting from your banter…But there is no need for haste. We can start your instruction on the morrow. For now, it is time for you to come to bed.”

  Too distracted to protest, Sabrina blew out the candles and joined Niall in bed, then lay there nervously as he drew up the covers and wrapped her in his arms.

  “Go to sleep, sweeting,” Niall murmured, pressing her head against his shoulder and closing his eyes.

  In only moments, his soft even breathing told her he had fallen asleep.

  Staring at the canopy overhead, Sabrina felt an inexplicable wave of disappointment. Niall had made no attempt to make love to her. He hadn’t rejected her precisely, but absurdly she felt spurned.

  She lay there, absorbing his heat, longing for his hand to ride the aching fullness of her breasts, for his body to cover hers and satisfy the sweet tingling between her thighs.

  It was a long, long while before she herself found slumber.

  They toured his lands the following day, and called on many of his tenants. Sabrina was gratified yet dismayed by the reception she received. At each home, she was given some small bride’s gift as a token of welcome into Clan McLaren.

  When she worried that Niall’s kinsmen could not afford to be so generous, he dismissed her misgivings. “’Tis our way.”

  Even so, Sabrina was disturbed by the difficult conditions the Highlanders faced. The simple, sometimes rude crofters’ cottages were dark and haze-filled, with floors made of earth and smoke from a peat fire spiraling up through a hole in the roof. More often than not, the dwellings were shared with the family pigs and goats.

  When she remarked on the hard life to Niall, however, he shook his head in amusement.

  “Save your pity, lass. Life is richer in these hills than could ever be found in a Lowland palace.”

  It seemed his entire clan shared his view. Highlanders were a dour, practical people, but fiercely proud and highly industrious. The men tilled the fields or watched over herds and flocks, while the women tended their gardens or worked their churns and looms.

  As the largest landowner in the district, the McLaren laird received rents paid in money or cattle, yet before the day was through, Sabrina began to realize that the wedding gifts were a mark of affection rather than an obligation. Niall was well liked and respected, by the women in particular. The lasses, young or old, held a special fondness for him, perhaps because he treated each one as if she were infinitely special.

  When they visited an aging crone who was nearly blind, her back bowed and bent, Niall bowed over her bony hand like any courtier and teased her about dancing a jig. The old woman cackled with pleasure at his flirtation, and after interrogating Sabrina ruthlessly, sent them on their way with a gift of sweetmeats she had made for her grandson.

  As they rode away, Niall offered Sabrina an apologetic, rueful smile. “You must forgive Dame Morag for her inquisition. She has been like a grandmother to me since before I was breeched.”

  Sabrina brushed aside his explanation with a shrug. “’Tis no novelty, seeing you pursued by females of any age. I am growing accustomed to them swooning at the sight of you—though I cannot imagine why they should.”

  A reckless grin flashed out. “Can you not?”

  In truth, she could understand. She herself was not impervious to the incredible appeal that made women yearn for Niall. She would swallow hot coals, however, before she admitted her weakness to him.

  “You need not worry,” Sabrina replied loftily, “that I will play the jealous wife, or that I will suddenly demand fidelity from you. I told you, you are free to take your lusts elsewhere. Although…it does seem rather unfair that I cannot enjoy the same freedom you claim.”

  Niall considered her a moment, his appraisal thoughtful. “I see no reason why you cannot indulge in a discreet affair…after you produce an heir, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” she said stiffly, hurt to think she meant no more to him than a broodmare.

  The next call, however, disturbed Sabrina, more than she cared to admit. As they rode toward a low-roofed crofter’s hut, Niall warned, “This may take more than a moment. The well needs repair and I’ve not found time to see to it before now.”

  He had barely finished the sentence before two young, ebony-haired boys came bounding from behind a lean-to shed. They gleefully called to Niall as he dismounted, yet came to an abrupt halt when they spied Rab.

  Without waiting for Niall’s assistance, Sabrina slid off her horse to place a hand on her dog’s head. “Come and greet him. He will not hurt you.”

  She spent a moment letting the children and dog get acquainted. When she rose, she realized that a woman dressed in traditional Highland garb had joined them in the yard. She had raven-wing’s hair and a delicate, quiet beauty that made Sabrina’s heart sink.

  Niall’s familiarity with the family was evident as he made the introductions. “Sabrina, this is the Widow Fletcher, and these worthless bairns”—he tousled the boys’ hair—“are her sons, Simon and Shaw.”

  “We’re no’ bairns!” they protested, even as they clung to him like limpets and gazed up at him adoringly.

  Studying the children of perhaps eight and six years old, Sabrina could not help but note the resemblance to Niall. With an ache in the vicinity of her heart, she wondered if he had sired them.

  “I am Fenella,” their mother said in a soft, musical voice. “Please, my lady, will ye join me for refreshment?”

  “I should be grateful,” Sabrina replied. “But I hope you will call me by my given name.”

  While Niall went to inspect the crumbling stone of the well, Fenella guided her inside the cottage and offered her tea. Rab remained outside to play with the boys.

  The widow had been sitting at her loom, Sabrina saw. “Pray, do not let me interrupt your work.”

  “Oh, no, I will be glad to rest a wee spell.”

  Lifting the kettle which had been left boiling over the hearth fire, she made a pot of tea while Sabrina examined the tartan cloth in the McLaren colors.

  “How beautiful,” she murmured, admiring the exquisite workmanship.

  Fenella smiled sweetly. Going to a chest in one corner of the room,
she pulled out a long length of the plaid fabric and held it out to Sabrina. “For ye, mistress.”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean…I could not take it.”

  “Please. ’Tis a wedding gift. Ye should have yer own plaid, now that ye’re a McLaren.”

  Sabrina smiled, forcing back her dismay at such generosity. “I should be honored to wear it.” She stroked the fine wool as she settled on an oaken bench. “Are all the ladies of Clan McLaren so talented with the loom?”

  “Aye, most. And we can set a neat stitch as well.”

  “Cloth as excellent as this should fetch a goodly sum at market in Edinburgh.”

  Fenella glanced over her shoulder skeptically, as if Sabrina had suggested she fly to the moon.

  Just then they heard shrieks of youthful laughter mingled with excited barks coming from outside the cottage. Sabrina glanced out the low window to see Simon wrestling on the ground with Rab, while Shaw attempted to mount the dog like a pony.

  “Your boys seem fine children,” she said somewhat wistfully.

  “Aye, they’re the delights of my life. Niall has been like a da’ to them since my dear husband Gowin passed on.”

  “Was that some time ago?”

  “Four years.” Before Sabrina could say more, Fenella volunteered with quiet sadness, “Niall’s elder brother Tom was best friend to my Gowin. They perished together at sea. Niall’s grief was nigh as great as my own.”

  Sabrina was aware of a stab of sorrow deep in her breast. A twinge of envy pricked her as well as she gazed at the rough-and-tumble boys. She wanted children, and wondered if Niall felt similarly. He had treated Simon and Shaw with fond indulgence, but no more so than an uncle might.

  The visit ended too swiftly to the boys’ mind, with Sabrina promising to call again with Rab soon. As she rode away with Niall, she remarked on the proficient job he had done repairing the well stone.