“Bonny witch…come here…”
Swept away by the fierce thundering of his blood, he reached for her and dragged her into his arms, his body hard with need, taut against her softness. “Ride me…”
His gaze plunged deeper into hers as he positioned her above his wild pulsing erection, anticipation screaming through his senses. Niall made a deep raw sound as he felt her glide lusciously around him, his lips parting as they emitted a broken breath. Agony, he thought, sheathing himself to the hilt in her welcoming heat. Every sleek velvet inch of her.
His hands splayed possessively over her back as he penetrated deeper, then protectively moved lower, trying to still the sensual movement of her hips. When she rocked gently, he shuddered, seizing a raw breath, savage need held barely in check.
“No…” she commanded breathlessly, determined to retain control. “You are to remain still.”
“While…you…torment me?”
“Precisely.”
The fierceness of her desire to give him pleasure was part of her need for him. She glided down with exquisite slowness, then lifted herself up, until she found a sensual rhythm, her tight sheath embracing him with an urgent demand. His hands kneaded her buttocks for an instant, then clenched tightly as a violent hunger caught him by surprise. His face contorted with pleasure and pain as desire, savage and blinding, ripped through him. It was her name he groaned when he exploded into bliss.
Sabrina felt the convulsive clench of his body, every pulsebeat of his hot shuddering release as he poured himself into her.
He was still vibrating with powerful aftershocks when his arms tightened around her, drawing her down. She went willingly, burying her face in the wide protection of his shoulder, her naked breasts pillowed in the warm skin of his chest. She felt powerfully female, deliciously weak, even though her body was still feverish for his touch.
With a sigh, she nestled against his hard, muscled length, cherishing the closeness. She wanted to remain like this forever, treasured in his embrace. Perhaps she might have to, Sabrina thought with a faint wry smile. Certainly she could not return to the celebration like this. She would never be able to explain her dishabille.
“Forgive me, lass,” she heard Niall murmur huskily.
“Forgive you?”
She felt the warm pressure of his lips at her temple, his hand scraping the tangled veil of her hair to one side. “For my impatience. You did not reach your pleasure.”
“Oh, that. It doesn’t signify.” In truth, she didn’t mind. It was satisfying enough to have aroused her sensual, hedonistic husband to the point where he lost his much-vaunted control.
“Ah, that rankled. Signify, indeed. ’Twas inexcusably remiss of me.”
“No, truly…”
His hands on her bare shoulders, he lifted her up so he could meet her gaze. “Am I to understand you would not care if I left you unsatisfied?”
She hesitated to confess her need, the wild longing he had aroused so effortlessly in her. A flush suffused her cheeks as she remained silent.
“Are you still hot for me?”
She could answer that truthfully. “Yes…”
He smiled that celebrated smile, devastating and suggestive. “Never let it be said that I left a lass unfulfilled.”
Amazingly she felt his shaft start to fill and throb again within her. Giving her no time to protest, he drew her down till his mouth could reach her throbbing breasts. His lips closed over a nipple that was pebble-hard with desire, and instantly the flames in her body fanned to life.
He laved the sensitive swollen tip, pulling at her flesh, nipping softly. When he began to suck hard, Sabrina gasped at the exquisite sensation.
With a husky murmur of triumph, he rolled over her, pinning her beneath him. His hands caressed her hips, then slid under her buttocks to cup and squeeze and lift her tighter against him.
“Say you want me, sweeting.”
She shuddered with delight. “Yes…Niall…I want you.”
Pressing her honeyed thighs wide, he thrust deeper. Sabrina went rigid at the unbearable surge of pleasure, the overwhelming sense of being penetrated and filled. But it was his look that made her heart nearly stop beating. His jeweled eyes glimmering in the darkness held a tender sensuality that made her feel cherished, desired. She could almost believe it was love she saw there in his gaze…
Sheer madness, she reflected dazedly.
He drove deeper still and she gasped, arching her back at the almost unbearable fullness enveloping and possessing her. Yet Niall gave her no surcease. He made love to her with a slow, lingering power, assuaging and intensifying the terrible sweet ache within her at the same time.
He took her with long, deep, protracted strokes, driving himself unhurriedly, fully, into her, till her slender body twisted against him, writhing helplessly.
“Aye, sweet Sabrina,” he urged against her lips. “Be reckless for me…be wanton and hungry.”
She obeyed, having no choice. As the explosive delight built relentlessly, she said his name in a raw, ragged voice and caught at his shoulders, her nails digging into his sleek skin. When the first convulsive tremors began, he fitted his mouth over hers, deeply, muffling her cries of ecstasy. She clung to him, shaking as he plunged harder, faster…
Only when she lunged frantically against him, sobbing, did he relax the rigid control he had maintained over himself. His body contracted like a bow, raking her with violent possession, claiming…pitching them both into a wild, heated dimness before the firestorm finally peaked.
Niall sank upon her, grimacing at the tumultuous pleasure flowing through him. The satisfaction was shattering…again.
They lay in each other’s arms, exchanging heartbeats, sprawled in a tangle of hair, limbs, and pleasure. He could feel Sabrina’s body still trembling, feel his own trembling.
At the realization, Niall shut his eyes, shocked by the power of the relentless climax he’d just endured. He couldn’t remember when a woman’s touch had elicited such a wrenching response in him.
It should be impossible. He was the seducer. He was the sensualist. With all his vast expertise, he should be able to control his rampant desire with any wench, most definitely with a virginal, unschooled lass who made no claim to beauty or feminine art.
He shook his head, marveling at the incredible hunger his innocent bride had aroused in him. He had planned simply to make love to Sabrina, but his strategy had foundered somewhere between the first sweet kiss and the second. His only intent was making her sexually responsive, awakening all the exquisite, undiscovered passion in that lovely body, yet he had become lost in the explosive ecstasy himself…twice.
His powerful response had startled him. Never had he expected to experience such fierce need himself, such feverish craving…or this haze of contentment that wrapped around him now. He felt almost intoxicated, as if he’d drunk too much potent usqueba.
Mayhap he was losing his touch.
With a sensual sigh, Niall shrugged aside the serious thought. He would do better to merely savor his bride’s wanton surrender, to simply enjoy the pleasure of the moment.
“That is how you stay warm on a raw night, mouse,” he breathed faintly when he could speak.
Sabrina’s low, hesitant reply was just as faint, no more than a whisper, but he heard it. “Would you…perhaps…mind showing me again?”
Remarkably he felt his male flesh stir. Drawing her close, Niall laughed helplessly against her hair.
“’Twould be my pleasure,” he murmured, before resettling her body beneath him once more.
Chapter
Twelve
Thus began a magical time for Sabrina, engendered by Niall’s sensual, bewitching spell. They spent nights of heated enchantment together, tangled in each other’s arms. She wanted to touch him a thousand times a day, and when he was away, he preyed constantly on her mind and heart.
He taught her the meaning of pleasure. He seemed to worship her body, arousing in her a t
remulous passion, a ravenous desire as savage as the wild Highland hills. Under his tutelage, she discovered a hedonistic, uninhibited side of herself she never expected existed.
He made her blossom as a woman. Her fragile self-esteem grew as he continually challenged her modest view of her attractions. She was beginning to believe that she was beautiful in his eyes, that he wanted and desired only her. She could almost hope that their marriage might flourish.
And yet…even as she succumbed to his tantalizing touch, she was haunted by the apprehension and uncertainty any woman would feel in the arms of a man she knew would ultimately hurt her.
In truth, Sabrina warned herself sternly and frequently, she had to remember that all this—their marriage, her seduction, Niall’s instruction in the sensual art of desire—was merely a game to him. His heart was not engaged, nor would it likely ever be. Their bond was purely physical, and even that might cease to exist the moment his interest was captured by another woman more beautiful and experienced than she.
At least her grandfather seemed pleased by the reports of her marital felicity. When Sabrina paid one of her regular visits to Angus at Banesk, he crowed mercilessly.
“What did I tell ye, lass?” he cackled. “Dinna I say the lad would settle down and make ye a fine husband?”
Sabrina refrained from responding too tartly. The aging chieftain had not left his sickbed, although his health seemed measurably improved.
“’Tis early yet, Grandfather,” she murmured wryly. “We’ve been wed but a few weeks.”
“Aye.” His rheumy gaze turned sober. “But ye did well by yer clan, Sabrina. We’ve had no more trouble with the Buchanans. For that ye have m’ gratitude.”
Her stepfather, too, seemed relieved that her marriage was proceeding smoothly. She had corresponded frequently with Charles Cameron, primarily to arrange a shipment of woolen cloth from the women of Clans McLaren and Duncan. His return letters had praised the quality of the Highland fabric and renewed his offer of refuge should Sabrina require it. She had written back, assuring him that she was quite content with her lot.
She was indeed surprised to realize she was not so very homesick. She missed Papa Charles deeply, but not her dull existence in Edinburgh. Her moments were rarely dull here in the Highlands. Her duties kept her fully occupied.
As spring ripened and June kissed the land with warmth, the Highlands bloomed in all their magnificence; the hills dusted lavender with wild bell-heather, the glens with shimmering greenness.
The untamed beauty beguiled Sabrina, though no more than did her charming rogue of a husband. She felt enraptured by his seductive spell.
She couldn’t ask for a more devoted lover or bridegroom, yet she was continually discovering depths to Niall that she never expected. Beneath the elegant charm and wicked wit, Sabrina found, he possessed a sober side to his nature that she could respect and admire.
One afternoon, after she had dryly wondered aloud if he enjoyed other sports than frivolous carnal pursuits, he took her trout fishing. He chose a stunningly beautiful place, where the burn rushed through a wild glen, emerald with rowan trees and mountain ferns and bracken.
Niall spread his plaid in a patch of sunlight, and they shared a luncheon of bread and cheese, boiled eggs, and a jug of hard cider, while Rab bounded along the banks ecstatically, intent on scaring any fish away.
“My father often brought me here as a lad,” Niall murmured after a time.
Sabrina heard the note of sorrow in his voice. “You miss him deeply, don’t you?”
His look grew wistful. “Aye. There was no finer man…nor laird.”
“You seem to be filling his shoes admirably.”
Niall smiled humorlessly and shook his head. “Not so very well. I might do better had I been properly prepared for the chieftainship. But there was no reason. I never thought to become laird. A younger son cannot inherit and must shift for himself. Instead of remaining home, I struck out for the continent to seek my fortune, making use of what gifts I had.”
“Gifts?”
“Aye”—a tinge of self-mockery invaded his tone—“my charming address and braw countenance. Such attributes gained me entry into the wealthiest circles, where I kept myself in funds, winning games of chance from moneyed nobles.”
She watched Niall restlessly lie back on the plaid, one arm draped across his forehead. He was wrong to think himself unworthy to lead his clan. Even though he hadn’t expected the responsibility of leadership, he cared deeply about his kinsmen and was deadly serious about protecting and caring for them. She knew he would make any sacrifice to ensure their prosperity.
“My brother Jamie should have been laird,” he said softly, gazing up at the sky. “Jamie should be here now, in my place. But he died with my father at the hands of the bloody Buchanans.” His eyes squeezed closed. “I was spared their death because I was away attending a ball.”
Sabrina felt a sudden ache in her throat, comprehending the guilt Niall felt because he had survived when his father and brother had not.
“It would have served no one,” she murmured, wanting to offer comfort, “had you perished with them.”
“Aye, but I might have saved them. Or died in their place.”
Sabrina looked away. Perhaps she was being selfish, but she was glad Niall had not perished. She could not imagine the world without this vital, beautiful man in it.
“The culprits were punished, were they not?”
His jaw clenched. “Aye, the murdering bastards paid for their treachery. I saw to that.”
“Geordie told me once…that Owen Buchanan was not directly responsible for the ambush.”
“Mayhap he didn’t give the order, but they were his clansmen all the same. A laird is accountable for the actions of his kin.”
Turning, Sabrina gazed down at Niall. Sorrow and tenderness pulled at her. “You still seek revenge against him, don’t you.”
“If so, what of it?” The question was venom-sharp, the tone bitter.
Sabrina winced. She had just been trying to understand Niall’s savage intolerance. “Geordie said that at one time…before the tragedy…Owen desired an end to the feud, that he sought a truce.”
Niall made a scoffing sound. “Geordie Duncan talks too much. And the Buchanans are liars as well as cowardly curs. A truce? ’Tis folly to expect them to bargain in good faith. Owen betrayed you when you attempted it. I should think you would have learned your lesson.”
Sabrina had no answer for that. “I know…It just seems—”
“No, lass, leave it! I’ll not have you championing my blood enemy.”
When Niall rose abruptly to his feet, Sabrina lapsed into an uneasy silence. Time stretched between them, echoing the tension and resentment of their earliest relationship.
Niall felt the strain as well. Fetching his rod, he strode to the bank to fish, vexed at her and at himself. He had said too much to her, divulged more of himself than was wise…going on about his father and brother so…letting Sabrina prod him into arguing about the feud. He did not have to justify his hatred of Owen Buchanan, to her or anyone else.
Faith, but his mouse of a bride had a way of slipping beneath his guard—
Except that Sabrina was no longer so much of a mouse, Niall reflected grudgingly as he baited his hook. As his pupil, she was progressing admirably, frequently showing glimpses of the sensual, alluring woman he’d thought her capable of becoming. In his bed she was as wild and passionate as any man could wish. And he felt his heart softening with warmth at the oddest moments…
Tightening his jaw, Niall cast out his line.
In truth, their marriage hadn’t proven the hardship he’d envisioned. To his surprise, he was actually developing a fondness for his wife. He liked Sabrina. He liked her intelligence and her courage. He liked her refreshing frankness and the wry laughter lurking in her dark eyes. He found even her tartness refreshing as she endeavored to match wits with him.
And she was fitting into his
clan far better than he’d hoped. His kinswomen in particular regarded her as a benefactor, lauding her efforts to augment their meager incomes by selling cloth at the Edinburgh markets.
But Sabrina was stubbornly determined to meddle in affairs that were not her ken. He could not reproach her earnestness, but she was naive to think she could change the conflicts of a lifetime.
And on this issue in particular, he would not brook her interference.
The incident left Sabrina feeling vaguely discontented. Although Niall continued to play the charming lover in the ensuing days, he was never again as forthcoming as he’d been those few sunlit moments by the burn.
She was dismayed, however, when their tenuous affinity was threatened in a manner she never expected: by the promise of peace with the Buchanans.
It began some five weeks after the Beltane festival, when Eve Graham held a musical evening for the surrounding gentry. That night the McLaren and his bride engaged in their first significant argument, one which developed into a battle royal.
Sabrina grudgingly admitted she was partly to blame. Perhaps she should never have become caught up in the puzzling intrigue that presented itself that night.
She had donned one of her new garments for the occasion—a striking sack-back gown of rose silk with an ivory under-petticoat supported by small hoops.
She was finishing her toilet in front of the cheval glass when Niall returned to their bedchamber, carrying a small casket, and dismissed the maidservants who had helped her.
“Beautiful,” he murmured as he came up behind her.
She did look pleasing, Sabrina thought, viewing herself in the glass. Her unpowdered hair was dressed in a softer, more natural style, with curling tendrils that formed a halo around her face. She had eschewed paint, merely allowing a touch of rouge at cheekbones and lips to enhance her complexion, as Niall had shown her how to apply. The exquisite gown was flattering to her slender figure, the boned bodice pushed against her breasts, accentuating the ripe swell of her bosom above the square neck.
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