The Lover

by Nicole Jordan

  “But not enough to make you change your mind.”

  Self-mockery laced his low laugh. “Lamentably, no, although it pains me greatly to say so.”

  He returned home, feeling vexed and restless. Sabrina was nowhere in evidence, a fact which annoyingly relieved him as he washed Eve’s scent from his skin.

  It was Liam Duncan who first made Niall realize his wife was missing. Late that afternoon, Liam rode to Creagturic to seek an audience with Sabrina, and seemed unduly concerned when she was not to be found.

  “Where could the lass be?” he asked Niall gravely. “I made cert she would have come home.”

  “She is not at Banesk? She meant to visit her grandfather.”

  “Aye, that she did, but I fear the lass was muckle fashed.”

  Niall’s gaze narrowed. “Mayhap you had best explain.”

  In a minimum of words, Liam disclosed what Angus had done—the old man’s duplicity in gaining protection for Clan Duncan by wedding his granddaughter to the McLaren—while Niall heard him out grimly.

  “I didna ken Angus’s cheatry, my lord,” Liam vowed, “till after the deed was done. He’s hale now as any lad in his prime.”

  A muscle in Niall’s jaw hardened. “I suspected as much, but in all honor I could not challenge his word.”

  “But ’twasna fair you should pay the price.”

  “It was my decision to wed Sabrina in the end. And I must allow, I—”

  It was just at that moment that Geordie Duncan came rushing into the great hall.

  “There’s word of Mistress McLaren!” he exclaimed without preliminaries. “The bloody Buchanan has her.”

  Niall felt his breath stop as cold fear smote him. “How do you ken?”

  “He sent Angus a demand for ransom for Mistress McLaren’s safe return—three hundred head of cattle.”

  Niall clenched his jaw so hard his teeth grated. “Should that bloody bastard harm a hair on her head…”

  He left the sentence unfinished as Geordie added, “Angus has summoned our clan together to effect her rescue. He desires ye to come at once.”

  “Aye, I’ll come. Liam, find John and raise the cry,” Niall commanded as he turned to bound up the stairs in search of his claymore and targe. “We’re for Buchanan’s lair!”

  The fighting men of Clan McLaren were swiftly mustered, while Geordie rode to Banesk to intercept Angus. An army of mounted Highland warriors was soon galloping toward Buchanan’s castle.

  They slowed as they approached the massive fortress, surprised to find the gate open and the portcullis raised.

  Niall held up his hand, signaling his men to halt. For a moment the only sound was that of snorting steeds and chomping bits.

  “Think you ’tis a trap?” Angus asked Niall warily.

  “Mayhap. You’ll bide here till I can discover what goes.”

  Angus looked as if he might protest, but one glance at Niall’s savage expression silenced him.

  His claymore drawn, Niall urged his mount forward and rode alone across the drawbridge, into the bailey. Not a soul was in sight, nor any hint that the Buchanans expected a visit of retribution.

  It made no sense.

  The massive wooden door to the tower swung wide just then, and Keith Buchanan stepped onto the upper landing of the stone entrance stairs. He wore a leather frock coat but no sword. Apparently he was unarmed. “Greetings, Laird McLaren,” he called down to the yard. “We expected Angus, but you are welcome as well.”

  “Where is she?” Niall demanded, his tone explosive with rage.

  “Safe and sound—and ’tis not what ye’re thinking.”

  “My thinking be damned! Tell me where my wife is, or God rot you, I’ll slice your gullet open and feed your vitals to the corbies!”

  “I’ll gladly spill what I know, if ye allow me the chance. Your lady is here of her own accord.”

  Niall made a visible effort at control, though his eyes remained narrowed in mistrust.

  “She came here to seek peace.”

  Niall’s jaw clenched as he stared. “The de’il she did,” was his muttered curse, but the knife-edged tone was blunted with the briefest hint of uncertainty.

  “Pray, come and see for yourself.”

  Keith stepped back, gesturing within the tower.

  Dismounting, Niall held his claymore at the ready and swiftly climbed the entrance stairs. He followed the son of his fiercest foe through a great hall and up a winding flight of stone steps, to a chamber that was apparently used as a salon. Even before he reached it, he heard the sound of Sabrina’s laughter.

  “Check, sir! I warned you not to risk that move.”

  His hand clenched on his sword hilt, Niall stood in the doorway, staring grimly.

  Before a crackling hearth fire, Sabrina sat facing Owen Buchanan across a chessboard, obviously at ease, while the Highland chieftain scowled down at the knight she had just captured.

  “See you, milord,” Keith said smugly at Niall’s shoulder. “’Tis no abduction. Your lady is clearly enjoying our Buchanan hospitality.”

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  As if sensing Niall’s presence, both Sabrina and the elder Buchanan looked up.

  Owen grimaced, his good humor disappearing instantly. “I’ve won our wager, lass. I told ye he would come.”

  “So you did.” She offered the Buchanan laird a charming smile. “It seems I owe you half a crown. But I shall have to redeem it by trouncing you soundly in our match.”

  Niall moved into the room, his face set like flint, anger hooding his gaze.

  “He doesna look pleased to find ye here,” Owen said.

  Sabrina’s smile cooled. “I think you may be right. But he’s doubtless concerned that I’ve set up a flirtation with you. You must forgive him. His suspicious nature, I fear, results from lurking behind too many bedchamber doors, avoiding jealous husbands.”

  Owen threw back his head and let out a roar. “By God, lass, ye’re a treat for an old man!”

  “I trust you mean to explain the meaning of this, wife,” Niall said through gritted teeth.

  Turning, Sabrina eyed him calmly. “If you wish. I have had an exceedingly pleasant visit with Lord Buchanan. I came to apologize for our clans’ breaking the truce, and for my grandfather’s deception. You might be surprised to know Angus was never as ill as he led us to believe.”

  “So Liam informed me.”

  “Did he also tell you that Grandfather orchestrated the entire tale of cattle thievery by the Buchanans? He duped us into retaliating for a raid that never happened.”

  Niall disciplined his expression into unreadability. “I am not concerned with what Angus might have done. I’ve come to escort you home.”

  She folded her hands serenely in her lap. “But I am not inclined to leave, my lord.”

  “Sabrina,” Niall said warningly, fury flaring through him at finding his wife in league with his enemies. He had expressly forbidden her to go near the Buchanans, and here she sat defying him to his face.

  “I intend to speak to my grandfather,” she insisted. “I anticipate his arrival any moment.”

  Niall gathered his control, willing himself to patience. “Angus is here, awaiting my word.”

  “Then he should join us. He owes the Buchanans three hundred head of cattle, and I intend to see that he pays it.”

  “That is the price demanded for your ransom?”

  “It is not a ransom precisely. Those cattle actually belong to the Buchanans. Angus would merely be returning those we took, with interest. I think it fair payment for the grief he caused.”

  “And if he chooses not to pay?”

  “Then I will remain here for some time.” When Niall simply stared, Sabrina explained. “I will consider returning home with you only under one condition, sir. When you’ve held a civilized discussion with the Buchanans to address ending the feud. Until then I intend to remain here as Lord Owen’s guest.”

  He regarded her as i
f she had suddenly sported horns. “You are interfering in matters beyond your purview.”

  “I don’t think so. Faith, it astounds me how men only think of fighting. You should leave the negotiating to women. We at least rely on reason.”

  His eyes blazed with warning, but she refused to back down. “I intend for Grandfather to accept a truce with the Buchanans. And I expect you to help persuade him.”

  “Indeed? Why the bloody hell should I?”

  “I think,” Sabrina replied with sugary sweetness, “you might find it difficult to explain why your wife chooses to remain with your blood enemy. And why you cannot fetch her home.”

  “It would be the work of a moment to carry you from here.”

  “You could take me by force, perhaps, but I shall simply return at the first opportunity—unless you are prepared to keep me under lock and key for the rest of my days.”

  Somehow she kept from flinching as Niall’s gaze warred with hers.

  After a moment, his jaw clenched. “Do you ken what you’re asking of me?”

  “I believe so.” Her expression softened. “But Owen swears he did not order the ambush of your father and brother, and I believe him.”

  “Aye, lad,” Owen said quietly. “I had naught to do with such a foul deed, and I would hae stopped it had I kenned of it. Hugh was a good mon, and a worthy foe. Despite our differences, he dinna deserve such a dishonorable end. I grieved at his death, ’tis God’s holy truth.”

  Niall stared at him for the space of several heartbeats. It was a long, long moment before he sheathed his claymore. “I seem to have little choice,” he said grimly. “I’ll fetch Angus.”

  “Niall,” Sabrina said imploringly as he turned to go, “please understand this is for the best.”

  His gaze found hers, pinning her. “What I understand, madam, is that you’ve turned on your own kinsmen.”

  Sabrina lowered her gaze to hide her pain. “No,” she said quietly, “I have not. I’ve tried to make sense out of madness. I did not ask to come here, my lord, or to become involved in this senseless feud. I did not ask to wed you. I was duped into it, just as you were. But now that it’s done, I intend to do my utmost to settle our differences so that we can live in peace.”

  It was long into the night when a truce of sorts was hammered out between the warring clans. The tentative peace, however, was only the beginning of the war between the McLaren and his lady. Their journey home to Creagturic was accomplished in smoldering silence.

  Sabrina thought she understood Niall’s fury; she had made him look the fool by joining his enemies against him, and had forced him to end the feud. But she would not allow herself to regret what she’d done. Someone had needed to intervene in the madness, and she was the only one objective enough to attempt it.

  Her defiance, Sabrina told herself resolutely, had naught to do with retaliation for Niall’s betrayal of her, yet in some secret corner of her heart, she wanted him to hurt as she was hurting.

  When they arrived home, she retired directly to their bedchamber, yet to her surprise and dismay, Niall followed her.

  They undressed in grim silence. Sabrina wished he would simply go away. His coldness made her ache. He was a stranger to her, nothing like the tender lover she’d known during the past few short weeks of wedded bliss. She fought down the urge to cry, her wounded heart aching at her loss.

  She was starting to pull on her nightdress when Niall’s low command stopped her.

  “Leave it off.”

  Sabrina froze, unwilling to obey his orders like a trained lapdog. “Why? I have no desire to share your bed.”

  “Your desires matter little to me, madam.”

  He came up behind her, placing his hands on her bare shoulders. “I told you, mouse, you’ll not defy me.”

  She stood stiffly as his hands skimmed over her skin, knowing he only intended to prove his mastery over her. It hurt to have him touch her after what he’d done. Hurt to endure his caresses when all she could think of was Niall caressing another woman, making passionate love to another woman. She wanted to fight him, to rail at him for his betrayal and pound his chest with her fists.

  Yet it was a battle of wills which she lost. The instant Niall drew her into his arms, she melted.

  During the following fortnight, their relationship grew ever more volatile. By day they argued frequently, over the most inconsequential matters. By night they tried to conquer each other with passion, their coupling ruthless and primal, their hunger fraught with anger and wounded pride.

  Sabrina had never felt such turmoil of the heart. The explosive tension was almost unbearable.

  Her clansmen felt it as well. The household servants tread lightly, while the number of visitors to Creagturic dwindled to a trickle. Niall remained in a savage mood, snapping heads off at the least offense. Few dared to confront him or even to attract his attention for fear of earning his displeasure.

  Sabrina found her own temper raw as fresh-killed meat, her usual serene disposition nowhere in evidence. The dissension with Niall had dismayingly brought out the dark side of her nature, and she did not like the woman she was becoming.

  The conflict had the additional unexpected effect among the clans of setting husband against wife—or so Mrs. Paterson told her. In cottages and crofts, the McLaren’s lady was branded a saint or an interfering witch. The women applauded her efforts to bring peace to the Highlands, but the men were less forgiving. Some even considered Sabrina a traitor. John McLaren in particular could not regard her without breaking into a scowl.

  Of all the Duncans, Geordie seemed the most tolerant, but Angus refused to hear her name spoken.

  It was a letter from Sabrina’s stepfather which finally brought matters to the boiling point—or rather a letter from Charles Cameron’s clerk. Sabrina had not heard from Charles for several weeks, and even with her troubles, had begun to grow worried, though she told herself letters were often misdirected, particularly in the wild Highlands.

  It was with relief when the missive arrived from Edinburgh, relief that swiftly turned to alarm. She recognized his clerk’s hand in the neat, even strokes, but the signature was her stepfather’s, weak and nearly illegible.

  My dearest daughter:

  I have not written of late as I have been bedridden for a time. Pray do not worry, a slight inflammation of the lungs, merely…

  He went on to say that the shipments of tartan cloth her clanswomen had delivered to market had thus earned forty-three pounds, ten shillings, and sixpence, a fortune by Highland standards. Sabrina’s gratification at such welcome news, though, was entirely overshadowed by her concern for her stepfather.

  She went directly upstairs and packed a valise, and then paced the floor of the great hall, anxiously awaiting Niall’s return home. She confronted him the moment he entered the hall.

  “My stepfather is ill. I intend to go to him in Edinburgh—at once.”

  Niall frowned. “Is such haste necessary? I cannot permit you to set out with dusk nearly upon us.”

  She stiffened. “I am not asking your permission, sir. I am going, whether or not you forbid it.”

  He shot her a sharp glance. “I have no intention of forbidding you. I only wished to understand the seriousness of his illness and to ensure that you have a safe journey.”

  Sabrina bit her lip. “I don’t know how serious it is. But he is truly ill—unlike my grandfather,” she couldn’t help adding with a trace of bitterness.

  “Very well. I shall need a moment to set my affairs in order before we can leave.”

  “No, please…there is no need for you to accompany me. You are needed here.”

  He hesitated, his eyes focusing on her face with searing intensity. “Then I’ll send an armed escort with you.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “You’ll have one, nevertheless.”

  “I wish to leave without delay,” Sabrina said anxiously.

  He nodded brusquely. “I shall find John.”r />
  “No, not John…. It would be too awkward. We are not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.”

  “Colm will do, then.”

  Niall turned on his heel and quit the hall, while Sabrina went upstairs to their bedchamber to fetch her cloak. She was arranging the hood over her hair when Niall entered.

  “Colm is prepared to ride at once, along with four of my men. He’s gone to ready the horses.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured in a low voice.

  “How long do you expect to be away?” The question was casual, but Sabrina thought she heard an edge to his tone.

  “I am not certain.” She took a deep breath and met his gaze in the cheval glass. “I have been thinking…”

  “A dangerous exercise,” Niall remarked with a trace of his former teasing charm.

  “I thought,” Sabrina repeated, refusing to let him divert her, “that I might remain in Edinburgh for a time. Perhaps it would be better if…if we lived apart.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, but couldn’t read his reaction; his features remained shuttered, enigmatic. Doggedly she plunged ahead. It would be a relief to escape the bitterness and anger that had marked their tense relationship the past weeks. They had only hurt each other, and would continue to do so if she stayed.

  “I cannot imagine that you would object if I didn’t return at once. It is not as if we have a true marriage. We were both deceived into agreeing to this ‘damnable union,’ as you termed it.”

  Niall’s jaw hardened. “Perhaps, but we are wed now, and there’s no escaping it.”

  She winced at the grimness of his tone, unsure whether to be relieved or dismayed that he had accepted the finality of their union. “Even so, we need not endure each other any longer.”

  When he remained silent, regarding her stonily, Sabrina’s chin lifted. “My leaving should prove a relief to you. You cannot claim that you want me as your wife. I am merely an encumbrance to you.”