The Lover (11 page)

Seeing her reaction, Niall at last remembered his original intent. With a dark flicker of a smile, he pressed closer, grinding himself into her slowly, sensuously, until every fiber in her body screamed with life, until heat leapt between them, scorching and primal.

Her breath abated, then, as he caught her hand and deliberately drew it beneath his plaid, against his bare flesh.

“Touch me,” he ordered huskily, forcing her palm against the rigid blade of his aroused manhood, making her feel his naked maleness.

She was startled by the enormous pulsing size of him, solid and hot and so very large.

“
Now
are you afraid, mistress?” he whispered. “Does it frighten you, the thought of having my flesh deep inside you?”

The bald question jolted her out of her daze. He was deliberately trying to shock her, she knew.

Sabrina shook her head, trying to clear it as she stared up at him. Curse the rogue and his sophisticated sexual games! And curse herself for letting him maneuver her like a spineless puppet. She was no better than all the other foolish lasses who swooned over him.

Faith, but she had to do better than this.

“I did not come here, sir,” she whispered finally as she struggled to pull her fingers from his grasp, “for a lesson in male anatomy.”

While he stared down at her, Sabrina reached for the table, fumbling for her goblet. With the other, she pulled the plaid a scant few inches away from his body.

Taking a deep breath, she dumped the entire contents of the wine cup against his skin, drenching his bare loins.

Her unexpected act dredged a sharp gasp of pain from Niall, followed by a vivid oath. “By the bloody
de’il
!”

Yet it did have the desired effect of making him release her.

Abruptly.

Stunned disbelief warred with fury in his expression as his hands curled into fists.

Warily, Sabrina took several defensive steps backward. “Perhaps that will cool your ardor, my lord,” she murmured dryly. “I am through performing for you like a dancing bear at a fair. You must judge for yourself if my response to your kiss was adequate. On that evidence alone you must make up your mind regarding our marriage. Now, I believe this interview is concluded.”

Setting the goblet down on the table with a thud, she gathered her skirts, then swept across the room and out the door, as regal as any queen, leaving Niall to stare after her, thunderstruck.

If not for the pain of having his arousal so abruptly chilled and his bruised ribs wrenched, he would have laughed. Mistress Duncan had won that round, he would give her that.

He shook his head in amazement as wine trickled down his bare legs to soak the floor.

He had only intended to kiss her; never more than that. He’d attempted to frighten her away with a display of passion, yet it hadn’t worked in the least. She hadn’t taken fright. Instead, she had tested his self-control severely. He was still heavily aroused, still felt her sweet fire. Even now, the stirring image of her dark eyes, warm and liquid with wanting, made him burn with need.

Niall cursed again as he unwound his plaid and began to dry his loins of the sticky-sweet wine, yet an unwilling grin tugged at his mouth as he recalled her bold stunt.

He was dealing with a woman of intelligence, of no little mettle. Sabrina Duncan wouldn’t cry craven at the first show of adversity. Thus far she had held her own in every encounter, parrying his thrusts with a cool wit and a rapier-sharp tongue. She was unique in his experience, and remarkably invigorating.

He prized cleverness in a lass. And in truth, she greatly underestimated her own appeal, believing she had no claim to beauty. Her comeliness was not readily apparent at first glance, Niall reflected, remembering the elusive sweetness of her skin. There was a quiet, fine-boned quality to her features, which the drab-colored garments she wore did nothing to compliment. And somewhere obscured beneath the high-necked bodice and confining stays, there was a sweet-breasted figure he longed to explore.

She was fresh and lovely, all wanton innocence—and far more of a temptation than he wished. He’d been startled to discover the spark of passion hidden beneath that mousy exterior.

Perhaps in his resentment at being forced into marriage, he had indeed misjudged her. She had a spirit he could admire, Niall conceded, recalling the defiant tilt of her chin. For a moment the mouse had transformed into a tiger, a change that was incredibly appealing. And the fire in her dark, lustrous eyes when she was angered…Some man would find it irresistible. He did himself. She tugged at something in him that he preferred not to acknowledge.

To a man of his jaded appetites, Sabrina Duncan was a novelty—a lass who could resist his advances. Amazingly enough, he was beginning to tire of the female sex. Beautiful women were his vocation, yet their attractions, even the hot, potent body of his lush former mistress, Eve Graham, had begun to pale. For months now he’d been experiencing a vague feeling of discontent, of restlessness, with his relationships. He eased his carnal needs in soft lips and smothered lie-words of love—fleeting words spoken for the pleasure of the moment and forgotten just as easily—and wished for something more. All women were beginning to feel unsatisfyingly identical beneath him.

Except Sabrina Duncan.

Still…it did not follow that he wished to wed her. He would much prefer to find some other means of protecting her clan and satisfying Angus Duncan’s need for a leader, without having a bride forced upon him. Yet it was too much to hope that Mistress Duncan would voluntarily withdraw from the proposed alliance.

Wincing at the soreness in his ribs, Niall strode across the room to the window and glanced through the leaded panes to the yard where she stood. Her giant hound fawned at her feet, while Geordie Duncan prepared to help her mount her horse.

Aye, she had won this time, Niall mused. But this was merely the opening volley. If he had to wed her, it would be on his own terms. He would not be ruled by his bride.

Yet this, he had to confess, was one battle he would enjoy. Strangely, Niall found himself anticipating the challenge with relish.

A cool smile touched his lips. “We shall see who wins the next skirmish, lovely witch.”

    Chapter    
Four

Sabrina returned home from her disastrous interview with the McLaren, feeling rash and resentful. However, she said little about the encounter to her grandfather when she visited his sickbed that evening. She couldn’t dash Angus’s hopes for a union between their two clans, especially when she herself was uncertain just what had happened.

Niall McLaren hadn’t refused to wed her exactly, but neither was he overly eager to have her as his bride. Or lover, for that matter. She much doubted she could satisfy his requirements for physical compatibility. He was a master at passion, while she was an utter novice.

Sabrina winced, recalling Niall’s fierce countenance after she’d cooled his sensual assault with a strategically targeted drenching. He would not forgive her easily for that offense. And it was, most assuredly, no way to inspire his desire.

Her impetuous action had been instinctive, spurred on by his infuriating air of supremacy and her own sense of powerlessness. Yet maddeningly, his arrogant assumption that she would fall swooning at his feet had been no mere boast. Her defenses had shattered the moment his lips touched hers.

It dismayed her profoundly to recognize her weakness for the brazen rogue. She’d thought she was strong enough to resist him, but she wasn’t proof against his devastating appeal. His boldness, his sensuality, his compelling vitality, were all more than someone of her limited experience could handle.

To make matters worse, Sabrina received a long letter from her stepfather, questioning the suddenness of her betrothal. He had received an invitation to the wedding, and was more concerned for her happiness than the fate of her kinsmen.

In truth, Sabrina wondered if she ought not call off the match. Torn between wounded pride and a desire to help her clan, she was no longer certain she could summon the fortitude to carry out her grandfather’s wishes.

She had thought Niall could be no worse a husband than her other suitors, but at least
they
wanted to wed her, for her dowry if nothing else. And as the McLaren’s bride, she would have to endure the indignity of knowing he might be bedding any wench in the country.

To her dismay, she had dreamed of him that first night—of Niall kissing her, his warm lips touching, teasing, tasting hers, driving her slightly mad with yearning—and awoke feeling hot and vexed and restless. Now she resigned herself to a long wait before hearing from him again, believing it might be several days, so it came as an unpleasant surprise when she saw him that very afternoon.

When she rode into the yard after touring the estate with Liam, a stable lad mentioned that the McLaren had arrived at Banesk and had asked for her. Upon learning that he was last seen disappearing into the barn, Sabrina made her way there, with Rab trotting at her heels. The stone outbuildings of the estate clustered behind the manor house in haphazard fashion. In the distance beyond lay a verdant meadow dotted by gorse and broom, where shaggy cattle grazed.

As she entered the low-roofed barn, Rab pricked his ears forward, but it was a moment before Sabrina caught the slight rustling noise that had attracted the dog’s notice.

At first glance the barn appeared to be empty, but as she moved deeper into the dimly lit interior, she heard the sound of feminine laughter, followed by an unmistakable masculine murmur. Instantly recognizing the enchanting timbre of that voice, Sabrina came to an abrupt halt.

At the far end of the aisle, Niall lay sprawled elegantly on his back in the straw, his hands behind his head, while a voluptuous, ginger-haired woman lay laughing beside him.

Sabrina froze as she realized she had come upon her betrothed engaged in another liaison—this time with a dairymaid in her grandfather’s employ.

“Indeed, I shall miss you, sweeting,” Niall asserted seriously.

The woman laughed again. “Fah, do ye take me for a gomeril? You havena looked at me in years.”

“And yet I carry your memory close to my heart, Betsy-love.”

She struck his shoulder a playful blow. “Begone with ye, now, ye silver-tongued de’il. I must get back to work.”

He pressed a hand to his chest as he turned his head to gaze at her. “How you wound me, to dismiss me so heartlessly. And to desert me for such a man…”

“Hah! Did ye think I would pine after ye? Ye’re no’ the only fish in the sea, ma fine fellow.”

His soft laughter was a husky caress. “I am happy for you, in truth, sweeting. Think you Dughall would object if I were to kiss the bride?”

“I ken he would…but I wouldna.”

Niall tossed away the straw he’d been chewing on and rolled toward her. Slipping one arm around her shoulder, he brushed back a flaming curl from her flushed face and gazed deeply into her eyes.

“For old lang syne,” he murmured before bending his head tenderly.

Sabrina felt her heart wrench. She wanted to leave quietly, but just then Rab whined in confusion, calling attention to her presence.

Abruptly Niall lifted his head and looked directly at her.

Seeing his jaw clench, Sabrina took a stumbling step backward. It should not have surprised her so to discover him kissing yet another of his paramours. She’d known from the first he was a rake of the first order. But unreasonably she felt betrayed. For him to conduct his amorous flirtations under her very nose, in her grandfather’s own home, where anyone could stumble across him, including herself, where her kinsmen could witness her humiliation—

Hurt coursed through Sabrina, yet anger kept her voice from trembling as she remarked coolly, “I understood you desired to speak to me, my lord.”

Betsy jumped and abruptly scrambled away from the laird, staring in dismay at Sabrina.

“I shall await you outside, sir,” Sabrina added with a supreme effort at calm. “Perhaps you might deign to join me when you are quite finished.”

Rigidly she forced herself to turn and walk away. Her ire sustained her as she crossed the cobblestone yard, yet she was trembling when she came to a halt by a towering rowan tree.

She was scarcely aware that Rab had followed, even when he pressed his cold nose into her palm, offering silent comfort. A sheen of tears blurred her vision as she stared blindly at the emerald countryside spread before her.

Niall’s dalliance this time wounded her more than she would have thought possible. She hadn’t expected this heaviness in her chest, this hurt that seemed suspiciously like heartache. Faith, she shouldn’t be so distressed by his public display of indifference. She’d been rejected before and survived, by a man who had won her heart with his honor and gentleness. Niall McLaren had little honor where women were concerned, and she most
certainly
did not love him.

Sabrina clenched her jaw, telling herself she would not cry. She would not dwell on the fiercely tender look on the McLaren’s face when he’d kissed that…that dairy wench, or the intimacy they’d shared. She refused to yearn after a man who cared so little for her.