The Lover (12 page)

Several moments passed before Niall emerged from the barn to join her, which fortuitously gave Sabrina time to compose herself. She favored him with a disdainful glance. He wore his hair carelessly tied back in a queue, and a thigh-length leather waistcoat covered his full-sleeved linen shirt and tartan trews.

The air between them trembled with raw tension as their gazes clashed. He would never know, she vowed, what it cost her to maintain a semblance of dignity.

“I regret you witnessed that incident,” Niall offered mildly.

The lacerated emotions inside Sabrina curled and twisted, yet she masked them with a wry smile. “Pray don’t play me for a fool, sir, by pretending you have any regard for my sensibilities. I imagine your only regret is that I interrupted your pleasure at an inopportune moment.”

Niall frowned. Despite appearances, he had not been engaged in a seduction or even a heated flirtation. His embrace of Betsy was all perfectly innocent—a kiss of friendship and celebration, nothing more.

He’d known the dairymaid forever. A widow some half dozen years his senior, Betsy had lost her husband to a rising against the English when Niall was a mere lad still wet behind the ears. To his delight and gratification, she’d assumed his carnal education, teaching him about passion and how to please a woman. Now she was to wed a distant cousin, a good man who would ease her burdens and support her ailing mother. Niall would always remember Betsy with particular fondness. He’d sought her out, merely to while away the time awaiting Sabrina Duncan’s return—

But he would not make excuses for his conduct.

He raised a slashing eyebrow. “What is this, mouse? A retreat into moral outrage?”

His mockery cut deep, yet she refused to let him goad her. “Morality has nothing to do with it.”

Niall surveyed her levelly. “Then pray explain your disapproval. I seem to recall your claiming to desire only a marriage of convenience. That you would not object to my diversions. This is how you display your tolerance, mistress, acting the wronged innocent at the first occasion? As memory serves, I warned you I would not be faithful to any marriage vows—and we have yet even to be formally betrothed.”

Sabrina bit her lip hard, knowing she had little right to complain. Niall had been entirely honest with her from the first. He wanted to be free to seek his pleasures outside the marriage bed—and desired a meek wife who was too spineless to interfere with his licentiousness. Well, she was not feeling particularly meek at the moment!

“Indeed you did. Yet it is not your dalliance that I object to. It is the public manner of it. In a stable…in my grandfather’s own home, no less. Your taste is execrable.”

Their gazes collided and held. Her scorn relieved Niall to a degree. He much preferred her anger to the stricken, wounded look he’d surprised from her moments ago when she’d discovered him embracing the dairymaid.

Inexplicably wanting to soothe the distress he had caused her, he adopted a conciliatory tone. “My meeting with the lass was purely by chance, Mistress Duncan. In truth, I came here to discuss with you the marriage arrangements we failed to settle yesterday. I did not seek Betsy out with any intent to insult you—”

“Spare me your explanations. It matters not to me.” Sabrina took a deep breath. Enough was enough; she would no longer play his games. It was not in Niall McLaren’s nature to be constant, but she was not prepared to suffer his infidelities for the rest of her days. If he wanted out of the betrothal, she would gladly release him.

“I have given our union a great deal of thought,” she said resolutely, “and I have come to agree with your view.”

“How so?”

“You were entirely correct when you said we would not suit.”

Niall raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Your sentiments are perfectly clear. You have no desire to wed me.” She lifted her chin with evident pride. “Well, you may rest easy, my lord. You needn’t fear I will force your hand. There will be no marriage between us.”

“No?” He looked skeptical. “Yesterday you were set on going forward with the betrothal.”

“Yesterday my wits were addled, obviously. Today I am taking myself out of consideration for the position.” She smiled mockingly. “Do not look so dismayed, my lord. There are countless other women who are better qualified to be your bride. And doubtless there are dozens who would be delighted to wed you…who are captivated by your charm, your wit, your legendary lovemaking skills…But those attributes hold little appeal for me.”

Niall frowned thoughtfully at her pretense of indifference. “Are you certain, mistress, you are not speaking out of jealousy?”

Jealousy! Sabrina’s eyes flashed. “I wish you would disabuse yourself of the notion that I am enamored of you! My only concern is for my clan.”

Niall watched the angry color flush her cheeks and was torn between remorse and admiration. He should not have taunted her so, yet Sabrina Duncan enraged was fascinating, the picture of defiant pride.

She lifted her chin regally. “I’m certain you are an excellent laird, but I would go daft if I had to endure wedlock with you—” Realizing she was nearly ranting, Sabrina forced herself to take a calming breath. “You are not what I seek in a husband. I would as lief marry a chimney sweep—or a Buchanan. Indeed, perhaps I should consider such a course. Allying myself with the Buchanans would solve the dilemma my grandfather finds himself in.”

Niall’s brows shot together. “You cannot be serious. The bloody Buchanans are murdering devils.”

Seeing his sudden scowl, Sabrina smiled coolly. “Perhaps so. But whatever path I choose, it is no longer any concern of yours.”

“In point of fact, it
is
my concern, mistress. Our clans are still allied, even if not by marriage. The future of Clan Duncan is vital to me, particularly since the issue of succession is not yet settled.”

“Ah, yes, the succession…” She wanted to curse. It always came back to that. “Faith, I should have been a man,” Sabrina muttered under her breath.

Niall studied her for a moment, the tautness easing from the set of his jaw, while a faint light of humor entered his eyes. “And what would you do if you were a man, mistress?”

“I would solve this predicament without being weighted by the chains of my gender.” She squared her shoulders as she faced him fully. “Regardless of our rift, my grandfather is depending upon me to ensure the protection of our clan. And I don’t intend to let him down, even if I have to lead Clan Duncan myself.”

“Lead your clan? Is that not overly ambitious?”

“Women are capable of assuming the reins of lairdship,” she replied stiffly.

“Some are, aye, in some circumstances. But you have no experience, and Buchanan is a crafty bastard who understands only force.”

Sabrina bit her tongue to repress a retort, knowing she was speaking recklessly, out of sheer frustration. If Liam Duncan didn’t consider himself worthy to lead their clan, she certainly wasn’t. “Even so, you need no longer worry about it.”

Niall hesitated. “I would be willing to search for another potential suitor for you.”

His condescension rankled. “I can find my own husband, thank you,” Sabrina snapped, losing her hard-won calm. “Pray believe me when I say you may consider yourself free of any obligation to me or my clan. Rab, come!”

She spun on her heel to return to the house, but the mastiff didn’t obey. He merely looked at her and whimpered, his brown eyes confused and questioning.

Feeling betrayed by her dog as well as the libertine who’d stolen his affections, Sabrina flung over her shoulder, “Very well, you may
both
go to the devil for all I care!”

Niall felt himself frowning as he watched her incensed retreat, experiencing a curious regret. Once again the mouse had suddenly transformed into a tiger—a change that was remarkably appealing to his male nature. She was proud and stubborn and spirited as any Highland lass. He had not expected to be so intrigued by her, or to feel such a primal attraction.

Nor had he expected to win so easily. Without quite meaning to, he had managed to induce Sabrina Duncan to reconsider marriage to him. She was hurt and humiliated enough to free him from the betrothal.

So why then did he feel as if he had won a hollow victory…and lost something of inestimable value in the winning?

Angus took the news badly. That evening when Sabrina told him she had called off the betrothal, the aging Laird Duncan had a spasm that threatened to finish him for good.

In a wheezing breath, he demanded a whisky, and when at last he caught his breath, launched into a lengthy recital of all the reasons Sabrina could not withdraw now, chief of which was the threat the Buchanans posed with Clan Duncan virtually leaderless. Moreover, the wedding invitations had already been issued, and it was too late to recall them.

As for Niall McLaren’s debauchery, Angus excused it as youthful excess.

“Aye, he’s a lusty rake in truth, but ’tis certain he’s sowing his wild oats before settling down.”

“He must be anticipating a bountiful crop then,” Sabrina retorted with a bitterness she could not hide.

“I’ll have a talk with the lad—”

“No!” The incident this afternoon had been humiliating enough. It would be even more so, having her grandfather plead with Niall to take her back. “He doesn’t wish to wed me, I tell you, any more than I wish to wed him.”

She would not let Angus change her mind, Sabrina vowed. By the time her grandfather had renewed his pleas, however, she was suffering fresh doubts. Had she acted too impulsively, breaking off the betrothal? She knew full well that she had responded from wounded pride. She had put personal sentiment before the welfare of her clan, forsaking them in their time of dire need. She had let them down, when she’d wanted very much to prove herself worthy of her clan name.

When at last she emerged from her grandfather’s bedchamber, Sabrina was despondent and near tears, yet her jaw remained clenched. Her emotions were too raw to think clearly just now, but she had to contrive some other way to protect Clan Duncan than marriage to the McLaren.

By the time supper was served below in the dining hall, anger and hurt had given way to a grim determination to find an answer to her dilemma. After the meal of barley bannocks and hotch-potch—a thick, delicious mutton and vegetable soup—Sabrina drew her cousin aside in order to question him.

“Geordie, what do you know of the Buchanans?”

“They’re our blood enemies,” he said simply.

“Yes…but why?”

His brow furrowed. “Why? Aweel, the feud began lang syne. The Buchanans stole a bride from Clan Duncan, but she couldna bear the mon and put a dirk in his ribs when he tried to claim her. A blow from his fist killed her before he expired. The Duncans and Buchanans have been foes ever since.”

“What can you tell me about their present laird? Owen, I believe is his name.”

“Owen is a canny de’il, for cert.”

“I understand he is a widower?”

“Aye.”

“And his sons? He has four sons, does he not?”

“Aye, all wed, but for the youngest. A lad of some five-and-twenty years.” Geordie frowned at her. “Why, what are ye thinking, mistress?”

Sabrina gave a casual shrug. She didn’t dare tell him the idea that was forming in her head. “I just wondered how it all began. Has my grandfather ever considered trying to end the feud? Has he ever discussed the issue with Owen Buchanan, perhaps?”

Geordie’s brow furrowed more deeply. “Last year…I thought there might be a truce. Owen wanted peace—but that was before the McLaren was murdered in a cowardly attack.”

“Niall’s father? Was Owen Buchanan responsible?”

“’Twas his kin that did the foul deed, but it doesna matter. Owen is laird, and as such is answerable for the acts of his clan.”

That conversation gave her a great deal to think about. Thus when Geordie proposed a game of chess, Sabrina pleaded fatigue and retired to her bedchamber.

Yet as she began the tedious process of undressing for bed, removing her stomacher and bodice and overskirt, her thoughts involuntarily shifted from the fate of her clan to Niall McLaren and her brief, fruitless betrothal to him.

What a daft gomeril she’d been! For a few fleeting moments, she’d let herself foolishly hope that Niall might come to accept her as his wife. That their political union might blossom into something deeper, a true marriage. Faith, she’d made a narrow escape. She didn’t
want
him as husband and lover—any more than he wanted her. She wasn’t willing to endure the humiliation and heartache which wedding that profligate rogue would entail.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the pier-glass that hung on one wall, Sabrina faltered. She had stripped off her petticoat and stockings and stood clad only in her shift, but she scarcely recognized the fierce-eyed lass staring back at her. At the moment she looked every inch a Highlander, prepared to do battle with anyone who threatened her or her kin.

Hesitantly she drew down the neckline of her shift. The skin of her bosom was red and ribbed where the stiffened bodice had pressed, but as she let her shift fall to the floor and studied herself critically, she had to admit that her physical attributes were not unattractive. Her breasts were pale and high, the rosy jutting nipples hard and tight. The curves of her waist and hips were modest, with a dark bush of curling hair between her slender thighs…