The Lover (13 page)

Too modest. Too slender. Her charms were nothing compared to the voluptuous females Niall McLaren favored.

Sabrina frowned at her image. How could she ever have been naive enough to think a man like that would be satisfied to wed her? He would want someone beautiful and desirable and wickedly sophisticated, like he himself was. Or a wench who was lushly endowed like that dairymaid this afternoon…

Muttering an oath, Sabrina stepped out of her shift and roughly drew on her nightdress. She was glad she would not be wedding Niall McLaren. She was certain she despised that libertine.

Shivering in the chill then, she snuffed the candle and slipped beneath the bedcovers, burying her face in the pillow. She could not allow herself to seek slumber, though.

She had some critical decisions to make.

She could not abandon her clan, certainly. During her tour of Banesk with Liam this afternoon, she’d been appalled by the wretched conditions many of her kinsmen endured. The widows and fatherless children who’d lost their menfolk to feuds and risings lived in crofter’s huts no better than hovels…damp, smoke-filled, with peat roofs that leaked at a hint of rain. She could not leave them to the mercy of the bloody Buchanans.

Niall was right on one score, though. She could not easily lead her kinsmen. It wasn’t that a woman was incapable of being clan chief; some were. But she herself was far too inexperienced. Even if her kinsmen could be persuaded to follow her, it would take years for her to gain even a tenth of the skill a warrior needed in battle. And by then the bloody Buchanans would have destroyed her clan.

She couldn’t offer to wed one of the Buchanans, either, as she’d threatened this afternoon. Her grandfather would never stand for it. Nor would Niall, she suspected, not with his fierce hatred of their clan.

But surely the barbarous Buchanans could be reasoned with.

Shifting restlessly, Sabrina rolled onto her back and stared at the darkened canopy above her bed. On the morrow she would seek an interview with the laird, Owen Buchanan, and negotiate with him if possible.

If she could contrive to ensure the safety of her clan, then she might be able to forget the arrogant, indiscriminating Niall McLaren and the hurt he had caused her with his humiliating philandering.

    Chapter    
Five

Her first task the following morning was to overcome Geordie’s objections. Even when Sabrina explained her intentions, the brawny Highlander was reluctant to escort her into the heart of Buchanan territory so that she might negotiate with their laird.

“Are ye daft, mistress? The Buchanan is our blood foe!”

“I know. But he does not have to remain so, does he? Feuds can be ended. You told me yourself you hoped there might be a truce last year, but that it fell through when the McLaren was killed.”

“Aye,” the Highlander muttered. “But Angus would have ma head if I allowed ye to go.”

“You will not wish to tell him then.”

“But I canna go against the laird’s command!”

“Geordie,” Sabrina said patiently, “I dare not seek Grandfather’s counsel first, or he would prevent me from going. And this is too important to disregard. Don’t you see, I
must
do this?”

In his frustration, Geordie’s face turned as red as his hair. “’Tis too dangerous.”

“Not if you accompany me. And it is worth the risk. The Buchanan would not harm a woman, would he? Please, Geordie,” Sabrina pleaded when she saw him hesitate. “Will you not help me?” She sighed at his stubborn refusal. “Very well, I will go on my own if I must.”

Geordie gave in. “Aweel, I dinna like this one bit,” he complained, “but ’tis better I go w’ ye.”

Sabrina understood his misgivings. Yet their clans had been warring for a hundred years, and no one had yet managed to arrange a peace with the Buchanans, perhaps because no one had truly made the effort. She was determined to try at least, to see if she could strike a bargain with their laird.

With Rab and Geordie as escorts, she rode south and west for a time, through wild, rough country that boasted verdant glens and rocky peaks. The sunshine of the previous day had vanished, and a chill gray mist swirled around them, muffling the ring of their horse’s hooves.

Geordie sat astride his mount cautiously, with his fist clutching the hilt of his claymore, his expression so grim that Sabrina found herself jumping at imagined shadows. It comforted her to remember the dirk she’d tucked inside the waistband of her skirt.

Owen Buchanan was reportedly a vicious ogre, but she’d attributed much of his brutal repute to exaggeration. Now she wondered if perhaps she hadn’t paid enough heed to the possible danger of her mission.

She had just emerged single file behind Geordie from a stand of pines when a rough voice shouted, “Hold there!”

Sabrina froze as a band of horsemen garbed in tartan plaids and trews suddenly swarmed from the forest to surround them, brandishing broadswords and claymores. Her two protectors reacted more bravely. Geordie yanked his heavy blade from its scabbard, prepared to battle her attackers to the death, while Rab bared his teeth, a fierce growl reverberating from his throat, the hair on his back standing on end.

“We come in peace!” Sabrina managed to utter past the dryness of her throat.

A swarthy, black-bearded Highlander broke from the crowd and urged his mount closer. “Peace, is it? And who might ye be, lass?”

“I am Sabrina Duncan, granddaughter of Angus, laird of Clan Duncan.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “Aye, I ken ye have the look of a Duncan about ye. I’d heard ye’d come to succor Angus’s last days.”

Sabrina studied him in turn, concluding that he was old enough to be her father. From the description Geordie had given her, she suspected she might be confronting the Buchanan himself. “I have heard much about you as well, sir. Have I the honor of addressing Owen Buchanan?”

“Ye might at that.”

She forced a smile. “And do you always greet strangers with such a threatening display of force?”

“If they be Duncans, I do.”

“Faith, and I had heard so much about the famed hospitality of the Highlands. Surely the tales could not be so wrong. I can scarcely credit such a reception, particularly since I came here with the express intent of speaking with you.” Sabrina glanced pointedly at the menacing broadsword one of his cohorts held aloft. “I assure you, sir,” she added lightly, “if you put aside your weapons, I shall not harm you.”

The laird’s eyes widened fractionally, but then he gave a rough chuckle of appreciation and waved to his clansmen to lower their blades. Keeping a wary eye on Geordie, Owen made her a gallant bow from horseback. “Forgive ma men, mistress. ’Tis devoted to me, they are.”

“I am certain it is well deserved. I’ve heard countless tales of your exploits.”

She heard Geordie make a sound deep in his throat like a snort, but ignored it. “If we might have a moment in private, sir, I have a proposal to put forth for your consideration.”

The laird’s gaze narrowed in suspicion, but he must have deemed her harmless, for he nodded. When Sabrina made to dismount, Owen swung down from his horse and assisted her, giving her hope that she was not dealing with an unreasonable man.

“Shall we walk?” she asked with a winning smile. When she turned to stroll along the path, away from the others, Owen Buchanan had little choice but to accompany her. She was grateful, though, when Rab trailed cautiously at her heels.

“Now what is this business you wish to speak to me about?” Owen demanded as if growing impatient.

“The relationship of our two clans,” Sabrina answered quietly. “The difficulties have preyed heavily on my mind.”

“Ye are but a lass. What do ye ken of clan affairs?”

“Merely what I have been told. But it seems foolish to continue fighting among ourselves. I had hoped”—she took a deep breath—“there might be a way to put an end to generations of bloodshed.”

Sabrina was not surprised when the Buchanan’s gaze narrowed in distrust. “Did Angus send ye to treat w’ me?”

“No. In truth, he has no idea I am here.”

“’Twas my understanding you were to wed the McLaren.”

“True. But I’ve come to realize that he…” She hesitated as if choosing a delicate explanation. “Niall McLaren will not make the most ideal husband.”

“Too randy for yer taste, is he?” Owen chuckled. “Aye, I can see how a proud lass wouldna favor her mon tupping the maids.”

A flush rose to her cheeks. “I would prefer not to share my marriage bed with half the female population of Scotland, yes. In any case, the sole purpose of our union was to ally our clans against the Buchanans. But if I could be assured we were in no danger of attack from your clan…if we could count you as an ally…it would spare me the necessity of marrying the McLaren.”

Owen raised a brawny hand to stroke his beard. “Whyever should I wish to befriend Clan Duncan? We’ve been foes for as long as memory serves.”

“Because it will be far more profitable for you.” Sabrina paused and turned to face the laird directly, her expression earnest. “Perhaps you have heard that I am an heiress? I would be willing to pay handsomely to ensure the safety of my clan. A feu-duty, if you will. In exchange for your word to end the war between us.”

“Ye’re offering to pay for peace?”

“Precisely. With payments to be made quarterly or yearly, as you choose.” In feudal times, it was in fact common for weaker clans to pay a protection fee to more powerful ones. In reviewing the account books of clan activities from years past, Sabrina had seen evidence of such expenses.

“Hmmm. What sum did ye have in mind, mistress?”

She frowned, as if giving the question careful consideration. Yet having learned a trick or two from her stepfather, who was as shrewd a businessman as they come, she offered much less than she was actually willing to pay. “I thought fifty head of cattle quarterly would be adequate compensation.”

She was startled when Owen suddenly reached out to grasp her elbow. The fine hairs on her nape stood up as he brought his face close to hers, his expression menacing.

“If ye’re such an heiress, mistress, it stands to reason yer kin would be willing to pay for yer freedom. I trow ye’d fetch a bonny ransom.”

Sabrina swallowed hard, realizing he was threatening to take her hostage, and reached for her dirk.

“Or mayhap I might wed you meself,” Owen mused darkly, “since ma own wife is lang gone. Or give ye to one of my sons.”

She could feel her heart pounding against her breast as his grip tightened painfully. It was not unheard of for an enterprising laird to capture a bride and forge a clan alliance by force.

“If I wished to wed,” she managed to say with a serenity she was far from feeling, “I would have offered myself as part of the bargain. But I much prefer the single state.”

“Do ye now? And what’s to stop me from taking ye prisoner and holding ye to ransom?”

“You could try, certainly…if you wished to escalate the feud between our clans. But my capture might prove difficult. I will not go with you willingly. And I am hardly without protection. My dog would come to my rescue, you see.”

She glanced down at Rab, who had bared his teeth again and was growling fiercely. “He will aim for the throat, sir, and you will be dead before your men can react.”

The laird eyed the dog narrowly.

“You might also,” she advised sweetly, “wish to consider the dirk I hold pressed against your ribs.” She increased the pressure slightly on the blade she had slipped beneath his armpit. “Even if I could not strike a mortal blow, you might find it difficult to explain how a mere lass wounded such a brave Highland warrior with such ease.”

Owen Buchanan stared at her a long moment, so intently Sabrina could see a vein throb in his temple.

Then abruptly his dark eyes lit with laughter. When he threw back his dark head to give a loud guffaw of delight, his men stared to see what had amused their laird so.

“Angus would be proud of you, lass,” Owen declared as he clapped her on the back as he would a man, a buffet which nearly sent her sprawling.

Instantly Rab lunged forward, and it was all Sabrina could do to stop him from assaulting the laird. With effort she pulled the dog away and spoke to him soothingly, then called out reassuringly to Geordie, who had uttered an oath and raised his claymore, despite the peril.

Owen was still chuckling. “Aye, ye’re kin to Angus Duncan, ’tis plain to see. Put away yer dirk, Mistress Duncan. If we’re to ally ourselves with you, it calls for a dram. Ye’re a gallant lass, to come here, but I warn ye, I’ll no’ take so wee a sum as ye proposed. A hundred head of cattle quarterly, ’tis my price, and not a hair less.”

Sabrina let out a slow breath of relief. She would have willingly paid double that price to secure her clan’s safety.

“You drive a hard bargain, my lord,” she replied meekly.

“Ye did
what
?” her grandfather exclaimed when she confessed her actions that same afternoon.

“I struck a bargain with Owen Buchanan,” Sabrina repeated placatingly.