The Lover (19 page)

His craggy face beamed as he surveyed the effect. “’Tis a wise thing yer doing, lass.”

Her stepfather arrived just then to escort her below to the waiting carriage. “Come, ’tis time for you to go.”

Her heart began pounding as a surge of belated panic struck her. In a short while she would be asked to pledge vows of loyalty and service, obliged to honor Niall McLaren till the day she died.

“Faith, lass, your skin is like ice,” Charles exclaimed.

“’Tis to be expected,” Angus chimed in. “She’s overwrought with bridal nerves.”

Overwrought indeed, Sabrina thought wryly. She felt the weight of her entire clan on her shoulders. And she had little confidence in her judgment. Was she taking the right course, or was she striking a bargain with the devil?

Angus did not accompany them to the kirk for the morning ceremony, some half league away. The wedding feast, set to begin at noon, would be held at Banesk so he could attend for a brief time. The bride and her stepfather traveled by carriage over rutted trails, where they were to meet the groom at the door of the kirk.

Niall was awaiting her, Sabrina saw as the vehicle drew to a halt. As he aided her descent, she chided the sudden drumming of her heart. It was ridiculous how anxiety and misgivings could suddenly give way to joy at merely seeing him again. Joy and
relief
. She had feared he might not bother to show up for his own wedding and leave her stranded at the church steps.

He seemed fully prepared to go through with the marriage, though. He wore full Scottish dress, his tartan kilt and short jacket accentuated by a silver-embroidered waistcoat, white silk hose, and lace cravat. A silver broach secured the McLaren plaid at his shoulder, while a black ribbon bound his ebony hair in a queue at his nape, emphasizing the rugged beauty of his face—broad forehead, finely chiseled nose, and carved cheekbones.

Sabrina had never seen such a combination of polished elegance and raw virility in a man. He was devastatingly, dangerously male, and he brought out every feminine instinct she possessed.

“You look bonny, mouse,” he murmured in greeting.

Sabrina glanced sharply up at him to divine if he were mocking her, but he wore an enigmatic look that gave little clue.

“How is your arm?”

“Well enough, thank you.”

“Does it pain you?”

“Nothing to signify.” When she felt her stepfather press her elbow, she cleared her throat to make the introductions. “My lord McLaren, this is my stepfather, Charles Cameron.”

Niall offered a polite bow. “I’ve had the pleasure. Mr. Cameron called last eve at Creagturic.”

She eyed the older man in surprise, wondering why he had made such an endeavor after so wearying a ride.

“He came,” Niall explained with a bland smile, “ostensibly to present a wedding gift…French brandy, Lyon silk, Brussels lace. But he vowed to break my head should I make you unhappy.”

Sabrina felt herself flush with warmth, both at the absurd notion of an aging merchant challenging a Highland warrior, and the comforting thought that her stepfather would champion her even against overwhelming odds.

All the leaders of the nearby clans had gathered in the kirk, it seemed when she entered on her intended’s arm. It was a major event when a Highland chieftain wed the granddaughter of another laird. She was grateful to recognize a number of familiar faces among the crowd: Geordie, Liam, the beautiful Widow Graham, Niall’s cousin Colm, the gruff John McLaren.

The ceremony was simple, and over too soon. The McLaren presented her with a nuptial ring, a simple gold band, and the Presbyterian minister pronounced them man and wife before God.

Then Niall bent to kiss her.

It was only a brief brushing of lips, but it roused fresh panic within Sabrina. Her fate was cast, her decision irrevocable. She was wed to the greatest lover in Europe, and she was totally inadequate to the task. She scarcely felt the warmth of her husband’s mouth as it touched hers in a fleeting caress, she was trembling so badly.

The moment they left the kirk, however, her anxiety was overshadowed by a deeper fear. Sabrina’s heart lurched to see a party of armed Highlanders ride up to the church steps, with the black-bearded Owen Buchanan in the lead.

Beside her, Niall went rigid, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. “What do you here, Owen?” he demanded when the horsemen came to a halt.

“I ken I was invited to the weddin’.”

Niall’s face was set like granite. “’Twas a courtesy, no more. Meant to serve notice that Clan Duncan is no longer fair game for the butchering Buchanans.”

“Butchering, ye say?” His black eyes flashed. “Two of my kinsmen lie wounded, and ye call
me
a butcher?” With a creak of saddle leather, the Buchanan shifted his fierce gaze and fixed Sabrina with a dark glare. “Nay, ’tis a bloody gomeril, I am. I should hae known better than to bargain with a mere lass and leave ma herds unguarded.”

Sabrina stared back at him. She was still furious at Owen Buchanan for deceiving her and breaking their pact before it had even begun, yet she could not understand his anger.
He
was the one to blame for the cattle raids and the resultant bloodshed.

“Such a guileless mien,” Owen sneered. “Who do ye think to deceive, lass? I suppose now ye’ll claim ye couldna control yer clan.”

Niall’s jaw clenched. “My wife’s veracity is not in dispute, but if you care to settle the issue with swords—”

“No!” Sabrina exclaimed, vexed with them both for resorting to violence. “That will be quite enough. This should be a day of peace.”

The two men eyed each other savagely. Sabrina hoped they would not start a battle on holy ground, with so many of their kin present who would undoubtedly enter the fray.

Willing herself to calm, she pressed her lips together, hoping reason could prevail. “My lord Buchanan, perhaps we may defer this discussion for a more auspicious date. You and your clansmen are welcome to join us at Banesk for the wedding celebration, if you can forswear violence for the moment and put away your swords.”

Owen gave her a scathing glance. “I’ll no’ break bread with a thieving Duncan.”

Beside her, Niall gripped the hilt of his sword and took a threatening step forward.

Still fuming, Owen turned his mount and spurred it into a canter, his kinsmen following hard on his heels.

Sabrina let out her breath in relief. All it needed was a bloodbath at the steps of the church to make her wedding day uniquely memorable.

It was a somber crowd that filed out of the kirk, despite the brilliance and ripening warmth of the sun high overhead. Niall joined Sabrina in the carriage to return to Banesk, while the other guests followed on horseback or on foot.

Her new husband said little during the short journey, but Sabrina was aware of the undercurrent of anger emanating from him.

“I cannot understand,” she ventured at last, “why the Buchanan seemed so outraged by the resumption of the feud. He seemed to blame me for the raid.”

“What does it matter? There will never be peace between our clans.”

“Why not?”

“Because the bloody Buchanans butchered my kin in the act of a coward.”

Sabrina winced. She understood why Niall held such hatred for the Buchanans; they were responsible for the deaths of his father and brother. Yet Owen reportedly had not instigated the ambush…

At present, however, was not the best time for a discussion of the feud. Niall could not view the issue rationally, and in truth, she was in no state to be objective, with her wounded arm throbbing and her nerves in tatters.

When Niall fell silent, lapsing into a dark mood, Sabrina followed suit, gazing mutely out the carriage window, bracing herself against the sway and lurch of the vehicle.

She could hear the skirl of the bagpipes long before they reached the castle grounds, but the cheers of the crowd which greeted their arrival stunned her. They were shouting
her
name.

“Did I not tell you, mouse?” Niall murmured at her bewildered look, rousing himself from his grim preoccupation. “There’s naught a Highlander admires more than bravery. You’re a credit to your Highland blood.”

The clans had gathered in the yard for the noontide wedding feast, Sabrina saw. Angus had ordered kegs of whisky and barrels of Lowland-brewed ale and French wine broken out for the guests, and it seemed the Highlanders were taking full advantage of his hospitality.

To her surprise, after Niall had aided her down, he raised their joined hands high and declared in a strong, clear voice, “I give you Lady Sabrina McLaren, Countess of Strathearn!”

A roaring cheer went up, and the guests surged forward to greet the laird’s new lady.

Niall remained at her side, gravely accepting the congratulations and good wishes of his clansmen. When someone pressed a goblet of wine into his hand, he solicitously held it to Sabrina’s lips. He gave all the appearance of a tender lover enamored of his bride.

The women of Clans Duncan and McLaren had outdone themselves with the wedding feast. Wooden planks laid over barrels formed tables, which had been piled high with hearty fare as well as delicacies: venison, mutton pasties, haggis, syllabub, and plum pudding. When Niall offered to fetch a plate for her, though, Sabrina declined. She was too unsettled to eat.

Angus joined them then, hobbling weakly on his cane and supported by his manservant. When he proposed a toast to his granddaughter, the crowd raised their cups to salute her.

Hardly crediting their generous welcome, Sabrina felt an ache in her throat at their acceptance. She had won over their stubborn affection with her actions the night of the raid—by fighting the Buchanans and foiling their deadly aim—as well as giving them the protection of a powerful laird by marrying an ally.

“Drink up, lass,” Angus urged, pressing a cup in her hand. “’Twill give you heart.”

Sabrina swallowed a mouthful of the pure malt whisky, and wheezed as it burned a path down her throat. “’Tis more likely to
pickle
my heart,” she said, gasping.

Her grandfather gave a weak chuckle, while her clansmen roared with laughter.

“Ye’ll need to do better,” Geordie chided. “Such good Scotch brew is mother’s milk to a Highlander.”

She flushed at the ensuing jocular remarks concerning her fortitude, a color which deepened when she realized her new husband was watching her with unabashed amusement.

Before she could respond, though, the lilting strains of an ancient Highland air filled the yard.

“Ah, I believe we are expected to dance,” Niall murmured, holding his hand out to her. “Will you honor me, madam wife?”

Sabrina placed a trembling hand in his and allowed him to lead her into the movements of the minuet. To her surprise, Niall gave her his complete attention, watching her solely, his blue gaze making her feel as if she were the only woman in the world. It was an act for him, Sabrina knew. A skill he had honed for his repertoire of seductions. And yet it was supremely effective—with her and others as well.

She was an object of envy among the women, she could sense it in their longing looks. She had captured Niall McLaren as husband, and half the females present would give their souls to have landed so great a prize.

All too soon the dance was over. Sabrina felt a wave of disappointment as Niall returned her to the sidelines, a sentiment which turned to dismay as Eve Graham made an appearance.

All Sabrina’s doubts and insecurities came rushing back with a vengeance. She felt her heart give a painful jolt when Niall bowed over the beautiful widow’s hand.

“You are as lovely as always, my dear.”

Eve gave a trilling laugh, as musical as crystal bells. “Not so lovely as your bride, I see.”

“Indeed,” Niall said noncommittally.

Although Sabrina had no tangible proof, she sensed an undercurrent of emotion between her husband and the widow. The two of them obviously shared an intimacy of longstanding.

“I suppose,” Eve observed lightly, “it would not be wise to insist on a dance.”

“It would not,” Niall replied with a glance at Sabrina. “I must fulfill my duty with the Dowager Lady Ross, in any case.”

Sabrina was profoundly grateful to them both for forbearing to dance together, where the entire company could witness their closeness.

“Why do you not ask Seumas McNab to partner you?” her husband asked Eve. “He is recently widowed and will fawn over you properly. It will permit you an opportunity to display your charms to best advantage.”

“Wretched, exasperating creature,” Eve said, laughing again. “You know full well Seumas is seeking a broodmare for a wife.” She turned to Sabrina. “Did I not tell you, you will have your hands full as his bride? The man is a rogue, Sabrina, not to be trusted.”

She could see the corner of Niall’s mouth curve sardonically. “My bride has had full warning on that score.”

He gave both ladies an elaborate bow that held a hint of mockery. When he had gone in search of the dowager, Sabrina forced herself to smile. She would have preferred to avoid the widow altogether, yet her being seen conversing amicably with Eve would help still the gossips’ tongues.