The Lover (32 page)

He taught her the meaning of pleasure. He seemed to worship her body, arousing in her a tremulous passion, a ravenous desire as savage as the wild Highland hills. Under his tutelage, she discovered a hedonistic, uninhibited side of herself she never expected existed.

He made her blossom as a woman. Her fragile self-esteem grew as he continually challenged her modest view of her attractions. She was beginning to believe that she was beautiful in his eyes, that he wanted and desired only her. She could almost hope that their marriage might flourish.

And yet…even as she succumbed to his tantalizing touch, she was haunted by the apprehension and uncertainty any woman would feel in the arms of a man she knew would ultimately hurt her.

In truth, Sabrina warned herself sternly and frequently, she had to remember that all this—their marriage, her seduction, Niall’s instruction in the sensual art of desire—was merely a game to him. His heart was not engaged, nor would it likely ever be. Their bond was purely physical, and even that might cease to exist the moment his interest was captured by another woman more beautiful and experienced than she.

At least her grandfather seemed pleased by the reports of her marital felicity. When Sabrina paid one of her regular visits to Angus at Banesk, he crowed mercilessly.

“What did I tell ye, lass?” he cackled. “Dinna I say the lad would settle down and make ye a fine husband?”

Sabrina refrained from responding too tartly. The aging chieftain had not left his sickbed, although his health seemed measurably improved.

“’Tis early yet, Grandfather,” she murmured wryly. “We’ve been wed but a few weeks.”

“Aye.” His rheumy gaze turned sober. “But ye did well by yer clan, Sabrina. We’ve had no more trouble with the Buchanans. For that ye have m’ gratitude.”

Her stepfather, too, seemed relieved that her marriage was proceeding smoothly. She had corresponded frequently with Charles Cameron, primarily to arrange a shipment of woolen cloth from the women of Clans McLaren and Duncan. His return letters had praised the quality of the Highland fabric and renewed his offer of refuge should Sabrina require it. She had written back, assuring him that she was quite content with her lot.

She was indeed surprised to realize she was not so very homesick. She missed Papa Charles deeply, but not her dull existence in Edinburgh. Her moments were rarely dull here in the Highlands. Her duties kept her fully occupied.

As spring ripened and June kissed the land with warmth, the Highlands bloomed in all their magnificence; the hills dusted lavender with wild bell-heather, the glens with shimmering greenness.

The untamed beauty beguiled Sabrina, though no more than did her charming rogue of a husband. She felt enraptured by his seductive spell.

She couldn’t ask for a more devoted lover or bridegroom, yet she was continually discovering depths to Niall that she never expected. Beneath the elegant charm and wicked wit, Sabrina found, he possessed a sober side to his nature that she could respect and admire.

One afternoon, after she had dryly wondered aloud if he enjoyed other sports than frivolous carnal pursuits, he took her trout fishing. He chose a stunningly beautiful place, where the burn rushed through a wild glen, emerald with rowan trees and mountain ferns and bracken.

Niall spread his plaid in a patch of sunlight, and they shared a luncheon of bread and cheese, boiled eggs, and a jug of hard cider, while Rab bounded along the banks ecstatically, intent on scaring any fish away.

“My father often brought me here as a lad,” Niall murmured after a time.

Sabrina heard the note of sorrow in his voice. “You miss him deeply, don’t you?”

His look grew wistful. “Aye. There was no finer man…nor laird.”

“You seem to be filling his shoes admirably.”

Niall smiled humorlessly and shook his head. “Not so very well. I might do better had I been properly prepared for the chieftainship. But there was no reason. I never thought to become laird. A younger son cannot inherit and must shift for himself. Instead of remaining home, I struck out for the continent to seek my fortune, making use of what gifts I had.”

“Gifts?”

“Aye”—a tinge of self-mockery invaded his tone—“my charming address and braw countenance. Such attributes gained me entry into the wealthiest circles, where I kept myself in funds, winning games of chance from moneyed nobles.”

She watched Niall restlessly lie back on the plaid, one arm draped across his forehead. He was wrong to think himself unworthy to lead his clan. Even though he hadn’t expected the responsibility of leadership, he cared deeply about his kinsmen and was deadly serious about protecting and caring for them. She knew he would make any sacrifice to ensure their prosperity.

“My brother Jamie should have been laird,” he said softly, gazing up at the sky. “Jamie should be here now, in my place. But he died with my father at the hands of the bloody Buchanans.” His eyes squeezed closed. “I was spared their death because I was away attending a
ball
.”

Sabrina felt a sudden ache in her throat, comprehending the guilt Niall felt because he had survived when his father and brother had not.

“It would have served no one,” she murmured, wanting to offer comfort, “had you perished with them.”

“Aye, but I might have saved them. Or died in their place.”

Sabrina looked away. Perhaps she was being selfish, but she was glad Niall had not perished. She could not imagine the world without this vital, beautiful man in it.

“The culprits were punished, were they not?”

His jaw clenched. “Aye, the murdering bastards paid for their treachery. I saw to that.”

“Geordie told me once…that Owen Buchanan was not directly responsible for the ambush.”

“Mayhap he didn’t give the order, but they were his clansmen all the same. A laird is accountable for the actions of his kin.”

Turning, Sabrina gazed down at Niall. Sorrow and tenderness pulled at her. “You still seek revenge against him, don’t you.”

“If so, what of it?” The question was venom-sharp, the tone bitter.

Sabrina winced. She had just been trying to understand Niall’s savage intolerance. “Geordie said that at one time…before the tragedy…Owen desired an end to the feud, that he sought a truce.”

Niall made a scoffing sound. “Geordie Duncan talks too much. And the Buchanans are liars as well as cowardly curs. A truce? ’Tis folly to expect them to bargain in good faith. Owen betrayed you when you attempted it. I should think you would have learned your lesson.”

Sabrina had no answer for that. “I know…It just seems—”

“No, lass, leave it! I’ll not have you championing my blood enemy.”

When Niall rose abruptly to his feet, Sabrina lapsed into an uneasy silence. Time stretched between them, echoing the tension and resentment of their earliest relationship.

Niall felt the strain as well. Fetching his rod, he strode to the bank to fish, vexed at her and at himself. He had said too much to her, divulged more of himself than was wise…going on about his father and brother so…letting Sabrina prod him into arguing about the feud. He did not have to justify his hatred of Owen Buchanan, to her or anyone else.

Faith, but his mouse of a bride had a way of slipping beneath his guard—

Except that Sabrina was no longer so much of a mouse, Niall reflected grudgingly as he baited his hook. As his pupil, she was progressing admirably, frequently showing glimpses of the sensual, alluring woman he’d thought her capable of becoming. In his bed she was as wild and passionate as any man could wish. And he felt his heart softening with warmth at the oddest moments…

Tightening his jaw, Niall cast out his line.

In truth, their marriage hadn’t proven the hardship he’d envisioned. To his surprise, he was actually developing a fondness for his wife. He
liked
Sabrina. He liked her intelligence and her courage. He liked her refreshing frankness and the wry laughter lurking in her dark eyes. He found even her tartness refreshing as she endeavored to match wits with him.

And she was fitting into his clan far better than he’d hoped. His kinswomen in particular regarded her as a benefactor, lauding her efforts to augment their meager incomes by selling cloth at the Edinburgh markets.

But Sabrina was stubbornly determined to meddle in affairs that were not her ken. He could not reproach her earnestness, but she was naive to think she could change the conflicts of a lifetime.

And on this issue in particular, he would not brook her interference.

The incident left Sabrina feeling vaguely discontented. Although Niall continued to play the charming lover in the ensuing days, he was never again as forthcoming as he’d been those few sunlit moments by the burn.

She was dismayed, however, when their tenuous affinity was threatened in a manner she never expected: by the promise of peace with the Buchanans.

It began some five weeks after the Beltane festival, when Eve Graham held a musical evening for the surrounding gentry. That night the McLaren and his bride engaged in their first significant argument, one which developed into a battle royal.

Sabrina grudgingly admitted she was partly to blame. Perhaps she should never have become caught up in the puzzling intrigue that presented itself that night.

She had donned one of her new garments for the occasion—a striking sack-back gown of rose silk with an ivory under-petticoat supported by small hoops.

She was finishing her toilet in front of the cheval glass when Niall returned to their bedchamber, carrying a small casket, and dismissed the maidservants who had helped her.

“Beautiful,” he murmured as he came up behind her.

She did look pleasing, Sabrina thought, viewing herself in the glass. Her unpowdered hair was dressed in a softer, more natural style, with curling tendrils that formed a halo around her face. She had eschewed paint, merely allowing a touch of rouge at cheekbones and lips to enhance her complexion, as Niall had shown her how to apply. The exquisite gown was flattering to her slender figure, the boned bodice pushed against her breasts, accentuating the ripe swell of her bosom above the square neck.

Shyly, Sabrina met his gaze in the glass. “You…truly think I am beautiful?”

“Aye…beautiful and vibrant…Magnificent in every way.”

Niall watched her eyes brighten with a flash of pleasure, and felt a sense of deep satisfaction. He had been right about the rose color for her; it brought out the richness of her hair and eyes, the luminous warmth of her skin. But it was Sabrina herself he needed to convince. He was determined to make her see what a marvelous woman she could be, to believe in her own feminine power.

“Look at yourself…” he ordered softly. One hand lifted to her bare, silken shoulder. “How could any flesh-and-blood man resist? Look at this lustrous hair…so dark and rich and shot with the red and gold of a Highland sunrise. These remarkable eyes that can flash with fury or passion. This delicate face, with the fine cheekbones and full, kissable mouth…This long, slender throat. This skin, so soft and glowing…You bring me to my knees, cherie. As you will every other gentleman present tonight.”

Sabrina felt herself flushing. Niall’s praise warmed her immeasurably. She had tried hard to please him during the past weeks, striving to become the sensual woman he wanted her to be. In truth, she felt like a different person entirely from the staid spinster who had traveled here to the Highlands to pay a visit to her dying grandfather. Tonight, however, she was overwrought with nerves. This would be the first true test of her new identity, attending a function with guests other than their clansmen.

“Faith, you’re tempting, mouse,” Niall breathed in a husky intimate tone, his thumb caressing the bare curve of her throat.

He was tempting, as well. Having chosen more formal attire than a Highland kilt, he wore a long flaring coat and matching waistcoat of pale blue brocade, with white satin breeches and silver-buckled shoes, and a froth of lace at throat and wrists. The effect was bold, rugged, elegant. His sun-bronzed complexion and unpowdered raven hair, drawn back by a ribbon, would make the other painted, bewigged lords and gentlemen appear ghostly and effeminate.

Sabrina was gazing at him in admiration when Niall casually presented her with the jewel casket. Opening it, he drew out a pendant encrusted with delicate rubies.

Sabrina gasped at the costly gems as he fastened it around her throat.

“Perfect,” Niall observed appreciatively.

Her fingers rose to touch the pendant. “Niall…I wish to thank you.”

“There is no need, sweeting. The jewels belong to the McLaren’s lady. As my wife you are entitled to wear them.”

“Not just for the jewels, although they are splendid. I mean…for your excellent tutoring these past weeks.”

He smiled briefly and pressed a light kiss in the curve of her neck. “’Twas entirely my pleasure. You have succeeded beyond my wildest expectations.”

His touch was casual, but all Sabrina could think of was Niall’s soft, demanding mouth, his hard fingers, arousing her to heights of passion she’d never dreamed of.

It came as a disappointment when he merely offered his hand to escort her below to the waiting carriage.