The Lover (39 page)

Niall stared at him for the space of several heartbeats. It was a long, long moment before he sheathed his claymore. “I seem to have little choice,” he said grimly. “I’ll fetch Angus.”

“Niall,” Sabrina said imploringly as he turned to go, “please understand this is for the best.”

His gaze found hers, pinning her. “What I understand, madam, is that you’ve turned on your own kinsmen.”

Sabrina lowered her gaze to hide her pain. “No,” she said quietly, “I have not. I’ve tried to make sense out of madness. I did not ask to come here, my lord, or to become involved in this senseless feud. I did not ask to wed you. I was duped into it, just as you were. But now that it’s done, I intend to do my utmost to settle our differences so that we can live in peace.”

It was long into the night when a truce of sorts was hammered out between the warring clans. The tentative peace, however, was only the beginning of the war between the McLaren and his lady. Their journey home to Creagturic was accomplished in smoldering silence.

Sabrina thought she understood Niall’s fury; she had made him look the fool by joining his enemies against him, and had forced him to end the feud. But she would not allow herself to regret what she’d done. Someone had needed to intervene in the madness, and she was the only one objective enough to attempt it.

Her defiance, Sabrina told herself resolutely, had naught to do with retaliation for Niall’s betrayal of her, yet in some secret corner of her heart, she wanted him to hurt as she was hurting.

When they arrived home, she retired directly to their bedchamber, yet to her surprise and dismay, Niall followed her.

They undressed in grim silence. Sabrina wished he would simply go away. His coldness made her ache. He was a stranger to her, nothing like the tender lover she’d known during the past few short weeks of wedded bliss. She fought down the urge to cry, her wounded heart aching at her loss.

She was starting to pull on her nightdress when Niall’s low command stopped her.

“Leave it off.”

Sabrina froze, unwilling to obey his orders like a trained lapdog. “Why? I have no desire to share your bed.”

“Your desires matter little to me, madam.”

He came up behind her, placing his hands on her bare shoulders. “I told you, mouse, you’ll not defy me.”

She stood stiffly as his hands skimmed over her skin, knowing he only intended to prove his mastery over her. It hurt to have him touch her after what he’d done. Hurt to endure his caresses when all she could think of was Niall caressing another woman, making passionate love to another woman. She wanted to fight him, to rail at him for his betrayal and pound his chest with her fists.

Yet it was a battle of wills which she lost. The instant Niall drew her into his arms, she melted.

During the following fortnight, their relationship grew ever more volatile. By day they argued frequently, over the most inconsequential matters. By night they tried to conquer each other with passion, their coupling ruthless and primal, their hunger fraught with anger and wounded pride.

Sabrina had never felt such turmoil of the heart. The explosive tension was almost unbearable.

Her clansmen felt it as well. The household servants tread lightly, while the number of visitors to Creagturic dwindled to a trickle. Niall remained in a savage mood, snapping heads off at the least offense. Few dared to confront him or even to attract his attention for fear of earning his displeasure.

Sabrina found her own temper raw as fresh-killed meat, her usual serene disposition nowhere in evidence. The dissension with Niall had dismayingly brought out the dark side of her nature, and she did not like the woman she was becoming.

The conflict had the additional unexpected effect among the clans of setting husband against wife—or so Mrs. Paterson told her. In cottages and crofts, the McLaren’s lady was branded a saint or an interfering witch. The women applauded her efforts to bring peace to the Highlands, but the men were less forgiving. Some even considered Sabrina a traitor. John McLaren in particular could not regard her without breaking into a scowl.

Of all the Duncans, Geordie seemed the most tolerant, but Angus refused to hear her name spoken.

It was a letter from Sabrina’s stepfather which finally brought matters to the boiling point—or rather a letter from Charles Cameron’s clerk. Sabrina had not heard from Charles for several weeks, and even with her troubles, had begun to grow worried, though she told herself letters were often misdirected, particularly in the wild Highlands.

It was with relief when the missive arrived from Edinburgh, relief that swiftly turned to alarm. She recognized his clerk’s hand in the neat, even strokes, but the signature was her stepfather’s, weak and nearly illegible.

 

My dearest daughter:

 

I have not written of late as I have been bedridden for a time. Pray do not worry, a slight inflammation of the lungs, merely…

He went on to say that the shipments of tartan cloth her clanswomen had delivered to market had thus earned forty-three pounds, ten shillings, and sixpence, a fortune by Highland standards. Sabrina’s gratification at such welcome news, though, was entirely overshadowed by her concern for her stepfather.

She went directly upstairs and packed a valise, and then paced the floor of the great hall, anxiously awaiting Niall’s return home. She confronted him the moment he entered the hall.

“My stepfather is ill. I intend to go to him in Edinburgh—at once.”

Niall frowned. “Is such haste necessary? I cannot permit you to set out with dusk nearly upon us.”

She stiffened. “I am not asking your permission, sir. I am going, whether or not you forbid it.”

He shot her a sharp glance. “I have no intention of forbidding you. I only wished to understand the seriousness of his illness and to ensure that you have a safe journey.”

Sabrina bit her lip. “I don’t know how serious it is. But he is truly ill—unlike my grandfather,” she couldn’t help adding with a trace of bitterness.

“Very well. I shall need a moment to set my affairs in order before we can leave.”

“No, please…there is no need for you to accompany me. You are needed here.”

He hesitated, his eyes focusing on her face with searing intensity. “Then I’ll send an armed escort with you.”

“I don’t need—”

“You’ll have one, nevertheless.”

“I wish to leave without delay,” Sabrina said anxiously.

He nodded brusquely. “I shall find John.”

“No, not John…. It would be too awkward. We are not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.”

“Colm will do, then.”

Niall turned on his heel and quit the hall, while Sabrina went upstairs to their bedchamber to fetch her cloak. She was arranging the hood over her hair when Niall entered.

“Colm is prepared to ride at once, along with four of my men. He’s gone to ready the horses.”

“Thank you,” she murmured in a low voice.

“How long do you expect to be away?” The question was casual, but Sabrina thought she heard an edge to his tone.

“I am not certain.” She took a deep breath and met his gaze in the cheval glass. “I have been thinking…”

“A dangerous exercise,” Niall remarked with a trace of his former teasing charm.

“I thought,” Sabrina repeated, refusing to let him divert her, “that I might remain in Edinburgh for a time. Perhaps it would be better if…if we lived apart.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, but couldn’t read his reaction; his features remained shuttered, enigmatic. Doggedly she plunged ahead. It would be a relief to escape the bitterness and anger that had marked their tense relationship the past weeks. They had only hurt each other, and would continue to do so if she stayed.

“I cannot imagine that you would object if I didn’t return at once. It is not as if we have a true marriage. We were both deceived into agreeing to this ‘damnable union,’ as you termed it.”

Niall’s jaw hardened. “Perhaps, but we are wed now, and there’s no escaping it.”

She winced at the grimness of his tone, unsure whether to be relieved or dismayed that he had accepted the finality of their union. “Even so, we need not endure each other any longer.”

When he remained silent, regarding her stonily, Sabrina’s chin lifted. “My leaving should prove a relief to you. You cannot claim that you want me as your wife. I am merely an encumbrance to you.”

“You gravely underestimate yourself, mouse.”

“Do I?” Her glance was less challenging than despairing. “Were I a woman you desired, you would not be so eager to seek feminine companionship elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

“I saw you in the orchard with the Widow Graham. Don’t think to deny it.”

He stared at her a long moment while a dull flush crept over his cheekbones. “I regret you saw that.”

Sabrina looked away, cursing her rash tongue. She had not intended to confront Niall with his transgression, yet his response wounded her anew. She had wanted—desperately hoped—for Niall to deny his liaison with Eve Graham meant anything to him, but he had not. The shimmer of guilt she’d seen in his eyes was little consolation.

“No doubt my sensibilities are too tender,” she forced herself to say dispassionately.

“I think you are making too much of what you saw.”

“Am I?” Her angry gaze fixed on him again. “How tiresome of me to want my husband to remain faithful to his marriage vows.”

His brows snapped together. “What of you and Keith Buchanan? How different is that from my dalliance with Eve?”

“I never made love to him! I never even
thought
of kissing him!”

When Niall merely glowered darkly at her, Sabrina swallowed miserably, her throat achingly tight. “I should not be dismayed. I know very well what a libertine you are.”

“Have I ever pretended otherwise?”

Sabrina flinched. “No. And I have never pretended to care. I’ve told you often enough, you are free to indulge your illicit pursuits elsewhere.”

He leaned casually against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his powerful chest, his countenance stark and unyielding once more. “I do not recall requiring your permission, mouse.”

“Indeed, you do not. I doubt you will miss me, in any case. I’m certain the Widow Graham will be glad to offer you solace in my absence.”

“I suspect she will.”

“She is welcome to you,” Sabrina retorted, ashamed at how her voice quavered. “Of course, you need not limit yourself to her. With me away, you can take the opportunity to bed every wench in sight.”

“Mayhap I will.”

She would not cry. His callousness rammed into her like a fist, but she would not let him see her pain. She would not give him the satisfaction.

Summoning every shred of dignity she possessed, Sabrina turned on shaken limbs to fully face him. “Well then, there is nothing more to be said, is there?”

Niall regarded her narrowly, knowing he was to blame for the bruised look in her eyes, for the suspiciously bright moisture that gleamed like tears. Beneath his savage anger, guilt knifed at him.

Mrs. Paterson rapped on the door just then, to say Colm was ready to escort Sabrina to the waiting horses.

Her spine rigid, Sabrina brushed past Niall without a word.

He did not accompany her below. Nor did he watch as she reached the yard and collected her dog and then mounted her horse.

Instead, he stood with his back to the wall, his jaw clenched, as she rode away, out of his life.

His foul temper did not improve with Sabrina’s absence. Colm returned to Creagturic, reporting her safe arrival in Edinburgh, but although Niall vowed to resume his life without her, he couldn’t quite manage it.

He couldn’t stop thinking of her, remembering the taste of her. He missed Sabrina, and not simply for the carnal pleasure she brought him. He missed arguing with her, missed her stubborn defiance. He missed her gentleness, her courage, her wry humor, her scathing wit.

The slightest things reminded him of her. He could find nowhere in the Highlands to hide from her memory. No refuge where he could forget.