The Lover (45 page)

Releasing her unwillingly then, Niall turned away.

Bereft, Sabrina watched as he returned to the counter, her fingers moving to her tingling mouth. How could he walk away and leave her like that, aching, empty, starving for his touch?

How could she continue to resist him when resistance hurt her more than it did him?

    Chapter    
Eighteen

It was a dance of seduction, one that neither of them seemed able to win.

After a sennight, Niall’s deliberate and highly public campaign was taking a severe toll on Sabrina’s heart. It required every ounce of fortitude she possessed to continue withstanding his calculated, sensual assault.

He was quick to take advantage of every opportunity to bedevil her. Though Niall kept his promise not to charm his way into her bed, he relied upon subtler methods to remind her of what she was missing…a tender glance, a beguiling caress, a devastating smile.

She in turn employed all the feminine weapons at her disposal, personifying a female version of
him
. She charmed Niall just as he charmed her. She laughed and flirted just as intensely, making teasing promises and leading him on an elusive chase.

It was only fitting punishment, Sabrina told herself. In the course of his licentious career, Niall had made countless women fall in love with him. Now, for the first time in his life, the legendary rogue was experiencing the same turmoil he’d engendered in all those unfortunate women: the despair of loving someone who professed not to love him in return. The pain of wondering if she would remain faithful.

And yet, Sabrina knew, they could not go on like this much longer. They were at an impasse, an impasse she desperately wanted to end.

The opportunity came at the Duke of Kintail’s ball, although in a manner she never expected.

Sabrina had not truly wished to attend the event, but her stepfather swept aside her objections. All of Edinburgh society would be there, Charles claimed, and though he did not feel well enough to accompany her, he wanted his daughter to enjoy the admiration she so richly deserved.

Niall insisted on helping her dress for the ball, against Sabrina’s will.

“Dear heart,” he murmured, his sapphire eyes full of amusement and affection, “you may as well give in with good grace. You know in the end I will have my wicked way with you.”

“That is precisely what concerns me,” she retorted wryly.

He turned the simple art of dressing into an exercise in pleasure. Sabrina refused to allow him into her bedchamber until she was bathed and perfumed and safely garbed in a lounging robe, but when her persistent husband rapped on her door for the second time, she could delay no longer.

He was already partially attired for the ball, looking impossibly handsome in a fine lawn shirt and satin breeches and silver-buckled shoes. Niall immediately lit a dozen more candles for the task ahead, and went to work supervising her transformation.

From the first Sabrina realized his goal was not simply to gown her for the ball, but to create a masterpiece. When she was settled at her dressing table, he directed the maids in the application of cosmetics, insisting on a light hand—a hint of blush at the cheekbones, a touch of kohl to darken the eyes, a deeper red for the lips, and absolutely no face paint. Her hair was permitted no powder, but piled high upon her head, with a shining sweep of curls falling elegantly over one shoulder.

It required three servants to help her don the fabulous crystal-studded ball gown which the modiste had created, and to arrange the wide, stiff panniers of the skirts. Sabrina worried that the hue of the fashionable gown was too bold and the décolletage too daring; the emerald satin contrasted vividly with the pastels worn by most ladies, while the swell of her breasts revealed by the swooping décolletage would draw every eye.

Yet the gasps of awe and admiration from the women reassured her.

“Ah, mum, ye look like a fairy princess.”

“Nay, a queen.”

Niall, however, said not a word while refusing to allow her to look in the mirror. After dismissing the maids, he added the finishing touches himself…an emerald necklace and ear bobs for which he’d sent home to the Highlands…a delicate black beauty patch which he seemed to relish placing on her right breast…and an ebony lace fan for her to carry.

He gave her a final inspection, his fingers sensuously dragging unwilling curls to feather dance on her cheeks. Then he whispered, “Perfect,” and turned her slowly to face the cheval glass.

Sabrina started in shock, wondering if the sensual creature in the mirror was truly her own image. Somehow Niall’s sorcery had transformed her into a breathtaking enchantress.

The skirt of soft rich satin—flattened in front and held out to the sides by hoops—was covered with crystal beads that shimmered in the pale candlelight like diamonds. The long, pointed bodice accentuated her narrow waist while making her breasts swell alluringly above the square neckline.

The effect was stunning, but it was Niall’s expression reflected in the mirror that made her feel beautiful beyond words.

“Niall…the gown is breathtaking.”

His smile was indulgent. “No. The lass wearing it is breathtaking…Magnificent.”

Bending, he nuzzled her naked shoulder. “I’ve told you before, a woman’s beauty is not determined by her outward appearance, but her inner fire…And you have enough fire, cherie, to keep me constantly aflame.” His husky voice was thick and slow, like honey flowing through her veins, sweeping down the walls that had protected Sabrina’s heart.

When he slipped his arms around her from behind, she drew a determined breath with every ounce of willpower she possessed. “Niall…the ball…”

He groaned softly and buried his face in her shoulder, not wanting to release her. She was the cause of his greatest joy, his greatest torment. He spent his nights craving her, tortured by his aching loins, the constriction in his chest, not sleeping. He spent his days endeavoring to prove she’d stolen his heart.

Sabrina was the only one who failed to see it, Niall reflected despairingly. All of Edinburgh was watching his pursuit of his wife in fascination and awe. From his friends he’d endured much ribald laughter regarding how hard the mighty fall, while the rest of society was desirous of meeting the remarkable woman who had managed the impossible. It was a nine-day wonder, his vanquishment on the battlefield of love.

Yet he’d faced Sabrina each day with a growing disquiet. With all the scores of women in his past, he’d never met with such overwhelming resistance.

When she tried to draw away, Niall closed his eyes in an agony of need. He wanted Sabrina. Desperately. He wanted her writhing and hungry. Wanted her crying out with love for him. Yet…he wanted her to come to him. He heaved a jagged sigh. “Ah, yes, the ball.”

He did not release her entirely, however. Instead, he turned her slowly to face him and bent his head.

He kissed her so softly, so deeply, she felt a silky fire flow between them.

“Sabrina…” he whispered against her lips, “my sweet bright flame of a woman. How you make me burn…”

He stepped back then, letting his hands fall away. Sabrina stared, shivering with desire and need.

Niall left her standing there, trembling and aroused, while he retired to another chamber to finish dressing.

She had still not fully recovered when he rejoined her moments later. He wore a full-skirted satin coat of ivory, with lace ruffles of purest white at throat and wrists. The pale hues presented a stark contrast to his dark good looks and a striking foil to the deeper colors of her own attire.

But it was the rich, ardent glow in Niall’s sapphire eyes that stole her breath away. When he looked at her like that, she could have absolutely no doubt that he cherished her as he claimed.

The Cameron carriage transported them to the ball, but Sabrina felt as if she were floating. The summer sky shimmered a deep star-dusted black as she descended before the Duke of Kintail’s magnificent mansion.

When they entered the glittering ballroom and were announced to the illustrious guests, an excited murmur rushed through the crowd. Niall was well known among the throng of courtiers, macaronis, dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies, but it was the vibrant beauty beside him who drew all eyes.

“Your reputation precedes you, my love,” Niall murmured with satisfaction.

“Mine?” She noted the swiveling, powdered heads of the onlookers and felt a rush of feminine power. She was grateful Niall had gowned her like his queen. The vast room was filled with a dazzling array of gentility resplendent in silks and brocades and jewels, but she could hold her head high among them. She was a chieftain’s bride, with the blood of Highland warriors in her veins.

“Aye, you, Sabrina. You are the talk of Edinburgh. And if I am not mistaken, here is one of your admirers now.”

The elderly Duke of Kintail himself came forward and begged to be presented to the beauty on the McLaren’s arm. “You did not tell me she was such a ravishing creature, milord.”

“I thought I would permit you to see for yourself, your grace. May I present the love of my life, my wife, Sabrina, Lady McLaren.”

The duke bowed elegantly over her hand. “Charmed, milady. So this is the lass who’s caused you to wear your heart on your sleeve. Where have you been hiding her?”

Niall appraised Sabrina, his glance caressing her in an affectionate way. “Oh, I am not the culprit, your grace. She has been hiding herself. I fear she is rather shy.”

Sabrina nearly choked at such a blatant falsehood.

“It required,” Niall continued smoothly, “a herculean effort to persuade her even to attend this evening.”

“Well,” the duke replied, beaming, “I trust we will make it worth your while, milady. Pray allow me to partner you in a dance later.”

He took his leave then, while Sabrina gazed after him quizzically.

“Do not look so startled by his attentions, sweeting,” her husband admonished. “Kintail has a discerning eye to seek out the most alluring woman present. In truth, I was of two minds whether to permit him your hand. I would far rather keep you all to myself.”

His smile was lavish and heart-familiar. Sabrina found herself staring at that blatant, sensual mouth that could make her go wild with a grin or a caress.

“You cannot,” she observed archly, “dance solely with me. What will the company think?”

“They will think me captivated by my beautiful wife, which is no less than the truth.”

She might have replied, but the duke’s departure seemed to be the signal for the crowd to converge upon her. Dozens of guests came forward to be presented to the remarkable woman who had captured the elusive Highland laird who was the bane of every feminine heart.

Niall watched in satisfaction as she was fawned over by the company, relishing the stir she’d caused with her uncommon beauty. Tonight Sabrina positively glowed. Among the ladies armored in wide, panniered skirts, wielding gaily painted fans, she stood out like an exotic hothouse flower, her unadorned tresses shining in the gleam of a thousand candles. Yet she responded to the attention as he had taught her, accepting their accolades as her due, with a lively grace that charmed and titillated.

For the next quarter hour as she was made known to the assembly, Sabrina was scarcely permitted a chance to catch her breath, but when the crowd finally parted, she felt her heart catch in her throat. Across an open space stood an extraordinarily beautiful woman with her own court of admirers. It was the English noblewoman, Sabrina realized. The colonel’s wife whom Niall had been seducing when they’d first met at her cousin Frances’s betrothal ball. Lady Chivington wore a rose velvet gown adorned with gold lace and distended by an enormous hooped petticoat, and she was giving Niall a sultry glance from a distance, her perfect, bow-shaped mouth turned down in a pout.

Sabrina’s fingers clenched around her fan, before she looked up to find Niall watching her. Their gazes locked, and she knew he too was remembering that first encounter.

“Ah, no, sweeting, that is not the way to show displeasure. Here, permit me.” Gently grasping her fingers, he snapped open the fragile sticks and made three short, brisk passes with the fan beneath her chin. “There, ’tis an art, you see.”

Vexed, Sabrina gazed up into his laughing eyes. “An art you seem to have perfected,” she returned waspishly.

He smiled. “I am gratified that you’re jealous. It gives me hope that you care more deeply for me than you’re willing to admit.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You think me jealous?”

“Aye. Come now, love, confess. You are as smitten by me as I am by you.”

“’Tis a wonder anyone else can fit in this vast ballroom alongside you, my lord, considering the inflated proportions of your self-esteem.”

He laughed, amusement spilling out of his eyes. “Sabrina, sweet Sabrina, how I ache with wanting you.”

Just then the musicians struck up the stately strains of a minuet.

“May I have the honor?” Niall murmured.

Allowing her no opportunity to protest, he took her arm and led her in the genteel steps of a minuet. As he did all else, Niall executed the intricate turns of the dance with flawless grace. Sabrina felt dazed by his nearness, and by the way he was gazing at her. His attention was fixed solely on her, his eyes caressing, as if she were the only woman in the world. When the set concluded, he gave her up with obvious reluctance.