“I…don’t understand,” she said finally.
“What dinna ye understand? Yer kin need ye, Sabrina.”
“No…you’ve made that clear. But Niall McLaren…he cannot possibly have agreed to the marriage.”
“Aye, that he has.”
Still stunned, she raised a hand to her temple. “But why? Why would he wish to wed me?”
“Ye’re an heiress, are ye not?”
Of course, Sabrina thought with a twinge of bitterness. Her dowry was her chief attraction for any suitor.
But that did not explain why Niall McLaren would choose her over any other genteel woman of fortune. With his title and his devastating appeal and his legendary powers of seduction, he could doubtless have any bride he wished. He had not even seemed pleased to see her this afternoon—
A flush of embarrassment besieged Sabrina as she remembered her brief encounter with Niall McLaren several hours ago at the tavern. He must have known about her grandfather’s plan all along. Was that why he’d scrutinized her with such smoldering—almost hostile—intensity? And why he had tried to warn her away from the Highlands?
Because he was not eager for the marriage?
“There must be any number of heiresses he could choose from,” she protested.
“None that would suit so well. Our lands march together, and we share the same enemies. He’s laird of a powerful Scots clan, willing to fight our foes to the death.”
Sabrina glanced around the darkened bedchamber, lit by a single candle. She vaguely remembered Angus’s medieval manor house from her childhood. This room clearly belonged to a fighting man. More weapons than tapestries graced the stone walls, and the chamber boasted few comforts other than the massive four-poster bed and a huge hearth. It should have struck her as cold and gloomy, yet inexplicably she found it intriguing. This had been the Duncan Clan’s family seat for over a hundred years.
“Still,” she murmured, “that doesn’t seem reason enough for the McLaren to agree.”
“I tell you lass, he’s willing. ’Tis not so far-fetched that he should look favorably on the union. The marriage will bind our two clans together.”
Perhaps it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Niall McLaren should be willing to wed her, Sabrina conceded. Political marriages between clan allies were entirely common, after all—indeed, the rule rather than the exception.
“Can ye not see how vital it is that ye wed him?” Angus demanded, the question an urgent plea. “When I’m gone, the bloody Buchanans will ravage Clan Duncan if the laird is no’ strong enough to prevent it.”
Sabrina nodded unwillingly. She understood very well what her grandfather wanted of her. He wanted her to marry a laird powerful enough to protect her clansmen from their enemies.
But his choice of husband for her…The very notion of wedding Niall McLaren dismayed her. A rogue and a libertine. He would as soon break her heart as look at her.
No, the thought was preposterous. They were supremely ill-suited for marriage. In truth, they had rubbed each other wrong from the first.
“Is there no one else who can act as your successor?” she asked unhappily.
“Liam would be next in line. He’s a good mon, but no’ so good as the McLaren. Liam himself kens it.”
“But…surely there must be someone else who can take over—”
“Nay, there’s no one. Do ye no’ ken I would hae acted were there another choice?”
“But Grandfather—”
Suddenly a violent cough shook Angus’s wiry frame, and he spent a long moment wheezing into his fist.
Alarmed, Sabrina took a step closer, reaching out a hand to help him.
Impatiently he waved her away and lay back panting. “Is there nothing I can do to comfort you, Grandfather?”
“Aye…ye can ease my mind by agreeing to wed the McLaren.”
He must have seen her misgivings in her expression, for he took another rasping breath and continued with relentless fervor. “Niall McLaren is a valiant leader of men, a warrior born and bred, like his da. He’s strong enough to hold this clan together and lead it against the bloody Buchanans. He kens how to fight. And he has good cause to hate the Buchanans. His da perished at their hand, cursing their name. Just as yer own da did.”
Sabrina gazed down at her grandfather, understanding his immense hatred for the Clan Buchanan. Angus held them to blame for the death of his only child. Sabrina’s father had been thrown from his horse while pursuing the Buchanans after they’d raided Duncan cattle, and Angus considered them mortal enemies.
Indeed, the feud between their clans had existed for over a hundred years.
There was no government to speak of in the Highlands, other than the relic of a medieval feudal system. The lairds ruled their clans loosely, at the volition of their followers. Highlanders looked to their chiefs for protection, even for food, but they would only support a leader they respected—which ordinarily meant a man. The mantle of clan leadership passed through sons and brothers and rarely came to rest with women.
When Angus was gone, Sabrina knew, she would nominally be head of her clan, but she was in no position to lead them against the Buchanans. She had neither the skills nor the experience.
And the threat to a clan’s survival came not only from enemies without. Unless Angus chose a strong successor, his death could cause conflict within their clan, prompting a bloody battle over who next would be laird.
Sabrina shook her head in dismay. A union with Clan McLaren alone wouldn’t bring peace to the warring clans, yet by wedding their chieftain, she could at least provide the means to protect her kinsmen once Angus passed away.
She rubbed her throbbing temple. “I should have been born male,” she murmured absently.
“Aye, that would have served. ’Twould have been far better had yer own da not died so young. Ye’ve the look of my dear son about ye, Sabrina.” Angus searched her face, his rheumy eyes blurring. “I ken ye’ll do what’s right.”
Sabrina felt her throat tighten with emotion. His methods of persuasion were unfair—using the memory of her late father against her, as well as his own deteriorating condition and her strong sense of duty. It wasn’t fair, either, of Angus to ask so much of her. He had washed his hands of her all this time, yet now he expected her to become the Clan Duncan’s savior.
She could refuse his plea. Her inheritance gave her independence enough to chart her own future. Her stepfather was the only person whose blessing she needed.
Yet fair or not, Angus was depending on her. It left her feeling trapped, cornered, helpless to deal with an impossible dilemma.
“Is it so great a sacrifice I’m asking ye to make?” he said as if he could read her thoughts. “There’s gain in it for ye, as well.”
“Is there?” she couldn’t help retorting.
“Aye, ’tis true. Ye belong in the Highlands, lass, as I told yer mother before she took you away. As I told ye yerself lang syne.”
Sabrina shut her eyes for an instant, remembering Angus’s letter to her years ago, when her mother lay dying. He had implored her to return home, but only now did she regret being unable to. Not until this day, when she’d spied the rugged grandeur of her homeland, had she realized how truly she belonged here. The Highlands were in her blood; she couldn’t escape it.
But was wedding the McLaren the only option?
“Surely there is another clan we can ally ourselves with. Another laird who would not be averse to an arranged marriage.”
“Nay,” Angus replied abruptly, putting that line of argument to rest. “None within two days’ ride. None who are in need of a bride. None I would trust to deal fittingly with the Buchanans. And none who have such strong ties of kinship to the Duncans.”
His penetrating gaze searched her face. “Ye canna be afraid, can ye, Sabrina? Ye have pluck, lass. Even as a wee bairn ye dinna fear me.”
No, as a child she had not been frightened by his gruffness or overly awed by his power.
In truth, she’d felt an affinity for the crusty laird that she felt even now. But being unafraid was not the same as being willing.
“Then there’s family,” Angus added. “A lass should have a husband…bairns of her own.”
That was indeed a prime benefit of marriage. She wanted children. She wanted a husband…a loving relationship like her parents had known. A permanent commitment that only death could sever.
Yet she had few illusions on that score. She was unlikely ever to marry for love. She’d had several suitors in recent months, but she was realistic enough to know they sought her primarily for her inheritance. As an heiress she would always be the target of fortune hunters. Oliver had been different, she was certain—but then he’d fallen in love with her cousin.
“And the lad is no’ so poor to look at.”
Sabrina wanted to laugh at that understatement. Niall McLaren was endowed with a physical beauty that startled at first glance. Utterly masculine, dangerously sensual—and quite out of her league.
She was well aware of her own merits. Her breeding and education alone made her a worthy candidate for a laird’s wife. But in truth her personal attributes were modest. She was practical, dutiful, resourceful…Desirable in no way described her. Niall himself had called her a mouse.
Sabrina wrinkled her nose in remembrance. Yet she’d always known gentlemen favored beautiful women, with softer, rounder shapes than she possessed. Oliver had, certainly. Her dark hair—and perhaps her darker eyes—were her only claims to beauty.
Niall McLaren’s discriminating instinct for ravishing females was legendary. She felt decidedly drab and plain in comparison to all the lovely women he’d surely known.
“Is there another mon ye wish to wed, then?” her grandfather demanded.
“No…” Her choices of husband at the moment were slim. “There is no one else.”
“Aweel, then, it should pose no problem. So what is yer answer, lass?”
Her answer?
Sabrina shook her head dazedly. She couldn’t possibly give Angus a response just yet. At the moment she was too weary and stunned to make any rational judgments.
“Grandfather…I must have time to think…I cannot make such a momentous decision without giving it careful consideration.”
“Well, take yer time, lass—but I should like to hold the ceremony before the week is out, before the Buchanans take it into their dim heads to gain advantage from my illness. Now, lass…I must rest. Will ye leave me for a time?”
“Yes…of course, Grandfather,” Sabrina said courteously.
“Send Liam to me when ye see him…”
Angus sank deeper into the pillows, his eyes already closed in exhaustion. The discussion had taken a toll on his fading health, Sabrina noted with regret.
Quietly she let herself from the chamber and nearly stumbled over Rab, who had been waiting anxiously for her. Absently she stroked the dog’s huge head, before turning to descend the stone stairs to the great hall below. Her footsteps lagged while her mind whirled.
Wife.
She was being offered the chance to become Niall McLaren’s wife.
A pulse of excitement throbbed within Sabrina before she could repress it. What would it be like to be the wife of a man like that? To share his home and his bed? To bear his children? To feel his touch, his passion each night…
No, it was absurd to feel such anticipation. She didn’t have even the least liking for him. Yet she couldn’t deny that he had invaded her dreams far too often. There was something about Niall McLaren that compelled fascination.
He was a man as dangerous and beguiling as the Highlands itself. A boldly sensuous lover whose name women whispered like a prayer.
And as dismaying as it was for her to admit, his kiss had done something to her that night in the garden. Changed her in some indefinable way. He’d stirred a fiery, restless need in her, arousing a fierce yearning deep inside a secret part of her.
Before that night she had been satisfied with her life. She was virtual mistress of her stepfather’s household, running his affairs and supervising his account books. And she enjoyed a measure of independence unusual for an unmarried woman.
She’d convinced herself she needed nothing more from life. She might still be a romantic, but she’d learned to repress any reckless longings. She might have suffered a painful betrayal by a feckless suitor, but she’d hidden her hurt well. She was too pragmatic to pine over lost wishes and broken dreams.
At least she had been until Niall McLaren.
Fiercely Sabrina shook her head. She was mad to be remembering their moonlit encounter with anything other than distaste. His kiss had meant nothing to him but vengeance, an exercise in frustrated carnal desire.
And yet…since that night she was no longer so content to watch from the sidelines, experiencing the unsatisfying life of the perpetual onlooker. She didn’t want to be left on the shelf, resigned to dull evenings with her stepfather’s account books.
She was not born for so little.
All of her life she had been quiet and responsible, but in recent months there’d been moments when she’d felt longing well up inside her, gathering like a fountain ready to erupt. She felt desperate to live, to have adventures, to feel passion. She wanted to experience life to the fullest. To decide her own role, influence her own fate. She wanted to make a difference in the world.
As now. Her clan needed her.
Now she must make a choice.
Was she willing to put obligation and duty before all else? Could she endure a marriage of convenience with a profligate rogue in order to protect her clan from the bloody feuds that ravaged the Highlands? She was half Highlander by blood. And the bonds of family and duty were strong, the call of danger and excitement even stronger…
She was halfway down the stairway when she became aware of an unnatural quiet in the hall. Sabrina glanced down to find a sea of faces gazing up at her solemnly. In the crowd, she recognized Liam and Geordie, but the rest were unfamiliar to her. Apparently, though, the men of Clan Duncan had gathered in the hall and were waiting to speak to her.
Liam had been chosen spokesman, it seemed, for he stepped forward as she reached the last stair.
“Mistress Duncan, if we might beg a word with you?”
“Yes?” she replied politely.
“We wish you to know that…should you wed the McLaren, we’ll follow him, every last man of us. You have our oath on that.”
It was a public pledge, she realized. Liam was abdicating his position as her grandfather’s successor and accepting the McLaren as chief. He was putting the good of the clan above personal power or gain.
Could she do any less?
Sabrina glanced around her at her kinsmen. Their grave, hopeful faces tore at her heart. She couldn’t turn her back on these people, even if it meant sacrificing her own happiness. She was needed here.
Sabrina forced her lips into a semblance of a smile. “I shall think on it carefully, I promise you.”
Yet there was little choice left to her. When she’d come home, she had never expected to be caught up in the fiery passions of a proud people. But her fate had been decided for her even before she stepped foot in the Highlands, Sabrina realized.
She knew she would consent to her grandfather’s marriage plans. She would protect her clan the only way she knew how.
Even if it meant enduring a loveless marriage to the infamous Niall McLaren.
Chapter
Three
Sabrina passed a restless night, assaulted by wicked, treacherous dreams of the McLaren. Dawn found her tossing in her bed, grappling with the tormenting question of whether to wed him as her grandfather asked.
Their union would not be the ideal, based on love and esteem and shared goals. Doubtless Niall held her in as much dislike as she did him.
Their mutual antagonism did not bode well for happiness in marriage. But then was happiness truly a necessary requirement? Sabrina demanded honestly of
herself. She would be no worse off than most women. If she could not have love, she could gain fulfillment in doing her duty, in working for the good of her clan. It would be a marriage of convenience, nothing more.
Faith, it was not as if she had more estimable suitors pressing for her hand. And while she and Niall McLaren had started off on the wrong foot, perhaps something positive could be salvaged of their relationship.
By the time she rose to dress, Sabrina had reluctantly reached a decision: to fulfill her grandfather’s dying wish and provide Clan Duncan with a protector. She would wed the McLaren.
She informed her grandfather of her resolve directly after breakfast, before she could change her mind. From his sickbed, Angus rejoiced at the news, calling for Liam to break out a barrel of his finest malt whisky. Dozens of Duncan kinsmen crammed into his bedchamber, where with trembling hands, Angus raised a toast to his granddaughter, who would be the saving of Clan Duncan.
Then dismissing any misgivings Sabrina might still have, he sent word to the McLaren of the wedding to come, putting the date of the ceremony for a week hence, and issued invitations to neighboring clans to attend the festivities.
Sabrina was pleased when her grandfather’s health seemed to improve measurably at the prospect of Clan Duncan’s deliverance, but dismayed that events were moving so quickly.
It was two days more, however, before she managed to speak to the prospective bridegroom—and then she was forced to go to him, since she received only a terse response to her note requesting that he call to discuss arrangements for the ceremony. He was, he regretted to inform her, too busy at the moment to answer her summons.
It vexed her that the McLaren could not make the time to meet with her. She desired to speak to him privately, the man to whom she would soon give herself in marriage, whose life and bed she would share, whose children she would bear.
“Doubtless he is occupied with clan matters,” Angus said in his defense.
Or engaged in his usual licentious pursuits, Sabrina thought tartly.
The Lover Page 5
