The Lover

by Nicole Jordan

  “Spare me your explanations. It matters not to me.” Sabrina took a deep breath. Enough was enough; she would no longer play his games. It was not in Niall McLaren’s nature to be constant, but she was not prepared to suffer his infidelities for the rest of her days. If he wanted out of the betrothal, she would gladly release him.

  “I have given our union a great deal of thought,” she said resolutely, “and I have come to agree with your view.”

  “How so?”

  “You were entirely correct when you said we would not suit.”

  Niall raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  “Your sentiments are perfectly clear. You have no desire to wed me.” She lifted her chin with evident pride. “Well, you may rest easy, my lord. You needn’t fear I will force your hand. There will be no marriage between us.”

  “No?” He looked skeptical. “Yesterday you were set on going forward with the betrothal.”

  “Yesterday my wits were addled, obviously. Today I am taking myself out of consideration for the position.” She smiled mockingly. “Do not look so dismayed, my lord. There are countless other women who are better qualified to be your bride. And doubtless there are dozens who would be delighted to wed you…who are captivated by your charm, your wit, your legendary lovemaking skills…But those attributes hold little appeal for me.”

  Niall frowned thoughtfully at her pretense of indifference. “Are you certain, mistress, you are not speaking out of jealousy?”

  Jealousy! Sabrina’s eyes flashed. “I wish you would disabuse yourself of the notion that I am enamored of you! My only concern is for my clan.”

  Niall watched the angry color flush her cheeks and was torn between remorse and admiration. He should not have taunted her so, yet Sabrina Duncan enraged was fascinating, the picture of defiant pride.

  She lifted her chin regally. “I’m certain you are an excellent laird, but I would go daft if I had to endure wedlock with you—” Realizing she was nearly ranting, Sabrina forced herself to take a calming breath. “You are not what I seek in a husband. I would as lief marry a chimney sweep—or a Buchanan. Indeed, perhaps I should consider such a course. Allying myself with the Buchanans would solve the dilemma my grandfather finds himself in.”

  Niall’s brows shot together. “You cannot be serious. The bloody Buchanans are murdering devils.”

  Seeing his sudden scowl, Sabrina smiled coolly. “Perhaps so. But whatever path I choose, it is no longer any concern of yours.”

  “In point of fact, it is my concern, mistress. Our clans are still allied, even if not by marriage. The future of Clan Duncan is vital to me, particularly since the issue of succession is not yet settled.”

  “Ah, yes, the succession…” She wanted to curse. It always came back to that. “Faith, I should have been a man,” Sabrina muttered under her breath.

  Niall studied her for a moment, the tautness easing from the set of his jaw, while a faint light of humor entered his eyes. “And what would you do if you were a man, mistress?”

  “I would solve this predicament without being weighted by the chains of my gender.” She squared her shoulders as she faced him fully. “Regardless of our rift, my grandfather is depending upon me to ensure the protection of our clan. And I don’t intend to let him down, even if I have to lead Clan Duncan myself.”

  “Lead your clan? Is that not overly ambitious?”

  “Women are capable of assuming the reins of lairdship,” she replied stiffly.

  “Some are, aye, in some circumstances. But you have no experience, and Buchanan is a crafty bastard who understands only force.”

  Sabrina bit her tongue to repress a retort, knowing she was speaking recklessly, out of sheer frustration. If Liam Duncan didn’t consider himself worthy to lead their clan, she certainly wasn’t. “Even so, you need no longer worry about it.”

  Niall hesitated. “I would be willing to search for another potential suitor for you.”

  His condescension rankled. “I can find my own husband, thank you,” Sabrina snapped, losing her hard-won calm. “Pray believe me when I say you may consider yourself free of any obligation to me or my clan. Rab, come!”

  She spun on her heel to return to the house, but the mastiff didn’t obey. He merely looked at her and whimpered, his brown eyes confused and questioning.

  Feeling betrayed by her dog as well as the libertine who’d stolen his affections, Sabrina flung over her shoulder, “Very well, you may both go to the devil for all I care!”

  Niall felt himself frowning as he watched her incensed retreat, experiencing a curious regret. Once again the mouse had suddenly transformed into a tiger—a change that was remarkably appealing to his male nature. She was proud and stubborn and spirited as any Highland lass. He had not expected to be so intrigued by her, or to feel such a primal attraction.

  Nor had he expected to win so easily. Without quite meaning to, he had managed to induce Sabrina Duncan to reconsider marriage to him. She was hurt and humiliated enough to free him from the betrothal.

  So why then did he feel as if he had won a hollow victory…and lost something of inestimable value in the winning?

  Angus took the news badly. That evening when Sabrina told him she had called off the betrothal, the aging Laird Duncan had a spasm that threatened to finish him for good.

  In a wheezing breath, he demanded a whisky, and when at last he caught his breath, launched into a lengthy recital of all the reasons Sabrina could not withdraw now, chief of which was the threat the Buchanans posed with Clan Duncan virtually leaderless. Moreover, the wedding invitations had already been issued, and it was too late to recall them.

  As for Niall McLaren’s debauchery, Angus excused it as youthful excess.

  “Aye, he’s a lusty rake in truth, but ’tis certain he’s sowing his wild oats before settling down.”

  “He must be anticipating a bountiful crop then,” Sabrina retorted with a bitterness she could not hide.

  “I’ll have a talk with the lad—”

  “No!” The incident this afternoon had been humiliating enough. It would be even more so, having her grandfather plead with Niall to take her back. “He doesn’t wish to wed me, I tell you, any more than I wish to wed him.”

  She would not let Angus change her mind, Sabrina vowed. By the time her grandfather had renewed his pleas, however, she was suffering fresh doubts. Had she acted too impulsively, breaking off the betrothal? She knew full well that she had responded from wounded pride. She had put personal sentiment before the welfare of her clan, forsaking them in their time of dire need. She had let them down, when she’d wanted very much to prove herself worthy of her clan name.

  When at last she emerged from her grandfather’s bedchamber, Sabrina was despondent and near tears, yet her jaw remained clenched. Her emotions were too raw to think clearly just now, but she had to contrive some other way to protect Clan Duncan than marriage to the McLaren.

  By the time supper was served below in the dining hall, anger and hurt had given way to a grim determination to find an answer to her dilemma. After the meal of barley bannocks and hotch-potch—a thick, delicious mutton and vegetable soup—Sabrina drew her cousin aside in order to question him.

  “Geordie, what do you know of the Buchanans?”

  “They’re our blood enemies,” he said simply.

  “Yes…but why?”

  His brow furrowed. “Why? Aweel, the feud began lang syne. The Buchanans stole a bride from Clan Duncan, but she couldna bear the mon and put a dirk in his ribs when he tried to claim her. A blow from his fist killed her before he expired. The Duncans and Buchanans have been foes ever since.”

  “What can you tell me about their present laird? Owen, I believe is his name.”

  “Owen is a canny de’il, for cert.”

  “I understand he is a widower?”

  “Aye.”

  “And his sons? He has four sons, does he not?”

  “Aye, all wed, but for the youngest. A lad of some five-and
-twenty years.” Geordie frowned at her. “Why, what are ye thinking, mistress?”

  Sabrina gave a casual shrug. She didn’t dare tell him the idea that was forming in her head. “I just wondered how it all began. Has my grandfather ever considered trying to end the feud? Has he ever discussed the issue with Owen Buchanan, perhaps?”

  Geordie’s brow furrowed more deeply. “Last year…I thought there might be a truce. Owen wanted peace—but that was before the McLaren was murdered in a cowardly attack.”

  “Niall’s father? Was Owen Buchanan responsible?”

  “’Twas his kin that did the foul deed, but it doesna matter. Owen is laird, and as such is answerable for the acts of his clan.”

  That conversation gave her a great deal to think about. Thus when Geordie proposed a game of chess, Sabrina pleaded fatigue and retired to her bedchamber.

  Yet as she began the tedious process of undressing for bed, removing her stomacher and bodice and overskirt, her thoughts involuntarily shifted from the fate of her clan to Niall McLaren and her brief, fruitless betrothal to him.

  What a daft gomeril she’d been! For a few fleeting moments, she’d let herself foolishly hope that Niall might come to accept her as his wife. That their political union might blossom into something deeper, a true marriage. Faith, she’d made a narrow escape. She didn’t want him as husband and lover—any more than he wanted her. She wasn’t willing to endure the humiliation and heartache which wedding that profligate rogue would entail.

  Catching a glimpse of herself in the pier-glass that hung on one wall, Sabrina faltered. She had stripped off her petticoat and stockings and stood clad only in her shift, but she scarcely recognized the fierce-eyed lass staring back at her. At the moment she looked every inch a Highlander, prepared to do battle with anyone who threatened her or her kin.

  Hesitantly she drew down the neckline of her shift. The skin of her bosom was red and ribbed where the stiffened bodice had pressed, but as she let her shift fall to the floor and studied herself critically, she had to admit that her physical attributes were not unattractive. Her breasts were pale and high, the rosy jutting nipples hard and tight. The curves of her waist and hips were modest, with a dark bush of curling hair between her slender thighs…

  Too modest. Too slender. Her charms were nothing compared to the voluptuous females Niall McLaren favored.

  Sabrina frowned at her image. How could she ever have been naive enough to think a man like that would be satisfied to wed her? He would want someone beautiful and desirable and wickedly sophisticated, like he himself was. Or a wench who was lushly endowed like that dairymaid this afternoon…

  Muttering an oath, Sabrina stepped out of her shift and roughly drew on her nightdress. She was glad she would not be wedding Niall McLaren. She was certain she despised that libertine.

  Shivering in the chill then, she snuffed the candle and slipped beneath the bedcovers, burying her face in the pillow. She could not allow herself to seek slumber, though.

  She had some critical decisions to make.

  She could not abandon her clan, certainly. During her tour of Banesk with Liam this afternoon, she’d been appalled by the wretched conditions many of her kinsmen endured. The widows and fatherless children who’d lost their menfolk to feuds and risings lived in crofter’s huts no better than hovels…damp, smoke-filled, with peat roofs that leaked at a hint of rain. She could not leave them to the mercy of the bloody Buchanans.

  Niall was right on one score, though. She could not easily lead her kinsmen. It wasn’t that a woman was incapable of being clan chief; some were. But she herself was far too inexperienced. Even if her kinsmen could be persuaded to follow her, it would take years for her to gain even a tenth of the skill a warrior needed in battle. And by then the bloody Buchanans would have destroyed her clan.

  She couldn’t offer to wed one of the Buchanans, either, as she’d threatened this afternoon. Her grandfather would never stand for it. Nor would Niall, she suspected, not with his fierce hatred of their clan.

  But surely the barbarous Buchanans could be reasoned with.

  Shifting restlessly, Sabrina rolled onto her back and stared at the darkened canopy above her bed. On the morrow she would seek an interview with the laird, Owen Buchanan, and negotiate with him if possible.

  If she could contrive to ensure the safety of her clan, then she might be able to forget the arrogant, indiscriminating Niall McLaren and the hurt he had caused her with his humiliating philandering.

  Chapter

  Five

  Her first task the following morning was to overcome Geordie’s objections. Even when Sabrina explained her intentions, the brawny Highlander was reluctant to escort her into the heart of Buchanan territory so that she might negotiate with their laird.

  “Are ye daft, mistress? The Buchanan is our blood foe!”

  “I know. But he does not have to remain so, does he? Feuds can be ended. You told me yourself you hoped there might be a truce last year, but that it fell through when the McLaren was killed.”

  “Aye,” the Highlander muttered. “But Angus would have ma head if I allowed ye to go.”

  “You will not wish to tell him then.”

  “But I canna go against the laird’s command!”

  “Geordie,” Sabrina said patiently, “I dare not seek Grandfather’s counsel first, or he would prevent me from going. And this is too important to disregard. Don’t you see, I must do this?”

  In his frustration, Geordie’s face turned as red as his hair. “’Tis too dangerous.”

  “Not if you accompany me. And it is worth the risk. The Buchanan would not harm a woman, would he? Please, Geordie,” Sabrina pleaded when she saw him hesitate. “Will you not help me?” She sighed at his stubborn refusal. “Very well, I will go on my own if I must.”

  Geordie gave in. “Aweel, I dinna like this one bit,” he complained, “but ’tis better I go w’ ye.”

  Sabrina understood his misgivings. Yet their clans had been warring for a hundred years, and no one had yet managed to arrange a peace with the Buchanans, perhaps because no one had truly made the effort. She was determined to try at least, to see if she could strike a bargain with their laird.

  With Rab and Geordie as escorts, she rode south and west for a time, through wild, rough country that boasted verdant glens and rocky peaks. The sunshine of the previous day had vanished, and a chill gray mist swirled around them, muffling the ring of their horse’s hooves.

  Geordie sat astride his mount cautiously, with his fist clutching the hilt of his claymore, his expression so grim that Sabrina found herself jumping at imagined shadows. It comforted her to remember the dirk she’d tucked inside the waistband of her skirt.

  Owen Buchanan was reportedly a vicious ogre, but she’d attributed much of his brutal repute to exaggeration. Now she wondered if perhaps she hadn’t paid enough heed to the possible danger of her mission.

  She had just emerged single file behind Geordie from a stand of pines when a rough voice shouted, “Hold there!”

  Sabrina froze as a band of horsemen garbed in tartan plaids and trews suddenly swarmed from the forest to surround them, brandishing broadswords and claymores. Her two protectors reacted more bravely. Geordie yanked his heavy blade from its scabbard, prepared to battle her attackers to the death, while Rab bared his teeth, a fierce growl reverberating from his throat, the hair on his back standing on end.

  “We come in peace!” Sabrina managed to utter past the dryness of her throat.

  A swarthy, black-bearded Highlander broke from the crowd and urged his mount closer. “Peace, is it? And who might ye be, lass?”

  “I am Sabrina Duncan, granddaughter of Angus, laird of Clan Duncan.”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “Aye, I ken ye have the look of a Duncan about ye. I’d heard ye’d come to succor Angus’s last days.”

  Sabrina studied him in turn, concluding that he was old enough to be her father. From the description Geordie had given her, she suspec
ted she might be confronting the Buchanan himself. “I have heard much about you as well, sir. Have I the honor of addressing Owen Buchanan?”

  “Ye might at that.”

  She forced a smile. “And do you always greet strangers with such a threatening display of force?”

  “If they be Duncans, I do.”

  “Faith, and I had heard so much about the famed hospitality of the Highlands. Surely the tales could not be so wrong. I can scarcely credit such a reception, particularly since I came here with the express intent of speaking with you.” Sabrina glanced pointedly at the menacing broadsword one of his cohorts held aloft. “I assure you, sir,” she added lightly, “if you put aside your weapons, I shall not harm you.”

  The laird’s eyes widened fractionally, but then he gave a rough chuckle of appreciation and waved to his clansmen to lower their blades. Keeping a wary eye on Geordie, Owen made her a gallant bow from horseback. “Forgive ma men, mistress. ’Tis devoted to me, they are.”

  “I am certain it is well deserved. I’ve heard countless tales of your exploits.”

  She heard Geordie make a sound deep in his throat like a snort, but ignored it. “If we might have a moment in private, sir, I have a proposal to put forth for your consideration.”

  The laird’s gaze narrowed in suspicion, but he must have deemed her harmless, for he nodded. When Sabrina made to dismount, Owen swung down from his horse and assisted her, giving her hope that she was not dealing with an unreasonable man.

  “Shall we walk?” she asked with a winning smile. When she turned to stroll along the path, away from the others, Owen Buchanan had little choice but to accompany her. She was grateful, though, when Rab trailed cautiously at her heels.

  “Now what is this business you wish to speak to me about?” Owen demanded as if growing impatient.

  “The relationship of our two clans,” Sabrina answered quietly. “The difficulties have preyed heavily on my mind.”

  “Ye are but a lass. What do ye ken of clan affairs?”