“Merely what I have been told. But it seems foolish to continue fighting among ourselves. I had hoped”—she took a deep breath—“there might be a way to put an end to generations of bloodshed.”
Sabrina was not surprised when the Buchanan’s gaze narrowed in distrust. “Did Angus send ye to treat w’ me?”
“No. In truth, he has no idea I am here.”
“’Twas my understanding you were to wed the McLaren.”
“True. But I’ve come to realize that he…” She hesitated as if choosing a delicate explanation. “Niall McLaren will not make the most ideal husband.”
“Too randy for yer taste, is he?” Owen chuckled. “Aye, I can see how a proud lass wouldna favor her mon tupping the maids.”
A flush rose to her cheeks. “I would prefer not to share my marriage bed with half the female population of Scotland, yes. In any case, the sole purpose of our union was to ally our clans against the Buchanans. But if I could be assured we were in no danger of attack from your clan…if we could count you as an ally…it would spare me the necessity of marrying the McLaren.”
Owen raised a brawny hand to stroke his beard. “Whyever should I wish to befriend Clan Duncan? We’ve been foes for as long as memory serves.”
“Because it will be far more profitable for you.” Sabrina paused and turned to face the laird directly, her expression earnest. “Perhaps you have heard that I am an heiress? I would be willing to pay handsomely to ensure the safety of my clan. A feu-duty, if you will. In exchange for your word to end the war between us.”
“Ye’re offering to pay for peace?”
“Precisely. With payments to be made quarterly or yearly, as you choose.” In feudal times, it was in fact common for weaker clans to pay a protection fee to more powerful ones. In reviewing the account books of clan activities from years past, Sabrina had seen evidence of such expenses.
“Hmmm. What sum did ye have in mind, mistress?”
She frowned, as if giving the question careful consideration. Yet having learned a trick or two from her stepfather, who was as shrewd a businessman as they come, she offered much less than she was actually willing to pay. “I thought fifty head of cattle quarterly would be adequate compensation.”
She was startled when Owen suddenly reached out to grasp her elbow. The fine hairs on her nape stood up as he brought his face close to hers, his expression menacing.
“If ye’re such an heiress, mistress, it stands to reason yer kin would be willing to pay for yer freedom. I trow ye’d fetch a bonny ransom.”
Sabrina swallowed hard, realizing he was threatening to take her hostage, and reached for her dirk.
“Or mayhap I might wed you meself,” Owen mused darkly, “since ma own wife is lang gone. Or give ye to one of my sons.”
She could feel her heart pounding against her breast as his grip tightened painfully. It was not unheard of for an enterprising laird to capture a bride and forge a clan alliance by force.
“If I wished to wed,” she managed to say with a serenity she was far from feeling, “I would have offered myself as part of the bargain. But I much prefer the single state.”
“Do ye now? And what’s to stop me from taking ye prisoner and holding ye to ransom?”
“You could try, certainly…if you wished to escalate the feud between our clans. But my capture might prove difficult. I will not go with you willingly. And I am hardly without protection. My dog would come to my rescue, you see.”
She glanced down at Rab, who had bared his teeth again and was growling fiercely. “He will aim for the throat, sir, and you will be dead before your men can react.”
The laird eyed the dog narrowly.
“You might also,” she advised sweetly, “wish to consider the dirk I hold pressed against your ribs.” She increased the pressure slightly on the blade she had slipped beneath his armpit. “Even if I could not strike a mortal blow, you might find it difficult to explain how a mere lass wounded such a brave Highland warrior with such ease.”
Owen Buchanan stared at her a long moment, so intently Sabrina could see a vein throb in his temple.
Then abruptly his dark eyes lit with laughter. When he threw back his dark head to give a loud guffaw of delight, his men stared to see what had amused their laird so.
“Angus would be proud of you, lass,” Owen declared as he clapped her on the back as he would a man, a buffet which nearly sent her sprawling.
Instantly Rab lunged forward, and it was all Sabrina could do to stop him from assaulting the laird. With effort she pulled the dog away and spoke to him soothingly, then called out reassuringly to Geordie, who had uttered an oath and raised his claymore, despite the peril.
Owen was still chuckling. “Aye, ye’re kin to Angus Duncan, ’tis plain to see. Put away yer dirk, Mistress Duncan. If we’re to ally ourselves with you, it calls for a dram. Ye’re a gallant lass, to come here, but I warn ye, I’ll no’ take so wee a sum as ye proposed. A hundred head of cattle quarterly, ’tis my price, and not a hair less.”
Sabrina let out a slow breath of relief. She would have willingly paid double that price to secure her clan’s safety.
“You drive a hard bargain, my lord,” she replied meekly.
“Ye did what?” her grandfather exclaimed when she confessed her actions that same afternoon.
“I struck a bargain with Owen Buchanan,” Sabrina repeated placatingly.
“The de’il, you say! Over my dead body!” Angus threw off the covers and struggled to rise from his sickbed, his nightshirt hiking up over bare legs still brawny with muscle.
“Grandfather, you mustn’t get up!”
“Dinna tell me what to do, girl! Ye’ve ruined all my plans.”
“Perhaps so, but this might prove a better solution—”
“Hah! ’Tis little ye know, ye interfering gomeril.”
She winced to hear herself termed a fool, but she couldn’t let it bother her just now. Angus’s complexion had turned alarmingly scarlet, Sabrina noted with dismay. Calling for his manservant to come quickly, she grasped her grandfather’s shoulders in an attempt to restrain him. It required all her strength to press him back upon the pillows.
“I had to act, Grandfather, don’t you see? Since I ended any possibility of a betrothal to the McLaren, I felt obliged to see if I could protect our clan some other way.”
“Well, giving away our herds is not the way of it!”
“Why not?” She met his fierce gaze with a gentle query in her own. “You were willing to sacrifice me in the name of clan security, but you hold your cattle in higher esteem?”
Angus’s answer was a muffled curse as he wheezed into his fist. “I dinna see it as a sacrifice. Ye were to wed the McLaren. ’Tis all I asked of you.”
“You needn’t worry that my agreement with Owen Buchanan will impoverish you. I intend to pay every penny out of my dowry.” When Angus refused to respond, she added quietly, “I should think you would be glad to end the feud.”
The fight seemed to go out of him, and he shut his eyes. “We’ll ne’er see the end if it, lass. The bloody Buchanans canna be trusted, ye’ll ken.” Weakly, Angus lay back on the pillows, refusing even to look at his granddaughter.
“Grandfather, are you all right?” she asked, troubled.
“Nay…I’m a dying man, and ye’ve plunged a dirk through ma heart. ’Tis a sad trial, to be betrayed by one’s own kin.”
Sabrina bit her lip hard, distressed that he should have put such a dark construction on her actions. She had managed to bring sanity and hope to a conflict that had been rife with bloodshed for decades, yet he could not forgive her betrayal.
“Go away, lass,” Angus said wearily. “Go away and let me die in peace.”
Sabrina was toying listlessly with her oat porridge the following morning, when Niall McLaren was shown into the chamber which doubled as a parlor and breakfast room.
He was garbed casually in tartan trews, but a broadsword gleamed from the scabbard at
his waist, and his ruggedly beautiful features were as grim as she’d ever seen them.
“What in hellfire is this I hear about you arranging a truce with the bloody Buchanans?” he demanded without ceremony.
Abruptly Sabrina rose to her feet so she would be less at a disadvantage with the towering Highlander. Facing Niall McLaren again, she experienced a sharp resurgence of the hurt she’d felt at their last encounter.
“And a good morn to you, as well, my lord,” she remarked, infusing her tone with wry mockery.
“Blast it, answer me! What mischief have you been up to?”
Sabrina winced at the scathing tone so much like her grandfather’s. She hadn’t expected praise for helping her clan’s cause, but neither had she envisioned such universal condemnation.
“I would hardly call it mischief to try and forge a peace between warring factions,” she retorted stiffly.
A muscle flexed in his jaw, and she could see the effort he was making at control. “You’re dealing with a devil you know nothing about, meddling in affairs beyond your ken.”
“I know enough to seize an opportunity when I see it. No one else here has tried to make peace among the clans. I merely offered the Buchanan a simple business proposition.”
“The Highlands are a far cry from your stepfather’s mercantile trade in Edinburgh. If you think otherwise, mayhap you should hie yourself back there soonest. You’re daft if you expect a Buchanan to honor his word.”
“Perhaps, but you’re daft if you expect me to turn tail and run back to Edinburgh when my clan needs me.”
Niall drew a deep breath. “’Tis naive to think you can change the patterns of a lifetime, mistress.”
“I only wished to help,” she replied stubbornly.
The harshness of his handsome features seemed to relent a degree. “A generous, unselfish gesture—but misguided. Might is the only deterrence the Buchanans understand.”
“I think you’re mistaken. Owen Buchanan seemed to understand the value of coin well enough when I offered it to him.”
“Owen would as soon slit a Duncan’s throat as look at one.”
Just then Rab rose from the floor and padded over to the man, pressing his cold nose into Niall’s hand, whining softly as he begged for a caress.
Traitor, Sabrina thought resentfully as the Highlander absently stroked the dog’s huge head. She pressed her lips together, frowning at the animal. “I own myself astonished at his fondness for you. Rab generally is more discriminating in his choice of allies.”
A hard smile touched Niall’s lips. “Pray don’t change the subject. We were discussing your foolish interference.”
Abruptly her chin rose. She’d lost their last battle of wills. She’d not lose this one. “You were discussing my interference, sir. I was attempting to explain why I felt compelled to intervene. As for slitting my throat, that was far from the case. The Buchanan even spoke of the advantages of my becoming his bride.”
Niall went rigid. “The bloody bastard’s old enough to be your father.”
“But he has need of a wife,” Sabrina replied sweetly, refusing to set his mind at ease. “I understand he lost his some years past. And he has a son of marriageable age. I confess I considered marrying into their clan.”
“The devil you will!”
“Why not? What do you care whom I marry?”
What, indeed? Niall asked himself silently. He couldn’t bear the thought of her marrying a Buchanan, yet his opposition stemmed from more than just his blind hatred of the clan that had caused him so much grief. More, even, than the obligation he felt toward Sabrina after managing to escape a forced marriage to her.
“You’ve made it abundantly clear that you have no desire to wed me,” Sabrina continued through gritted teeth. “Thus you have no right to object if I decide to look for another husband, especially if it would benefit my clan.”
“I told you I would find you another suitor.”
“I don’t want any suitor of your choosing!”
“Well, you’ll have to settle for someone other than the Buchanan butchers. A Sassenach would be better.”
His savage tone told her clearly that he shared the Scots’ disdain for Englishmen. Sabrina raised herself to her full height, fire flashing in her dark eyes. “I’ll not allow you to dictate to me.”
“And I’ll not let you make so daft a misstep.”
“You can’t stop me!”
Closing the distance between them, Niall reached for her, driven by the fierce urge to shake her. His long fingers closed over her delicate shoulders in a grip that was almost painful. “I can, mistress. And I assure you, I will.”
His uncharacteristic violence startled Sabrina. She froze, her heart racing. His angry face was so close she could feel his breath against her lips. She flushed at the erotic image that suddenly invaded her mind: of Niall kissing her hotly, of Niall holding her tightly and stroking her skin, her breast…
Their eyes locked in defiance—a long, sensually charged spell, reverberating with tension and attraction.
“Kindly unhand me, sir,” she said, seething with fury and something more disturbingly elemental. She refused to call it desire. She did not want this man, or his kisses.
Rather than releasing her, though, his fingers only tightened on her soft flesh. “When I’m done with you.”
“I never expected so boorish an assault from a gentleman noted for his finesse,” she observed tauntingly.
Niall cursed, vividly aware of the primal urges she kindled in him. He could not remember being so angry with a wench, or so aroused, either. ’Twas daft, the effect this prickly, sharp-tongued lass had on him, how she made him want her. His grip tightened—
They were both startled to realize they were no longer alone. Angus slowly limped into the room, leaning heavily on a cane.
Her cheeks flaming, Sabrina twisted from Niall’s embrace and drew away hastily. “Grandfather, you should not be out of bed!”
The elderly laird waved away her concern and addressed Niall. “’Tis glad I am to see you, lad. There’s trouble afoot, and I’m in no fit state to deal w’ it.”
“I received your summons, Angus,” Niall said. “I was on my way to your chambers when I paused to speak to your granddaughter. I gather the trouble concerns the Buchanans?”
“Aye, they stole two hundred prime head of Duncan cattle last eve.”
“That’s impossible,” Sabrina breathed. “We had a bargain.”
“’Tis no’ impossible,” her grandfather snapped. “The bloody Buchanans are cattle thieves of the worst sort, and canna be trusted to abide by any pact.”
She shook her head, finding it difficult to credit that Owen Buchanan had reneged on their agreement so swiftly after giving his word of honor, or that he would pass up the chance for a generous quarterly income. But then…her knowledge of clan affairs was limited. And the habits of a lifetime died hard. Had Owen seen her as a gullible fool? Did feuding with her clan hold more allure than the rewards of peace?
She raised a hand to her brow. “Perhaps…his kinsmen never heard of the truce.”
Angus gave her a fierce look from beneath bushy white brows. “’Twas the Buchanan himself who led the raid.”
“How do you know?”
“How? Because he was seen, that’s how!”
“But…why?” she asked in bewilderment.
“’Tis clear enough for a bairn to fathom. With ma illness, Clan Duncan makes easy prey. Owen has the advantage and is pressing it.” Angus glared at her accusingly. “This is what comes of yer refusal to wed, lass. Were ye betrothed to the McLaren, Owen would no’ dared have struck. And then ye made matters worse by seeking him out.”
“I…don’t understand…”
Niall answered that query—grimly. “You showed a fatal weakness by offering to bargain with him.”
Perhaps they were right, Sabrina thought with dismay. Perhaps she had drastically misjudged Owen Buchanan. Perhaps her interference ha
d compounded the difficulties her clan faced, when she had only been trying to help.
“I…I am sorry, Grandfather,” she said lamely, even as anger at the Buchanan’s betrayal surged through her. She had bargained with the laird in good faith, but he had deceived her, had played her for a fool, seeing her eagerness to bargain as vulnerability.
“’Tis all right, lass,” Angus replied with unexpected forbearance. “Ye could no’ have kenned the treachery of the bloody Buchanans. But Niall will handle matters from here out. Will ye not, lad?”
“Aye, I will indeed,” he replied darkly.
Angus pressed a hand to his heart. “I fear ’twas too muckle excitement for me. I’d best return to bed.”
Still dazed by the grave turn of events, Sabrina stepped forward. “Allow me to assist you, Grandfather.”
“Nae, lass. Ye’ve assisted me enough as is.” He waved her away and shuffled from the chamber, leaving a chastened Sabrina to stare after him dispiritedly.
In the resultant silence, she turned to gaze at Niall McLaren. He had not moved, but there was a quiet lethalness about him that was palpable. He no longer resembled the sensual rogue who could charm the very soul from a lass; there was no sign of the practiced cavalier.
Instead, he was every inch the Highland warrior. Dangerous, deadly, full of purpose. A ruthless stranger whose violence was barely leashed.
“What will you do?” she asked quietly.
Niall gave her a long glance. “Deal with the matter, as I promised,” he said as he turned to leave.
Sabrina followed him. “What are you planning?” she demanded as he strode through the great hall toward the front entrance.
“To retrieve your grandfather’s stolen cattle.”
“I want to go with you.”
He halted abruptly. “A cattle raid is no place for a green lass.”
“But this is my clan’s battle, not yours.”
A muscle flexed savagely in his jaw as Niall gazed down at her. “You are wrong, lass. I’ve made it my battle. The butcher Buchanans will get what they deserve.”
His menacing tone frightened her. “Do you mean to recover our cattle, or to seek revenge?”
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