The Lover

by Nicole Jordan

  He grinned. “Confess, cherie, you thought me solely fit for wenching.”

  Her mouth curved wryly. “The notion had crossed my mind.”

  “I have a few other talents besides.”

  “Mistress Fletcher seems to agree,” Sabrina said probingly. “She is exceedingly grateful for the care you’ve given her and her sons.”

  Surprisingly, Niall answered more soberly than expected. “I’ve given her no more than is due the widow of my brother’s friend. Despite my dissipated reputation, I’m not a man to take advantage of a vulnerable woman.”

  Sabrina raised an eyebrow, yet strangely she believed him. “I wonder, then, why you claimed to have no qualms about taking advantage of the serving maids.”

  When Niall gave her a quizzical glance, she said with sugary sweetness, “You deliberately encouraged me to believe you were seducing Jean that day I discovered you naked with her in the herbal. But she has since told me you had injured yourself and she was tending your wounds.”

  Niall showed no sign of remorse for misleading her. “Mayhap so, but as I recall, you had tried and convicted me before I could plead my case.”

  Sabrina shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “It is a matter of supreme indifference to me, whom you dally with,” she lied.

  “You wound me, sweeting.”

  “I doubt it.”

  He gave a warm chuckle. “You truly must learn the knack of flirtation, Sabrina. It isn’t politic to display your apathy so baldly to a man. You would do better to try and persuade me to change my licentious ways.”

  She grimaced wryly. “In the first place, changing you would be nigh impossible. And in the second, I haven’t the talent to attempt a flirtation. I’ve never professed to possess your amorous skills.”

  “Even so, you can learn. In fact, I mean to teach you.”

  “Do you, indeed?”

  “Aye. In a flirtation, your primary goal should be to pique a man’s interest.”

  “And just how do I go about doing that?”

  “’Tis not so difficult,” Niall observed thoughtfully. “You laugh and smile at even the most inane remarks a gentleman makes. You pretend an attraction, hanging on his every word, while lowering your gaze coyly. Now and then you flash him a longing look, as if you cannot help your feelings of desire. In short, you make him feel as if he is the only man in the world.”

  Much the way you make a woman feel, Sabrina reflected. “It seems such a frivolous exercise.”

  “But first,” Niall insisted, pointedly ignoring her comment, “you begin by sweetening that tart tongue of yours. Honey will gain you more than vinegar.”

  His eyes danced with the laughter that was so much a part of him. Niall was goading her, she knew, yet it was impossible to take offense, or to resist his notorious charm.

  He exercised that lethal charm fully in the days that followed. During her first week at Creagturic, Sabrina even began to hope their uneasy alliance might blossom into a worthwhile union, if not a true marriage.

  Her days began to assume a pattern. Niall was away much of the day, seeing to clan affairs, but he usually returned for supper, which he spent conversing with her about his clan and hers or giving her lessons in dalliance. Afterward she often took up her needlework while he read—sometimes aloud to her. The first time he opened a serious volume, Sabrina was startled enough to express surprise.

  Niall gave her a long, level look, his eyes laughing at her. “I do enjoy pursuits other than carnal ones. I’ll have you know that in my misspent youth, I applied myself to my studies with nearly as much seriousness as I did my amorous endeavors.”

  At this subtle reminder that he had been educated in the finest universities of Europe, Sabrina felt an unwilling admiration. If she’d once thought him shallow and frivolous, she was having to revise her assessment. Niall McLaren was much more complex than she had ever suspected, showing depths she could only begin to fathom.

  “It must have been supremely taxing,” she said dryly, “to be forced to labor at such mundane chores as studying.”

  “Indeed, it was.”

  “I fear you will get little sympathy from me, sir,” Sabrina advised.

  “You’re a hard lass, mistress.”

  She shook her head ruefully, surprised to realize how much she was enjoying their exchange. “No, merely truthful.”

  “I’m not half as debauched as you prefer to believe.”

  “Well…perhaps not half.”

  She was pleased to win a wry chuckle from him. It was exhilarating to be matching wits with such a man, like challenging a swift-moving Highland storm. And Niall encouraged her in their verbal skirmishes with scandalous remarks bordering on the outrageous.

  His instruction in the art of dalliance gave her more enjoyment than she anticipated. To her bewilderment and dismay, though, her marital bed proved her greatest disappointment. After the first night, her husband made no attempt to make love to her.

  In truth, his disinterest was no more than Sabrina expected. She was not the sort of woman to inspire lust in a man of Niall’s legendary passions. Yet she could not claim he had abandoned her entirely. She slept naked in his arms, since he would not allow her to wear her night smock.

  Their physical intimacy grew little by little, with nudity becoming more natural between them. Sabrina grew accustomed to seeing the whole of his magnificent body, and grew familiar with his touch as well, for he made it a point to caress her casually and often.

  He seemed highly concerned about her arm wound, and each night checked its healing himself. His solicitous regard, however, disturbed her more than neglect would have done. He was infinitely more dangerous than she’d feared, and she was far more vulnerable.

  Her relationship with his clan at least proved satisfactory. To Sabrina’s surprise and relief, they appeared to accept her willingly. She felt welcomed in her new home, while the magnificent Highlands had captured her soul.

  Later that same week Niall took her to explore the mountain valley that had been in possession of Clan McLaren for generations, introducing her to lofty peaks and tranquil lochs and magical glens, and watching with amused indulgence her expression of delight and awe.

  With such splendor, she could almost forget that danger and bloodshed ruled the Highlands. Peace had not come with her marriage to Niall, yet she had reason to hope. The terrible feud with the Buchanans continued, but Clan Duncan would be safe, now that Niall had been designated Angus’s successor.

  The morning immediately after the ceremony, Sabrina had learned, Niall had paid a visit to his archenemy; she heard about it from Geordie when he came to call.

  “He warned the Buchanan most harshly,” Geordie claimed. “Clan Duncan is to suffer no more raids. ’Twas odd, though. Owen claimed he wasna the one to resume the feud, that he never lifted our cattle. Wheesht, ye canna believe such blethering.”

  Niall refused to discuss the Buchanans with her, however, and grew testy whenever Sabrina even hinted at the subject.

  He did approve of her becoming involved with his clan, at least. Her visit to the Widow Fletcher had given Sabrina an idea, which she broached to Niall one evening at supper.

  “The tartan cloth Mistress Fletcher has woven is quite beautiful. I have rarely seen such fine quality, nor have the markets of Edinburgh, I suspect. I would very much like to write my stepfather, asking him to propose an arrangement with the merchants there.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “If our kinswomen could be persuaded to produce enough woolen cloth to sell, they could make a small fortune. It would perhaps ease their burdens by providing a steady income.”

  “I am impressed, sweeting,” Niall remarked seriously. “You do indeed have a head for business.”

  His praise warmed Sabrina more than she cared to admit. She wanted to prove herself worth more than just the wealth her dowry would bring, and aiding her new clan in some small measure was a start.

  As for her duties as mistress,
she had plenty to occupy her time seeing to the household and clan concerns that were not a male purview. Mrs. Paterson helped greatly, as did the Widow Graham.

  Eve paid a visit two days after the wedding, offered her advice on dealing with the tenet crofters and suggesting they make plans for the May Day celebration that would be held the following week.

  It was a tradition for the castle to supply food and drink for the populace during the pagan festival of Beltane. When Eve accompanied her to the open market in Callander to shop, Sabrina felt quite domestic choosing giant wheels of cheese and ingredients for meat pasties.

  By silent consent, they avoided the subject of Sabrina’s husband. Yet he was constantly in her thoughts. Despite her best efforts to ignore him, she was not proof against his bewitching appeal.

  Her emotions swung between elation and dismay whenever she considered the future of their relationship. Niall McLaren was the most charming, infuriating, fascinating man alive, and against her will, she was falling under his irresistible, tender spell. It frightened her to realize how very vulnerable she was to him.

  It was the fourth day of their union when they had their first argument. To her dismay, she learned at breakfast that Niall had ordered a half dozen gowns made up for her from her stepfather’s gifts of fabric and some other bolts he himself had chosen.

  Despite the large dowry she would bring to her husband and his clan, Sabrina’s sense of frugality rebelled at the unnecessary extravagance.

  “The material is already paid for,” Niall replied when she objected. “Your stepfather obviously intended it for you.”

  “But there is no need to hire a seamstress. I can make up my own gowns.”

  “I prefer to maintain some semblance of style and fashion,” he said dryly.

  When Sabrina protested the expense, Niall looked at her oddly. “Do you ken how few women would refuse a new wardrobe?”

  “Perhaps not many. But I hope I am not like the simpering, fashionable ladies of your acquaintance.”

  He gave her an amused glance. “That you are not, but you are a laird’s wife now, with a certain presence to uphold. You require styles and colors that flatter and enhance your features to best advantage. And even if the dull frocks you wear didn’t offend my sense of dignity, a comely lass should be gowned in silks and lace.”

  “If I were comely—”

  He pressed his fingers to her lips, silencing her. “Hush, sweeting. Be a douce wife and indulge me in this.”

  Sabrina bit her tongue and subsided, knowing it was useless to protest. Niall had no more than a stranger’s acquaintance with the word no. He knew how to bend a woman to his every whim, and would have his way by any means necessary.

  It was when the seamstress came to take her measurements, however, that she discovered her husband intended to watch the proceedings. Niall settled himself in a chair before the fire, saying he wished to advise. Short of causing a scene, Sabrina could do little to prevent him from remaining in his own bedchamber.

  She tried to ignore him as she stripped down to her shift, yet she was palpably aware of his presence. He wore a leather waistcoat and trews, his hair drawn back in a queue, and though he looked quite at home amidst the rich bolts of fabric, his potent masculine energy was disquieting. As was the spark of interest she saw in his eyes when a swatch of lace was pulled tightly against her breasts.

  “The décolletage should be lower,” Niall recommended. “To show her bosom to advantage.”

  “Any lower would be indecent!” Sabrina protested.

  “Nay,” the seamstress said, agreeing with the laird, “’tis all the rage, milady. For daytime, ye may wear a modesty piece tucked into the bodice.”

  “Aye,” her husband concurred. “A fichu will provide a softness for your features that will be exceedingly alluring.”

  When Sabrina muttered again about the cost, Niall brushed aside her opposition. “These simple gowns cannot hope to match the extravagance of the costumes currently being worn in Europe. There the price of a single ball gown would feed a crofter’s family for a year, whereas these can be made up for a pittance.”

  And so it went, with Niall tossing out a suggestion here and there, and ordering accoutrements to go with each gown.

  When the seamstress had finished, Niall dismissed her, saying pleasantly, “I shall help my lady dress.”

  Sabrina tensed at the husky note in his voice. How did he make the prospect of dressing her sound like the most sensual thing in the world?

  “So,” Niall said when they were alone, “do you deny my expertise?”

  “No,” she had to admit; his choice of color and style was impeccable. “Your fame is well deserved.”

  “What is this, love? A compliment from your pretty lips?”

  Love. Sabrina bit her lip as she drew on her dressing gown, annoyed with the casual intimacy of the endearment. “Where did you learn about women’s fashions?”

  “I had a year in France and Italy.”

  She could easily picture him moving about the lavish courts and glittering salons of Europe, dancing attendance on princesses and duchesses. “I suppose that is where you honed your skills in the art of dalliance. The French are known for amorous talents.”

  “Indeed.” His smile was languid. “The French lasses nearly wore me out with their demands.”

  “How unfortunate they did not succeed.”

  Niall ignored her wry gibe. “It is time you had some gowns that don’t obscure your best features. You will look quite lovely in these new ones. I predict you will be the envy of every woman in the Highlands.”

  If they were envious, Sabrina reflected, it would solely be because she had wed the legendary Niall McLaren. “You don’t have to keep giving me false coin. I have no pretensions to beauty.”

  “Not in the common way, perhaps.” His thoughtful look took the sting from his frank assessment. “Yet the adage is entirely true about beauty and the beholder. Often much of a woman’s allure results purely from perception.”

  She regarded him skeptically.

  “Comeliness is much overrated,” Niall asserted, crossing his arms over his chest. “A charming vivacity, a clever wit, an intimate glance, a beguiling smile, can compensate for a multitude of physical shortfalls. Many a lass has made excellent use of more meager charms than you possess, cherie.”

  She made a face, but was unable to keep a hint of wistfulness from her tone when she replied, “I know very well gentlemen prefer beauty to plainness.”

  “Some do, perhaps. But believe me, classic beauty is not the prime attribute that attracts a man.”

  “In my experience, it is.”

  “But then, you have not had a vast deal of experience, have you?”

  “I’ve had enough.” She dropped her gaze. “I was betrothed once. He…found someone he preferred over me. Someone much more beautiful.”

  “He sounds like a fool.”

  “No, never that. He fell in love. He…wed my cousin.”

  Niall’s heavy dark brows drew together. “Ah, the cousin whose betrothal ball I attended last year. Tell me, is this the same man who cannot pleasure a lass in bed?”

  Sabrina remembered confiding her cousin’s view that only men enjoyed the act of lovemaking—and Niall’s swift response that her cousin was to be pitied. “I have no idea what his mating habits might be,” she retorted in embarrassment.

  “But your cousin has found no enjoyment in her marriage bed.” He smiled softly. “At the risk of sounding immodest, it seems that you made the better bargain in your marriage.”

  Had she made the better bargain? Sabrina wondered, searching his handsome face. Oliver would at least be faithful to her cousin, she was certain. She had no illusions about Niall. He had made very clear the terms of their union. He wanted to be free to continue his dissolute pursuits outside the marriage bed.

  Niall returned her regard speculatively, an unbidden tenderness tugging at him. It was lamentable, how little confidence Sabrin
a had in her own beauty. But he intended to prove her wrong. If he did nothing else in this marriage, he would make his sweet mouse blossom as a woman, with a woman’s passions.

  Rising slowly from his chair, he went to her. With his hands on her shoulders, Niall turned her slightly, positioning her in front of him so that she could see her image in the cheval glass.

  “Every woman has her own special beauty…her own scent…her own passion. Yours merely requires a sharper eye to uncover.”

  Was that his secret? Sabrina wondered dazedly. Was his incredible success with the gentler sex because he knew how to make a woman feel beautiful, desired?

  “Look at yourself, sweeting,” he murmured softly, “and see what I see.”

  She stared at her reflection, her breath faltering at her wanton image. The front of her robe had fallen open, and beneath the thin fabric of her shift, her nipples stood out like twin peaks, while her face was flushed with delicate color.

  “What…do you see?” she asked in a whisper.

  “A lovely lass whose charms are myriad. Look at this hair…so dark and rich, glimmering with hints of fire…”

  His fingers pulled the pins from her hair, letting it tumble past her shoulders in a wild, lush riot. “A man dreams of having such silken tresses wrapped around him. And this skin…” His hand lovingly cupped her slender throat. “A courtesan would kill for such soft, satin skin.”

  He eased the robe from her body, leaving her standing only in her linen shift. “And this form…Delicate white shoulders…sweet, firm breasts crowned with such exquisitely budded nipples…pale thighs that offer a man a glimpse of heaven…” His palm swept gently over her, arousing a sweetly aching awareness in all the places of her body where he’d touched. “Trust me, pet. I take great pleasure in the female body—and you have a body worth a king’s ransom.”

  Sabrina felt her breath shallow as she studied the muted reflection of the mirror, almost believing.

  “You really are utterly enchanting.”

  “I…don’t…”

  His hands on her shoulders, he drew her gently back till their bodies were lightly touching.

  “Yes, you are,” he repeated emphatically. “You have an allure all your own, sweet Sabrina. One most potent when you’re aroused. I relish that flash of fire in your eyes when your passion or fury is inflamed.”