Shyly, Sabrina met his gaze in the glass. “You…truly think I am beautiful?”
“Aye…beautiful and vibrant…Magnificent in every way.”
Niall watched her eyes brighten with a flash of pleasure, and felt a sense of deep satisfaction. He had been right about the rose color for her; it brought out the richness of her hair and eyes, the luminous warmth of her skin. But it was Sabrina herself he needed to convince. He was determined to make her see what a marvelous woman she could be, to believe in her own feminine power.
“Look at yourself…” he ordered softly. One hand lifted to her bare, silken shoulder. “How could any flesh-and-blood man resist? Look at this lustrous hair…so dark and rich and shot with the red and gold of a Highland sunrise. These remarkable eyes that can flash with fury or passion. This delicate face, with the fine cheekbones and full, kissable mouth…This long, slender throat. This skin, so soft and glowing…You bring me to my knees, cherie. As you will every other gentleman present tonight.”
Sabrina felt herself flushing. Niall’s praise warmed her immeasurably. She had tried hard to please him during the past weeks, striving to become the sensual woman he wanted her to be. In truth, she felt like a different person entirely from the staid spinster who had traveled here to the Highlands to pay a visit to her dying grandfather. Tonight, however, she was overwrought with nerves. This would be the first true test of her new identity, attending a function with guests other than their clansmen.
“Faith, you’re tempting, mouse,” Niall breathed in a husky intimate tone, his thumb caressing the bare curve of her throat.
He was tempting, as well. Having chosen more formal attire than a Highland kilt, he wore a long flaring coat and matching waistcoat of pale blue brocade, with white satin breeches and silver-buckled shoes, and a froth of lace at throat and wrists. The effect was bold, rugged, elegant. His sun-bronzed complexion and unpowdered raven hair, drawn back by a ribbon, would make the other painted, bewigged lords and gentlemen appear ghostly and effeminate.
Sabrina was gazing at him in admiration when Niall casually presented her with the jewel casket. Opening it, he drew out a pendant encrusted with delicate rubies.
Sabrina gasped at the costly gems as he fastened it around her throat.
“Perfect,” Niall observed appreciatively.
Her fingers rose to touch the pendant. “Niall…I wish to thank you.”
“There is no need, sweeting. The jewels belong to the McLaren’s lady. As my wife you are entitled to wear them.”
“Not just for the jewels, although they are splendid. I mean…for your excellent tutoring these past weeks.”
He smiled briefly and pressed a light kiss in the curve of her neck. “’Twas entirely my pleasure. You have succeeded beyond my wildest expectations.”
His touch was casual, but all Sabrina could think of was Niall’s soft, demanding mouth, his hard fingers, arousing her to heights of passion she’d never dreamed of.
It came as a disappointment when he merely offered his hand to escort her below to the waiting carriage.
By the time they arrived, however, Sabrina was beginning to feel a reckless sense of daring. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful, indeed almost powerful, and confident enough of her feminine charms to fulfill Niall’s prophecy.
The Widow Graham’s home was a stately dwelling built within the last decade, without the aged charm or enduring strength of the McLarens’ Creagturic. Scores of expensive candles lit the immense drawing room, which was crowded with guests clad in a blaze of silks, satins, and costly brocades.
Eve met them at the entrance, resplendent in a ravishing gown of pale yellow silk damask heavily embroidered with ribbons and lace.
“How delighted I am you could come,” the widow said to Sabrina, though her gaze lingered on Niall. “I trust you will be pleased by the music, my dear. I have arranged for a singer with the most divine voice, as well as performances on the pianoforte and harp. I mean to show that we Highlanders are not such savages as one might think. Pray, let me make you known to my other guests….”
As the introductions were made, Sabrina was grateful for Niall’s insistence upon gowning her in a manner befitting a laird’s wife. The company included not only the local gentry and clan chiefs, but noblemen and military officers from distant districts, and several prominent Englishmen as well.
It gave her a moment’s pause to realize Owen Buchanan had attended along with two of his sons. Beside her, she felt Niall go rigid as he spied the Buchanan. The sheer animosity bristling between the two men was apparent, though they remained in opposite corners of the room.
“If you wonder,” Eve murmured to Sabrina, “why the Buchanans received an invitation, ’twas unavoidable. Do you see the lady there in the plum gown? She is a cousin of my late husband’s and is wed to Owen’s eldest son. But I have every hope the Highlanders will restrain their animosity. They will not wish to let the Englishmen present suspect any dissension among the local clans. Now pray, Sabrina, let me introduce you….”
Sabrina took a deep breath and adopted the hint of an alluring smile, just as Niall had taught her.
She was startled by how easy it was. Not only did the gentlemen respond eagerly to her tentative attempts at flirtation, but to her surprise and amusement, she soon found herself the center of male attention.
Her husband was not at all surprised by her success.
Long familiar with being conspicuous and sought after himself, Niall at first was pleased to see his bride claim the admiration she was due. Ordinarily not an overt beauty, Sabrina seemed one tonight, with the burnished highlights of her hair richly shimmering in the glow of candlelight, her dark eyes bright with eager pleasure, her ivory complexion delicately hued with excitement. He left her side only for a moment to fetch her a cup of punch before the musical program began, and when he returned, it was to find her holding court before a bevy of admirers.
Indeed, Sabrina was in danger of being overwhelmed, most particularly from a lusty Scottish aristocrat casting lecherous eyes on her, and a dashing English colonel determined to win her smile.
Niall could understand the appeal. Discriminating gentlemen appreciated a woman of intelligence and wit, and Sabrina, with her rapier tongue and quick understanding, presented the most fascinating of challenges. She had the added cachet of having captured a notorious rake’s hand in marriage, but it was the woman herself who commanded attention. She had changed in some indefinable way, had gained an immeasurable quality that lured male eyes and hinted at beguiling secrets; an enticing suggestion that hidden beneath that serene, unprepossessing facade lay a woman of fire and passion.
It made a man wild to discover if it were true.
Even he was not invulnerable, Niall realized in surprise. Incredibly he was attracted to his own wife. When Sabrina lifted her gaze and caught sight of him through the crowd, her face lit in a way that made his loins throb.
His response was so swift, so unexpected, that he could not check it. Frowning, Niall forced himself to look away.
He was still pondering his reaction when his former mistress joined him.
“Your bride seems to be greatly enjoying her conquests,” Eve remarked. “I commend you, darling. You have worked wonders with the lass.”
Unwillingly, Niall’s glance returned to Sabrina. He should feel triumphant. He had accomplished precisely what he’d intended. He had set out to transform his mouse of a bride into a tiger and had succeeded far beyond his expectations. Sabrina was proving to be a magnificent woman.
And yet…he wasn’t certain he liked her this way. She was flirting and laughing for the admiration of other men, much like the shallow, simpering beauties he’d spent his leisure pursuing in the game of love. The sight of Sabrina engaging in the same amusements left him feeling an inexplicable dissatisfaction.
Faith, perhaps he’d unleashed more of a tiger than was wise, Niall acknowledged. As he watched her parry a wicked remark with a barbed
retort of her own, he had to repress the urge to intervene.
Sweet saints, one could almost call the sentiment jealousy.
With a stab of annoyance, Niall shook his head. The notion that he would become enamored of his own wife was absurd.
He forced a sanguine smile and answered Eve with a languid question about the program.
It was some consolation, Niall reflected restlessly as he sat through the first musical interval, that he need not worry about Sabrina’s interest being attached by some profligate cavalier. She was too enamored of her husband.
It came as an unpleasant shock when at the second intermission he discovered his bride was not the loyal innocent he judged her.
Flushed with success and the warmth of the crowded drawing room, Sabrina had slipped out onto the terrace for a breath of air, hoping that her husband would pursue her there. She wanted to laugh with Niall at her success and quiz him about how to discourage overzealous admirers—a position she’d never thought to find herself in.
Yet when she heard footsteps behind her and glanced over her shoulder, she was taken aback to find the gentleman was none other than Keith Buchanan, the fourth and youngest son to the bloody Buchanan laird, the only one yet unwed. He resembled his father, with the same powerful build and swarthy complexion, though he lacked the beard.
“Pray do not go, milady,” Keith urged quietly.
Sabrina hesitated, her fingers clenched on the marble balustrade. This man was a mortal enemy of her clan and of her husband. It was dangerous to be in such close proximity, yet she refused to flee in fear.
Her blood still boiled to remember the Buchanans’ perfidy last month. Their laird had pledged his word to become allies, agreeing to a feu duty in exchange for a truce, and then struck without warning, raiding Duncan cattle while professing peace.
Keith Buchanan moved to stand beside her, eyeing her intently. “So this is the lass who threatened to cut out my da’s heart and fought hand to hand against my kinsmen.” His tone suggested bitterness and something more: admiration. “Ye must be glad of yer success. Ye offered to become allies, only to lure us into yer trap. Ye snagged us as sure as a salmon trout.”
“I?” Sabrina asked, startled by his vehemence. “I was not the one to deal in treachery.”
“Were ye not? We didna start the reiving. Ye thieving Duncans did. We bargained in good faith, yet the moment we lowered our guard, ye dealt us a blow.”
“We did no such thing, sirrah!”
He took a menacing step closer, his hulking frame looming over her. “Do ye call me a liar?”
Sabrina took a deep breath. “I have no earthly idea if you are lying, but I assure you, you are gravely mistaken as to the sequence of events. We would never have raided your cattle had you not stolen ours first!”
Keith reached up to grasp her chin with hard fingers, forcing her face up to his. Sabrina held her ground, despite her sudden trembling.
“We dinna start the feud, I tell ye!”
“Nor did we!”
He muttered an oath at her fierce denial, his rough hands gripping her upper arms, crushing the fine silk of her gown.
“Unhand me, sirrah,” she demanded breathlessly, “before I cry for aid. My husband would not be best pleased to find you mauling me.”
He made no response as he stared at her, his angry eyes searching hers stonily. He must, however, have been surprised by what he saw, for over the span of a dozen heartbeats, his withering scorn took on a measure of doubt, almost of puzzlement.
“’Tis a rotten fish I smell,” he said slowly. “If ye dinna start it…”
Never one to be slow-witted, Sabrina grasped what he was intimating. If neither of them was lying about initiating the raid, perhaps they had both been deceived.
Her own brows drew together in a frown. “Yet someone had to have resumed the feud. Someone bent on mischief…”
“Or treachery.”
“But who?”
“What of yer husband?”
“Niall? He would never attempt anything so underhanded. He’s made no secret of his dislike of your clan.”
“Perhaps he wouldna tell ye.”
The murmur of voices startled them both from their quarrel. A young couple had strolled out onto the terrace and were eyeing them curiously.
Sabrina tried to pull away, but Keith Buchanan’s grip tightened, frustration ripe on his expression. “This discussion isna over, milady. Can ye meet with me on the morrow?”
“Meet with you?”
“Aye. Do ye know Loch Voil?”
“Yes, but—”
“At the northern end, a burn spills into the loch. Ye’ll find me there when the sun is highest—”
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” a drawling masculine voice interjected, a voice which held the cutting edge of a claymore.
Sabrina froze. Niall stood at the open French doors, looking ruggedly elegant in his formal attire. Beyond him, Eve Graham hovered, her eyes wide with curiosity and dismay.
Sabrina gave a guilty start. She had not meant for her husband to see her associating with his foe. Yet Niall gave her no opportunity to explain, before saying in a dangerously silken tone, “You will no doubt desire to return to the drawing room, my sweet. You would not wish to miss the remainder of the excellent performance.”
Sabrina hesitated. She had no desire to cause a scene, yet perhaps it was wiser to wait till she could speak to Niall privately, when his fury had diminished a bit.
“Sabrina.” He said nothing further, his eyes merely impaling her.
“Yes…of course,” she stammered. With an apologetic glance at Keith Buchanan, she picked up her skirts and fled inside—only to come face to face with the Widow Graham.
“I know,” Eve murmured, her eyes troubled, “that I advised you to engage in a flirtation with other gentlemen, but really, Sabrina, was it wise to choose Niall’s blood rival?”
“I assure you, I was not flirting.”
“It certainly appeared that way. He looked about to kiss you.”
“You cannot believe I would have permitted such a thing.”
“What I believe is not the issue, I fear.”
Sabrina glanced over her shoulder, wishing she could divine what was going forth on the terrace.
It would have surprised her to know Niall was battling feelings of fury and betrayal—just as it surprised him. He wasn’t at all prepared for the jealous wrath he’d felt upon seeing Sabrina in the arms of another man…especially this man. That she would tarry here with the blood kin of Owen Buchanan, her head bent close, whispering as she made an assignation to meet with him on the morrow, filled Niall with a rage befitting his savage Highland ancestors.
It required a herculean effort to keep his voice level as he addressed Keith Buchanan. “You will not make your rendezvous tomorrow with my wife, I think.”
Buchanan clenched a defiant fist, his reply taunting. “Will I not, now?”
Niall smiled chillingly. “Not if you care to see another dawn.”
For a long moment the two men stared at each other.
“By god, mon,” Keith said finally, his tone scornful, “I never took ye for a fool. But that plucky lass doesna deserve ye.”
He stalked passed Niall then, bristling with ire.
It was a short while later before Niall joined his wife in the drawing room. His blue eyes glittered like ice as he resumed his seat beside her. Sabrina breathed a sigh of relief when the interminable performance at last ended.
The air was brittle with tension, however, as Niall escorted her to their waiting carriage. When they were underway, he sat smoldering in silence for several moments.
In the dim interior, she couldn’t clearly make out his features, but his voice, when he finally spoke, held an edge of steel. “I warn you, mouse, I will not tolerate being gifted with a pair of horns.”
“Horns?”
“I will not countenance being cuckolded.”
Her jaw dropped. Sabrina sta
red at him blankly, wishing she could see him in the darkness. Had it been any other man, she might have thought him jealous!
“I cannot imagine what put that absurd notion in your head,” she finally said.
“Mayhap because I found my wife embracing the son of my greatest foe.”
“I was not embracing him! We were holding a private conversation, merely that.”
“Well, in future I forbid you to speak to him, privately or otherwise.”
Sabrina stiffened, her anger roused to be treated like a disobedient child. “Simply because you hold such vast expertise in cuckolding indifferent husbands is no justification to accuse me of immorality. I am no adulteress.”
“Not yet, perhaps.”
His reply struck her like a blow, driving her breath away. How could he possibly believe her guilty of infidelity? She had never done anything to warrant such a vile accusation.
When she remained silent, Niall caught her elbow, drawing her close…so close she could see his features. His mouth hovered just above hers, its beautiful lines stark and sensual, as if etched from stone. “I will brook no impropriety in my bride, do you ken me?”
“Yes, I ken you,” she retorted, her voice shaking. “It is clear that your standards of conduct make no pretense of evenhandedness. It is perfectly acceptable for you to behave like a randy stallion, while I must remain altogether virtuous.”
“Exactly.”
She wrenched her arm away. “You need not fear, my lord. I have every intention of honoring my marriage vows—even though I’m certain you cannot make the same pledge. I doubt there is a female in the district you have not seduced.”
“It is different for a man.”
“Is it?” Her voice dripped scorn.
“Indeed. As a male, I cannot spawn another man’s by-blow.”
“So that gives you license to rut with anything in skirts?”
She could feel Niall’s narrowed gaze piercing her. “I need no license to seek other companionship. I made no promise of fidelity when I agreed to this damnable union.”
Flinching, Sabrina dropped her own gaze, her lowered lashes masking the pain.
The Lover Page 24
