The Lover (8 page)

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 weather had turned stormy, with gusting rain lashing at the manor and enveloping the interior in a chill, gray gloom. Unhappily, the delay gave Sabrina too much leisure to regret her decision. Her grandfather attributed her qualms to bridal nerves, but when she remained determined to speak to her future husband, Angus sent her kinsman to accompany her.

“Take Geordie with you, lass,” he ordered. “It isna safe for womenfolk to go traipsing about the countryside with the Buchanans lurking about.”

With an armed Geordie riding escort and Rab bounding along beside her mount, Sabrina struck out for the McLaren’s home, Creagturic.

Her spirits rebounded as she rode through the rugged hills. The rain had ceased, and on this bright, blustery spring morning, the early mists had burned away, leaving an emerald vision of untamed grandeur.

Sabrina felt her breath catch with enchantment. Whatever doubts she had about her marriage to the McLaren, she was glad she had returned home to this splendid country. The Highlands were seeping into her soul, calling to her; she felt the lure deep in her blood.

And as she drew rein and sat gazing up at the imposing stone castle that would soon be her new home, her heart hammered with delight and trepidation.

Set against a range of sweeping hills, surrounded by forested glens of alder and birch, the ancient family seat of the McLarens stood overlooking the clear blue waters of a tranquil loch. Despite its stark beauty, it was a formidable stronghold, obviously the domain of a warring clan.

“’Twas built by Malcolm the Bold, Niall’s great-great-grandda,” Geordie volunteered. “Besieged twice, but never been taken.”

They rode across a stone bridge to enter the walled bailey, although the portcullis, a relic of feudal days, was no longer in use. The yard was immense, boasting a dozen timber outbuildings including a stable and smithy. After dismounting and securing her mount’s reins to a ring, Sabrina ordered her canine escort to remain at the foot of the sweeping stone stairway, and climbed with Geordie to the great oaken entrance door.

The interior of the castle, at least, appeared to have been gentled by a civilized hand, Sabrina reflected admiringly as they were shown inside. The stone walls of the great hall had been brightened with whitewash and adorned with fine tapestries in addition to weapons, while the massive oak furniture gleamed with beeswax.

The elderly housekeeper eyed Sabrina curiously. “’Tis pleased I am to make your acquaintance, Mistress Duncan,” Mrs. Paterson asserted, “but I fear the laird isna home presently.”

“Do you anticipate his return any time soon? I have been attempting for several days to speak to him.”

“Aweel, he’s been gone the night, but told me to expect him this morn.”

Sabrina pressed her lips together dryly, well able to imagine what had kept the laird out all night. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to allow us to await him?”

“Aye, of course. Come with me, if you please.”

With Geordie, Sabrina followed the housekeeper upstairs, past the minstrels’ gallery overlooking the great hall, to a handsome drawing room. The walls were decorated with rich wainscoting and flocked damask wallpaper, and an exquisite pianoforte of inlaid rosewood stood in the far corner opposite the hearth.

“That fine instrument belonged to Mistress McLaren,” the housekeeper said, correctly interpreting Sabrina’s expression of pleasure. “A saintly woman, if there ever was.”

“Would that be the McLaren’s mother?”

“Aye, indeed. She passed on to her Maker some three years ago, a fierce blow to us all. If you will make yourself at home, mistress, I shall bring you a wee drop of refreshment.”

“Thank you, but that isn’t necessary.”

“But the laird may be long in coming.”

“I am prepared to wait all day if need be,” Sabrina said darkly. When the housekeeper had gone, she settled herself on a brocade settee while Geordie walked the floor restlessly, more comfortable out-of-doors than in the refined environs of a drawing room. It took some prodding to persuade him to tell her of the McLaren family, but Sabrina managed to learn a good deal about Niall’s late parents and brothers.

It was perhaps an hour later when they heard the clatter of horses’ hooves beyond the drawing room window. Geordie stopped his pacing to gaze down at the courtyard.

“’Tis the McLaren and John.”

“John?” Sabrina asked, rising to join him at the window.

“Aye, Niall’s cousin…and a great friend to his da.”

There were two horsemen below, Sabrina saw. One was Niall; the other the brawny Highlander who’d come to fetch him at her aunt’s ball in Edinburgh so many months ago with the terrible news of the laird’s ambush by the Buchanans. The two men had halted before the stable.

Below her, Rab jumped up, ears alert. Abandoning his post by the stair, the great animal bounded across the yard to greet the new arrivals.

It irked Sabrina to see Rab dancing in circles, emitting excited barks of welcome. The McLaren laird had been a total stranger to him until a few days ago.

To her further dismay, she saw Niall stiffen and glance up at the window where she stood. Apparently he had recognized her dog and took no pleasure in her presence.

His expression grim, he murmured something to his companion, who also looked up.

Sabrina stepped back from the window. “Geordie,” she said curtly, trying to keep hold of her patience. “When the McLaren arrives, would you be so kind as to step outside the room for a moment? What I have to say to him is better said in private.”

“How splendid,” Niall muttered sardonically. “A visit from my betrothed. A fitting end to a delightful morning.”

“Do ye require my help dismounting, lad?” John asked.

Shaking his head, Niall swung down from his mount and winced at the sharp ache in his ribs. Guardedly he bent to scratch the fawning dog behind his ears. “I’ll see to the horses, John. I’d be obliged if you would go and discover what Mistress Duncan wants.”

“I’ve nae doubt she wishes to see you.”

“Perhaps, but I’m in no humor to play the ardent suitor.”

As a result of the recent torrential rains, a nearby dam had washed out last night, flooding tenants’ crofts and destroying newly planted fields. Niall had spent the night helping to divert the burn and shore up the dam, but he hadn’t been quick enough to elude a log that had slipped its chains and barreled into him. In addition to nearly drowning in the burn, he’d suffered bruised ribs and a gash in his right hip.

The wound was not life-threatening, but painful enough to cause discomfort. And now, besides lacking sleep and being soaked to the bone, he had to face his betrothed who had come to call.

“I’d deem it a favor if you would make my excuses and send her on her way.”

At least John did not argue. “I’ll do my best, lad. I’ll send Jean to you. That wound must be tended.”

A chambermaid in the laird’s employ, Jean sometimes assisted the local midwife in difficult deliveries and knew about patching wounds.

“Very well. And find me some dry clothing, if you please. I’ll await Jean in the herbal.”

Niall turned the horses over to a stable groom and entered the outbuilding that had once been part of the castle garrison and now served as an infirmary. Bundles of herbs hung from the rafters while jars of unguents and potions lined the wooden shelves.

His plaid was the only garment that hadn’t been drenched, and when he’d tossed that aside, he had to clench his teeth against the chill air.

With care he removed his damp shirt and boots, then gingerly shed his trews, wincing at the gash on his hip as he peeled away the tartan cloth. Then wrapping his plaid around his bare body, Niall settled himself on the cot to await Jean and wearily closed his eyes.

He had resigned himself to marriage with Mistress Sabrina Duncan, but at this moment, he was more than gratified to escape an audience with her.

“Ye’re the lass from Edinburgh,” John pronounced when Geordie had made the introductions.

“Yes,” Sabrina replied, unoffended by his fierce scrutiny of her, knowing it was because she would likely become the mistress of Clan McLaren. He doubtless felt a proprietary interest in any decision regarding the laird’s bride and felt the need to pass judgment on her.

A hulking Highland warrior with the same wavy black hair as many others of his clan, including the laird, John towered over her and outweighed her by some eight stone. But while Sabrina might have been a trifle intimidated by his brawn and his dark scowl, she dared not show it, not if she hoped to win his respect.

Almost defiantly, she lifted her chin and returned his gaze steadily. “Well, do I meet with your approval, sir?”

His intense expression relaxed, and to her surprise and relief, he grinned. “Aye, I ken ye’ll do. Ye’ve the look of Angus about ye. And ye’ve his spirit as well, I trow.”

“Thank you,” Sabrina said, taking his reply to be a high compliment. “I should like to speak to the McLaren, if I may.”

Averting his gaze uncomfortably, John equivocated. “I fear the laird is indisposed at present.”

“Indisposed? But I saw him below just a short while ago…”

She glanced briefly out the window, just in time to see a young woman garbed in a white apron slip inside the same outbuilding Niall had entered.

Her jaw hardening for an instant, Sabrina forced herself to take a calming breath to control her vexation. It was not only that her betrothed chose to conduct his amorous affairs directly under her nose; she could make no demands on him before they were even wed. It was his gall in leaving her to cool her heels while he did it!

“Forgive me, John McLaren,” she said with a dryness bordering on the acerbic. “I seem to have chosen an inappropriate time to call. Pray tell the laird when next you see him that I am most anxious to discuss the particulars of the wedding arrangements with him.”

It took every ounce of restraint Sabrina possessed to calmly take her leave from the Highlander and make her way down to the yard outside.

Asking a bewildered Geordie to wait for her then—and ordering a disappointed Rab to stay—Sabrina left her guardians to march across the yard to the building where Niall and the young woman had disappeared.

It came as no surprise to hear the sound of feminine laughter issuing from within or, when she rapped lightly, to hear a rich and familiar voice bid entrance.

Sabrina had scarcely taken a step inside, however, when she halted abruptly at the brazen sight that greeted her. Upon the cot, in a state of complete undress, Niall McLaren reclined with his back to the wall. The lass sitting beside him at least was gowned, but she was leaning over him solicitously, one hand resting on his bare chest.

Niall looked up, a look of annoyance hardening his stubble-shadowed jaw.

“F-Forgive me,” Sabrina stammered. “I did not realize…I never…”

He sighed in resignation. “Now that you’ve intruded, you may as well stay.” He gave the serving lass a pat on her well-curved hip. “That will be all, Jean,” he murmured, his voice a husky drawl. “We will resume this later.”

With a glance at Sabrina, the young woman rose and made a curtsy. “As ye wish, milord.”

“Oh, and Jean, bring refreshment for Mistress Duncan, if you please.”

Too flustered to countermand the request, Sabrina merely stepped aside. Jean brushed past her, leaving her alone with her host.

He was a breathtaking man, she thought distractedly as her eyes adjusted to the muted light. Freed of its queue, his hair fell in silken disarray, emphasizing the corded width of his shoulders. His broad, bronzed chest was lightly furred with ebony down that whorled lower in a sensual motif, narrowing over his flat, hard stomach…Sabrina’s gaze faltered momentarily.