“That is a prime advantage.”
Niall could not disagree. With such poor ground for farming, the Highlands boasted precious little resources to support so many mouths. Indeed, much of his time went to seeing that his clansmen were adequately fed and housed. Any wealth a bride brought his clan would be welcome. It was the bride herself he could summon little desire for.
Niall stared grimly into his whisky, remembering quite clearly his one meeting with Mistress Duncan the night she’d interrupted his pleasure at her aunt’s ball. Plain, prim, sharp-tongued. A thoroughly nondescript figure of a girl, one he would not normally look at twice. Except perhaps for the intelligence in her dark eyes, her features fell far short of beauty.
Certainly not the sort of lass to appeal to a man of his discriminating tastes and strong appetites.
God’s blood, a prudish, disapproving virgin was the last woman he wanted in his bed. Mistress Duncan was too tame, too proper and dispassionate for him. Too vexing.
He was passionately fond of women in general, long addicted to the charms of lushly endowed beauties. He preferred women like Eve Graham, who were startlingly attractive and who could match him in passion.
In truth, his requirements for a bride were not so exorbitant. He could forswear beauty in a wife if necessary. And perhaps even passion. He was willing to make most any sacrifice for the sake of his clan. Since becoming laird, he had searched for a bride who would make a worthy mistress of Clan McLaren. He needed a lass who would give him strong sons to carry on after him. One who would put the welfare of the clan above her own interests.
His own mother had been such a woman. Judith McLaren’s husband and sons had fairly worshiped her. He could not see mousy Sabrina Duncan filling her shoes. Mistress Duncan knew nothing of the Highlands or the needs of his clan.
Nor could he picture her as his lover. They would not suit in any respect, not if the virginal inexperience he’d tasted in her kiss was any indication.
He had kissed her because…why? For the challenge, perhaps. He’d been irritated with her from the first. And she seemed unimpressed by his face and form, completely immune to masculine charm. Her obvious skittishness over his advances had brought out the primitive male urge to chase fleeing prey.
Most assuredly, he would never have seriously considered indulging his desire.
But before he could put it to the test, he’d received the terrible news about his father and brother. He still winced to recall the savage blow. And even now he could not think of Sabrina Duncan without recalling that terrible time of pain and grief.
“Well,” Eve murmured, interrupting his grim thoughts. “’Twill be unfortunate if you must enter into an arranged marriage, but not catastrophic. An unwanted bride cannot expect you to remain faithful to the marriage bed. You can still enjoy your former pursuits, can you not?”
Aye, Niall thought silently, resentment and frustration flaring anew. He would do his duty. He would endure a cold-blooded marriage for the sake of his clan. But he had no intention of changing his way of life to satisfy his bride’s prudish notions of conduct. If Mistress Duncan could not accept him on those terms, then she was free to find another husband.
When Niall made no reply, Eve eased herself from the table and sauntered over to stand before him. “You will still be welcome in my bed any time, my lord,” she breathed coyly, her hands reaching up to part the bodice of her dressing gown, baring the voluptuous curves of her breasts for his sensual appreciation. “Will you stay the night, Niall?”
His mouth twisted without humor. “I doubt I will make pleasant company. My disposition is not the sweetest at the moment.”
“Then I shall contrive to soothe your dark mood.” Her fingers trailed lazily down his chest to unfasten the buttons of his leather breeches, slipping inside the folds to find heated skin. “You consoled me most generously when my husband died. ’Tis only fitting I console you.”
For a moment he stood contemplating her, wondering if he could summon the desire she expected; inexplicably his vaunted appetite had deserted him.
“Please…Niall…I want you again.” Her eyes were heated with passion, imploring, as she traced the pulsing length of his swelling manhood.
With a mental sigh, Niall set his glass on the table and solicitously turned to her. Reining in his frustration, he softly murmured a lie. “And I want you as well, pet.”
He forced a smile to his lips as he cupped her lush breasts in a practiced arousal. When he bent to take one distended nipple into his mouth, Eve moaned sharply and closed her fingers around his stiffening erection.
Niall’s body responded automatically to the sensual intimacy, but his mind remained distant and apart from his pleasure, his caresses habitual, his thoughts still on his dilemma.
In all honor he could not refuse to acknowledge the obligation to Angus Duncan. He had no choice but to agree to the marriage.
But Mistress Duncan would discover that all her vast wealth could not buy her a tame lackey for a husband. He would not give up his pleasures for her sake.
And she would find little enjoyment in being his bride.
“’Tis not so far to the tavern, mistress,” Geordie Duncan claimed cheerfully. “Then ye can rest awee and drink a dram.”
Sabrina gave the brawny Highlander a grateful smile. For one unaccustomed to riding, seven hours on horseback buffeted by a chill, blustery wind had sorely tested her endurance. And they’d only just now reached the Scottish Highlands. It would require two hours more through difficult terrain to gain Banesk, the seat of Clan Duncan, where her grandfather Angus lay gravely ill.
She and her two Duncan escorts had followed the wretched roads north and east from Edinburgh across lowland country, but as they emerged from a pine forest, the sight of the uplands in the distance made Sabrina sharply draw rein.
The spectacular vista stole her breath away. She had been but a child of four when she’d left the place of her birth, and had forgotten the rugged beauty—the rolling glens and misty lochs and wild moors, interspersed with magnificent craggy hills that changed hues with the seasons. Just now the green-gray slopes were splashed buttery yellow with spring gorse and Scotch broom; in summer they would be dusted violet with wild bell-heather, and in autumn, russet with dried bracken.
“’Tis so beautiful,” she murmured almost reverently.