“Aye,” Geordie agreed. “’Tis a braw land, for cert.”
Sabrina shook her head, wondering how her mother could have failed to appreciate such splendor. Yet gentle Grace Murray had hailed from civilized Edinburgh before wedding the only son of Laird Duncan. She?
??d never felt easy during her half dozen years in the Highlands, with their harsh way of life and brutal blood feuds. And she’d been intimidated by Angus Duncan. Angus had made no objection when, after her husband’s death, Grace had returned to Edinburgh with her young daughter.
Sabrina had no particular love for her grandfather, a man she scarcely even remembered, but neither did she bear him any ill will for ignoring her. She was pragmatic enough to understand his bitterness that she was not male. Only the most powerful clans ruled Scotland, and without sons to carry on as laird, Clan Duncan would not survive.
They forded a swift-flowing burn, and Sabrina had to call out to her dog to prevent him from stopping to trout-fish. Part mastiff, Rab nearly rivaled a Highland pony in size, and possessed ten times the appetite.
Rab seemed to be enjoying himself immeasurably as he bounded beside her mount. He had sniffed out a rabbit for breakfast, but she was hard pressed to keep him from pursuing the herds of shaggy cattle and flocks of grazing sheep they passed.
He, too, was unaccustomed to such glorious freedom. This rough countryside was a far cry from the narrow wynds and hidden closes of Edinburgh, where timber-framed houses stood packed so tightly they blocked out the sky. Here at the edge of the Highlands, whitewashed cottages roofed with thatch gave way to stone crofts covered with peat, where farmers eked out meager crops of barley and oats from the poor soil.
“Half a league to Callander,” Liam pointed out solemnly. “’Tis a village of considerable size, the last ye’ll find in these parts.”
The two Duncan kinsmen whom her grandfather had sent to escort her were her distant cousins. Liam, dark and silent, claimed to have been a close friend of her late father’s. Geordie, red-haired and garrulous, was much closer to her own age and, Sabrina had discovered, a fountain of knowledge regarding her clan’s history. Both men considered it vital that she learn even the most insignificant details, since she was Angus Duncan’s sole direct descendant, his only grandchild by his only son.
Since leaving Edinburgh early that morning, Geordie had kept her entertained with his constant prater, regaling her with vivid tales of feuds and battles and risings, when clan swords ran with blood and vengeance meant more than daily bread.
“There’s no’ so long a memory as a Highlander’s, nor greater loyalty,” Geordie had boasted but an hour ago.
A savage feud raged even now, according to her kinsmen. Angus Duncan was a proud Scottish chieftain, but not powerful enough to protect his clan from the Buchanans, who had been their enemies for generations. Reportedly, the situation fretted him greatly; she’d listened to little else for the past seven hours.
She’d been surprised at Angus’s acknowledgment of her after so little contact over the years. Once, several years ago, he’d written to ask her to return to the Highlands for a visit, but she couldn’t possibly have left her ailing mother then. And the offer had never been renewed. Their last correspondence was when he’d sent condolences upon the death of her mother.
She remembered Angus Duncan as a gruff, blustery figure who was always shouting, yet she was saddened to be summoned to his death bed. She had no notion what he wished of her, except perhaps a desire to see his closest kin one last time. But as her grandfather’s sole surviving heir, she felt obligated to pay her final respects.
In truth, she had been eager to come, even though it meant leaving her stepfather to fend for himself with the household and his bustling trade. The visit afforded her an opportunity to avoid a particularly persistent suitor who was more interested in her dowry than her person. And if she were entirely honest with herself, she would admit relief in escaping the proximity of her former suitor and the constant reminder of her loss. Her cousin Frances had made a radiant bride, her happiness with Oliver apparent. Sabrina could not help but experience a twinge of envy whenever they met.
But all that was behind her, Sabrina vowed, her spirits lifting as they neared the large village of Callander. She was here now, and she felt an inexplicable attachment for her father’s homeland. The Highlands held a powerful enchantment for her…the promise of excitement and adventure and romance, so different from her own tame existence. She felt drawn by this magnificent land, as if it were in her very blood.
The tavern where they paused to rest was a two-story, rambling hostelry with a thatched roof and mullioned windows. Her muscles aching, Sabrina gingerly allowed Liam to aid her to dismount in the yard.
“I trow the McLaren is here,” Geordie observed, nodding at a band of horses tethered to one side.
Sabrina felt her heart skip a beat, knowing he referred to Niall McLaren, now the Earl of Strathearn and laird of his clan. To her dismay, she’d thought of him much too often since that moonlit night so many months ago when he’d kissed her in her aunt’s garden. Despite her dislike of him and his bold arrogance, he’d invaded her dreams far more intimately than was proper. When she’d agreed to come to her grandfather’s side, she couldn’t help but wonder if she would see the dashing Highlander during her visit. Now it seemed as if she might before she even arrived.
Willing herself to calm, she called to Rab and followed Liam stiffly inside, while Geordie saw to the horses.
She spied Niall McLaren at once. Across the smoke-hazed taproom, a half dozen men sat gathered at one long oaken table, quaffing mugs of foaming ale. She felt her pulse quicken in response—yet, fortunately, he seemed to take no notice of her arrival.
“We’ll take a wee bite, mistress,” Liam informed Sabrina.
When she had settled on a bench at an adjacent table, she pointed to the floor beside her. “Rab, lie.”
The great hound flopped down obediently, his chin on his paws, his brown eyes gazing adoringly up at her.
Liam ordered their dinner from the harried innkeeper, while Sabrina found her gaze drawn to the McLaren. He sat in profile to her, but she was still afforded a view of the startling physical beauty that made women’s hearts scamper and men’s grow green with envy.
Niall McLaren was unforgettable under any circumstances, but she had good reason to recall him.
Remembering their one confrontation, Sabrina felt her cheeks flood with color, yet she couldn’t drag her gaze away. He was dressed much less formally than their last encounter, his broad-shouldered frame garbed in a full-sleeved saffron shirt unlaced at the neck; his powerful legs clad in black jackboots and trews—close-fitting knit trousers made of tartan cloth.
At his waist he wore a belted sword, and over one shoulder he’d flung the McLaren plaid of vivid green crisscrossed with squares of sky blue and thin lines of red and yellow. His unpowdered raven hair, which was clubbed at the nape, gleamed with blue-black highlights as he turned his head toward her—
Sabrina gave a start as his bold gaze collided with hers.
Unnervingly, she realized he was watching her, his eyebrows meeting in a thick black line over incredibly blue eyes.