The Lover

He seemed unsurprised to find her here—or perhaps he simply had no remembrance of her. She wore no hair pomade this time, or any of the elaborate puffs and rolls that had adorned her coiffure the evening of her cousin’s betrothal ball. And doubtless kissing strange females in moonlit gardens was so common an occurrence for him that he thought nothing of it.

Absurdly the thought disappointed Sabrina. She would never forget his brazen arrogance the night he had breathed life and excitement into her dull existence, never forget the sensual feel of that hard body flush against hers, the taste of his lips….

Forcing herself to release her bated breath, Sabrina chided herself roundly. She was no swooning maiden, to be swept off her feet by a handsome face and form, or to be unsettled by his odd scrutiny. The McLaren was regarding her intently from under dark lashes, his expression almost grim. She couldn’t explain the glitter in his sapphire eyes, but it seemed somehow menacing…a menace unaccountably directed at her.

Just then, a rosy-lipped serving maid entered the taproom and commenced doling out ale to her male patrons at the McLarens’ table.

“Cora, lass, I’ve missed ye,” one Highlander exclaimed. “Have ye missed me?”

“’Tisn’t likely, Colm McLaren,” she retorted with a laugh. When he patted her derriere, she hauled back and slugged his beefy arm with her fist with an admonition to stop. She finished pouring and set down the pitcher, yet rather than leave, she remained hovering over Niall McLaren.

“It isna fair, Cora,” the first complained, “ye saving yer charms for the laird.”

“Aye,” another Highlander chimed in, “I dinna ken why ye’d let yer head be turned by a bonny face.”

Cora gave a saucy sway of her hips. “For sure my head wouldna turn at the likes of ye, ye great lout.”

Guffaws of laughter followed, making Sabrina grateful when the innkeeper delivered her dinner.

Trying to disregard the revelry at the other table, she applied herself to the thick barley soup and black bread, yet she was palpably aware of Niall McLaren’s presence, of the smoldering vitality that emanated from him even across the room.

She was able to discern his murmur from among the din as he spoke to the serving wench. His lilting brogue was more pronounced than Sabrina recalled, but it had the same effect on her; the rippling burr echoed through her like the memory of his caress.

It disturbed her that merely the sound of his voice could affect her so—and disturbed her even more that he shared an obvious intimacy with the tavern wench.

Cora was laughing down at him, openly flaunting her ample charms. She appeared to be challenging him to join her abovestairs.

At first Niall appeared disinclined to accept her invitation, but when her flirtations progressed to rubbing her full breasts against his arm, he acquiesced. Reaching out casually, he drew Cora onto his lap and, amid much ribald male laughter, kissed her full on the mouth.

Sabrina went rigid as the lass fairly melted in his arms.

With a lazy, heart-stopping grin then, Niall tucked a silver coin in her bodice

and set the wench on her feet. “Go, sweeting, we’ll talk later.”

For a moment Cora stood straightening her disheveled apron, glancing down at him with a flustered, yearning look that Sabrina recognized as desire.

She winced at the familiar emotion.

She had no notion why that shared look should disturb her so. She knew very well Niall McLaren’s sexual appetites were legendary. He was every inch the rakehell who stole female hearts for sport. It shouldn’t surprise her that he would avail himself of what was offered so willingly.

Suddenly, though, his gaze returned with relentless precision to her. It seemed almost as if he were gauging her reaction to his dalliance.

To Sabrina’s utter dismay, then, Niall rose and casually strode toward her. She felt her heart flutter wildly as she watched his long, powerful legs come ever closer. He gave the impression of effortless grace, of power and strength held lightly under control.

She was grateful when her dog Rab rose to his feet and stood at attention.

Niall paid the huge mastiff no mind. Pausing before her, one hand on the hilt of his sword, he swept her a deep bow. “Welcome to the Highlands, Mistress Duncan,” he said in a lilting Scottish voice that somehow mocked her.

Against her will, Sabrina lifted her gaze to meet his stunning blue one. Managing to swallow the dryness in her throat, she replied, “I confess surprise that you even recognize me, my lord.”

“Your grandfather mentioned that you would be arriving today. And I know your kinsmen.” He nodded to Liam in greeting, then raised one dark eyebrow. “She does not know?”

The elder Highlander shook his head. “Angus wished to broach the matter himself.”

“Know what?” Sabrina asked, puzzled.

Niall’s penetrating blue eyes returned to her. “Your grandfather will apprise you soon enough.”