The Lover

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 Edi

nburgh,” 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.