The Lover

“Let us be frank, by all means,” she agreed acerbically.

“You would do far better to find yourself another husband.”

Sabrina glanced up at him, her half smile scornful. “And just why is that?”

“Because you and I are ill-suited.”

That she could agree with wholeheartedly; it was no more than she had concluded herself.

When she did not dispute him, Niall’s tone softened a degree. “You don’t wish to marry a philanderer, Mistress Duncan, I assure you. I would make you a deplorable husband. I cherish the lasses too much to give up my freedom and settle down with a wife. I wouldn’t be faithful to any woman. It isn’t in me.”

No, Sabrina thought somberly. She couldn’t expect such a man to be faithful to her. He was a man of passion without promises. He wouldn’t want her love, or any other tender feelings. But then she didn’t want his love, either. She only wanted him to protect her clan.

“You need not fear on that score. I’d not deprive you of your pleasures. Ours would be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. However, I…” She took a deep breath, uncomfortable discussing such private issues in so intimate a manner. “I…would like children eventually. And I should think you would as well. A man in your position needs heirs.”

Niall was a long time in answering. “I expect I could comply in that regard.”

“I have little doubt,” she observed, her tone wry. “I imagine Scotland and France are littered with your by-blows.”

“Then you imagine wrongly. I have two children to my knowledge, and both are well provided for.”

“Then that should prove no problem, should it?”

“I think perhaps you underestimate the difficulties you will face as my bride. We Highlanders are a rough and tumble lot, and our existence a hard one, particularly in winter. I warn you, you should have no expectations of a life of luxury.”

Sabrina stiffened at his implication. He made her sound so frail and useless. “I expect nothing of the sort. I may have lived in Edinburgh for much of my life, but I am unaccustomed to a life of ease. I should think the dowry I bring would compensate you for any inconvenience, in any case. However”—she started to turn away—“if you refuse the marriage, then there is no further point in discussion.”

“Did I say I refuse?” A muscle worked in Niall’s jaw as resentment flared in him. He could not honorably reject the betrothal, not with the debt his father owed her grandfather. He could not, would not, shirk his obligations. On the other hand…he would not object if Mistress Duncan chose to call off the betrothal herself.

He crossed his arms over his bare chest. “I am prepared to be convinced.”

She hesitated. “Convinced? What…do you mean?”

“Perhaps I wish to be courted.”

“You wish me to court you?” His audacity knew no bounds! “If you expect me to flirt and banter idiotically and fawn over you merely for your amusement,” she snapped, “your wits have gone begging.”

“Please yourself, mouse. ’Tis you who needs a husband.”

His words slashed at her pride. “I do not need a husband! My clan needs a laird—there is a world of difference. I desire a union between us even less than you do, I assure you.”

“Then call off the betrothal.”

“Call it off?” Her brow furrowed as she stared at him. A long moment later, Sabrina shook her head. “I have no intention of abandoning my clan and disappointing my grandfather. My kinsmen have pledged to follow you, and I’ll not gainsay their choice. As disagreeable as I would find marriage to you, I am prepared to make the best of it. If you are so set against it, sir, you may have the honor of withdrawing.”

She saw Niall’s jaw harden briefly. But then he smiled—slowly, wickedly, and not at all pleasantly. “As I said, I can be convinced to accept your suit. But you will have to persuade me.”

He was taunting her, she realized with renewed fury.

“Am I to understand,” she enunciated, her ire ringing in the tartness of her voice, “that I must extol my worth, like a prize heifer at a cattle fair? I must audition for the position of your bride?”

“I am suggesting that there are certain virtues I require in a wife and the mistress of my clan.”

And she didn’t possess them, Sabrina was certain he was saying. She could assess her attributes well enough. Physically she was no match for a man whose lovemaking prowess with the most beautiful women of Europe was legend, whose exploits in the glittering ballrooms and bedrooms of the aristocracy were unrivaled.

“I make no claim to beauty—or fashion, either, for that matter.”

Niall shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Beauty is not so vital an attribute in a lass.”