The Lover

She could not abandon her clan, certainly. During her tour of Banesk with Liam this afternoon, she’d been appalled by the wretched conditions many of her kinsmen endured. The widows and fatherless children who’d lost their menfolk to feuds and risings lived in crofter’s huts no better than hovels…damp, smoke-filled, with peat roofs that leaked at a hint of rain. She could not leave them to the mercy of the bloody Buchanans.

Niall was right on one score, though. She could not easily lead her kinsmen. It wasn’t that a woman was incapable of being clan chief; some were. But she herself was far too inexperienced. Even if her kinsmen could be persuaded to follow her, it would take years for her to gain even a tenth of the skill a warrior needed in battle. And by then the bloody Buchanans would have destroyed her clan.

She couldn’t offer to wed one of the Buchanans, either, as she’d threatened this afternoon. Her grandfather would never stand for it. Nor would Niall, she suspected, not with his fierce hatred of their clan.

But surely the barbarous Buchanans could be reasoned with.

Shifting restlessly, Sabrina rolled onto her back and stared at the darkened canopy above her bed. On the morrow she would seek an interview with the laird, Owen Buchanan, and negotiate with him if possible.

If she could contrive to ensure the safety of her clan, then she might be able to forget the arrogant, indiscriminating Niall McLaren and the hurt he had caused her with his humiliating philandering.

Chapter

Five

Her first task the following morning was to overcome Geordie’s objections. Even when Sabrina explained her intentions, the brawny Highlander was reluctant to escort her into the heart of Buchanan territory so that she might negotiate with their laird.

“Are ye daft, mistress? The Buchanan is our blood foe!”

“I know. But he does not have to remain so, does he? Feuds can be ended. You told me yourself you hoped there might be a truce last year, but that it fell through when the McLaren was killed.”

“Aye,” the Highlander muttered. “But Angus would have ma head if I allowed ye to go.”

“You will not wish to tell him then.”

“But I canna go against the laird’s command!”

“Geordie,” Sabrina said patiently, “I dare not seek Grandfather’s counsel first, or he would prevent me from going. And this is too important to disregard. Don’t you see, I must do this?”

In his frustration, Geordie’s face turned as red as his hair. “’Tis too dangerous.”

“Not if you accompany me. And it is worth the risk. The Buchanan would not harm a woman, would he? Please, Geordie,” Sabrina pleaded when she saw him hesitate. “Will you not help me?” She sighed at his stubborn refusal. “Very well, I will go on my own if I must.”

Geordie gave in. “Aweel, I dinna like this one bit,” he complained, “but ’tis better I go w’ ye.”

Sabrina understood his misgivings. Yet their clans had been warring for a hundred years, and no one had yet managed to arrange a peace with the Buchanans, perhaps because no one had truly made the effort. She was determined to try at least, to see if she could strike a bargain with their laird.

With Rab and Geordie as escorts, she rode south and west for a time, through wild, rough country that boasted verdant glens and rocky peaks. The sunshine of the previous day had vanished, and a chill gray mist swirled around them, muffling the ring of their horse’s hooves.

Geordie sat astride his mount cautiously, with his fist clutching the hilt of his claymore, his expression so grim that Sabrina found herself jumping at imagined shadows. It comforted her to remember the dirk she’d tucked inside the waistband of her skirt.

Owen Buchanan was reportedly a vicious ogre, but she’d attributed much of his brutal repute to exaggeration. Now she wondered if perhaps she hadn’t paid enough heed to the possible danger of her mission.

She had just emerged single file behind Geordie from a stand of pines when a rough voice shouted, “Hold there!”

Sabrina froze as a band of horsemen garbed in tartan plaids and trews suddenly swarmed from the forest to surround them, brandishing broadswords and claymores. Her two protectors reacted more bravely. Geordie yanked his heavy blade from its scabbard, prepared to battle her attackers to the death, while Rab bared his teeth, a fierce growl reverberating from his throat, the hair on his back standing on end.

“We come in peace!” Sabrina managed to utter past the dryness of her throat.

A swarthy, black-bearded Highlander broke from the crowd and urged his mount closer. “Peace, is it? And who might ye be, lass?”

“I am Sabrina Duncan, granddaughter of Angus, laird of Clan Duncan.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “Aye, I ken ye have the look of a Duncan about ye. I’d heard ye’d come to succor Angus’s last days.”

Sabrina studied him in turn, concluding that he was old enough to be her father. From the description Geordie had given her, she suspec

ted she might be confronting the Buchanan himself. “I have heard much about you as well, sir. Have I the honor of addressing Owen Buchanan?”