“I don’t want any suitor of your choosing!”
“Well, you’ll have to settle for someone other than the Buchanan butchers. A Sassenach would be better.”
His savage tone told her clearly that he shared the Scots’ disdain for Englishmen. Sabrina raised herself to her full height, fire flashing in her dark eyes. “I’ll not allow you to dictate to me.”
“And I’ll not let you make so daft a misstep.”
“You can’t stop me!”
Closing the distance between them, Niall reached for her, driven by the fierce urge to shake her. His long fingers closed over her delicate shoulders in a grip that was almost painful. “I can, mistress. And I assure you, I will.”
His uncharacteristic violence startled Sabrina. She froze, her heart racing. His angry face was so close she could feel his breath against her lips. She flushed at the erotic image that suddenly invaded her mind: of Niall kissing her hotly, of Niall holding her tightly and stroking her skin, her breast…
Their eyes locked in defiance—a long, sensually charged spell, reverberating with tension and attraction.
“Kindly unhand me, sir,” she said, seething with fury and something more disturbingly elemental. She refused to call it desire. She did not want this man, or his kisses.
Rather than releasing her, though, his fingers only tightened on her soft flesh. “When I’m done with you.”
“I never expected so boorish an assault from a gentleman noted for his finesse,” she observed tauntingly.
Niall cursed, vividly aware of the primal urges she kindled in him. He could not remember being so angry with a wench, or so aroused, either. ’Twas daft, the effect this prickly, sharp-tongued lass had on him, how she made him want her. His grip tightened—
They were both startled to realize they were no longer alone. Angus slowly limped into the room, leaning heavily on a cane.
Her cheeks flaming, Sabrina twisted from Niall’s embrace and drew away hastily. “Grandfather, you should not be out of bed!”
The elderly laird waved away her concern and addressed Niall. “’Tis glad I am to see you, lad. There’s trouble afoot, and I’m in no fit state to deal w’ it.”
“I received your summons, Angus,” Niall said. “I was on my way to your chambers when I paused to speak to your granddaughter. I gather the trouble concerns the Buchanans?”
“Aye, they stole two hundred prime head of Duncan cattle last eve.”
“That’s impossible,” Sabrina breathed. “We had a bargain.”
“’Tis no’ impossible,” her grandfather snapped. “The bloody Buchanans are cattle thieves of the worst sort, and canna be trusted to abide by any pact.”
She shook her head, finding it difficult to credit that Owen Buchanan had reneged on their agreement so swiftly after giving his word of honor, or that he would pass up the chance for a generous quarterly income. But then…her knowledge of clan affairs was limited. And the habits of a lifetime died hard. Had Owen seen her as a gullible fool? Did feuding with her clan hold more allure than the rewards of peace?
She raised a hand to her brow. “Perhaps…his kinsmen never heard of the truce.”
Angus gave her a fierce look from beneath bushy white brows. “’Twas the Buchanan himself who led the raid.”
“How do you know?”
“How? Because he was seen, that’s how!”
“But…why?” she asked in bewilderment.
“’Tis clear enough for a bairn to fathom. With ma illness, Clan Duncan makes easy prey. Owen has the advantage and is pressing it.” Angus glared at her accusingly. “This is what comes of yer refusal to wed, lass. Were ye betrothed to the McLaren, Owen would no’ dared have struck. And then ye made matters worse by seeking him out.”
“I…don’t understand…”
Niall answered that query—grimly. “You showed a fatal weakness by offering to bargain with him.”
Perhaps they were right, Sabrina thought with dismay. Perhaps she had drastically misjudged Owen Buchanan. Perhaps her interference ha
d compounded the difficulties her clan faced, when she had only been trying to help.