The Lover

Desperately Sabrina wrenched her own sword from the saddle scabbard. She had no conscious recollection of charging into the conflict. All she could think about was helping Niall…getting close enough to strike the broad, naked back of the man who was hurting him.

She raised her arms for a two-handed blow, yet the Buchanan must have sensed her presence, for he spun around, his powerful arm swinging out in a clean, swift stroke.

She tried to dodge the blade but only managed to deflect the main impact. She felt a savage pain slice through her upper left arm as she stumbled. She heard a scream and knew it came from her own throat as the ground came up to meet her.

A tremendous roaring filled her ears, then a blessed silence as blackness claimed her.

Awareness returned gradually and painfully. Every part of her body throbbed. Her aching head was filled with the sweet-pungent scent of crushed bracken, her ears with Niall McLaren’s golden-throated voice, savage in its fury.

He was venting a blistering flood of Gaelic curses she was better off not understanding. Sabrina hoped his rage was directed at the Buchanans and not merely her, but she feared otherwise.

Her vision hazy, she tried to focus in the light of the pitch-pine torch. The dark beauty of his face filled her gaze as he knelt beside her.

“Niall…?” The words came out a muted croak, but he seemed not to hear. He was too busy condemning her folly of putting herself in danger.

“She refused to leave me, the wee fool. I thought my heart would fail when she charged into the fray.”

“Aye,” Liam Duncan agreed solemnly. “She could hae been torn apart by that pack o’ Highland rogues.”

“But she’s a brave lass, for all that,” she heard Geordie claim in her defense. “She took up the battle with nary a qualm. And t’other day, she scarce flinched when the Buchanan threatened to take her for ransom.”

“Owen threatened her?” Niall demanded sharply. “She never said so.”

“Mayhap she dinna care to mention it. She’s a proud lassie, and she doesna want us to fret o’r her. She’s a Duncan through and through.”

“Who would believe the lass could possess such spirit and courage?” John McLaren wondered aloud.

“Who indeed?” Niall murmured as if to himself.

Sabrina swallowed convulsively and tried again to whisper his name. He must have heard her then, for he bent closer.

“Can you speak, lass?” he queried, his voice suddenly deep and gentle.

“They didn’t…kill you…”

“No, they didn’t kill me—wholly to your credit.” His expression had softened, holding a tenderness that made her heart skip a beat. “We sent them fleeing.”

She tried to turn her head, searching for their enemies, but she saw no sign of the Buchanans. It seemed she was still in the forest where she had fallen. “They…got away?”

“Aye, but not unscathed,” Niall replied grimly. “I wounded the one.” In the golden glow of torchlight she could see his eyes: brightly blue, furious, beautiful. “Our kinsmen heard the pistol shot and came to our aid. The Buchanans fled when they arrived.”

“Aye, the bloody cowards,” Liam muttered.

Sabrina caught the look that passed between the men, grim with churning emotions. “Please,” she murmured, “there’s been enough bloodshed.”

Niall laughed darkly. “Not nearly enough. They’ll rue this night’s work, I promise you.”

She could have pointed out that the Buchanans had only been defending their holdings, but she suddenly spied the bloody cut on his right temple. “You’re wounded,” she said in dismay.

“Don’t

fash yourself. ’Tis no more than a scratch. I would that I could say the same for you, lass. Where does it hurt?”

“My…head…my arm.” Both throbbed savagely.

His hands moved over her with gentle insistence. “You’ve a lump on your head and a nasty gash on your arm that’s bleeding. It wants tending.” Even as he spoke, he withdrew the kerchief from around his neck and fashioned a makeshift bandage around the bloody wound on her upper left arm.

“I’ll be all right….”