He opened the valise he’d brought, and drew out a garment. Carefully unfolding it and smoothing out the creases, he held it up to the light for her inspection.
Sabrina drew a sharp breath at the lovely sight. The billowing gown was made of ice blue stiffened brocade, embossed with silver thread and pearls in a pattern that was repeated in both the petticoat and stomacher.
“’Tis the gown your mother was wed in—twice, though not at the same time.” Charles grinned. “Once to your father and once to me.”
Tears filled Sabrina’s eyes as reverently she held the gown to her breast. For a moment she felt as if her mother were with her again, and it gave her the courage she was sorely lacking.
“Thank you, Papa,” she whispered huskily, profoundly grateful for his thoughtfulness.
Her wedding day dawned bright and clear. The rugged green hills held a breathtaking spring glow, Sabrina saw from her bedchamber window, but the sight did little to cheer her flagging spirits or ease her misgivings.
After a light meal of oatcakes and milk, an army of maids descended upon her, including the Widow Graham’s dresser. Sabrina allowed herself to be bathed and perfumed and painted, but she refused to let them pomade her hair. Remembering Niall’s preference for unpowdered locks, she caught her dark tr
esses up behind, letting them sweep over her shoulder in several long curls. When she had donned the voluminous petticoat, she was laced into the gown and stomacher.
Her looking glass told her the effect was pleasing, but her dark eyes seemed too large for her pale face.
“Mouse,” Sabrina said accusingly, wrinkling her nose in disgust. She wanted to look beautiful for Niall—
The realization caused a small pain deep inside her chest. It was a fruitless endeavor, fretting over her appearance. No coiffure or gown could make her beautiful enough for a man like him.
When she was fully dressed, Angus rose from his sickbed in order to present her with a gift, a silver casket which held her grandmother’s jewels. The Duncan ruby was a huge polished stone set in a filigreed pendant, and Angus insisted she wear it.
His craggy face beamed as he surveyed the effect. “’Tis a wise thing yer doing, lass.”
Her stepfather arrived just then to escort her below to the waiting carriage. “Come, ’tis time for you to go.”
Her heart began pounding as a surge of belated panic struck her. In a short while she would be asked to pledge vows of loyalty and service, obliged to honor Niall McLaren till the day she died.
“Faith, lass, your skin is like ice,” Charles exclaimed.
“’Tis to be expected,” Angus chimed in. “She’s overwrought with bridal nerves.”
Overwrought indeed, Sabrina thought wryly. She felt the weight of her entire clan on her shoulders. And she had little confidence in her judgment. Was she taking the right course, or was she striking a bargain with the devil?
Angus did not accompany them to the kirk for the morning ceremony, some half league away. The wedding feast, set to begin at noon, would be held at Banesk so he could attend for a brief time. The bride and her stepfather traveled by carriage over rutted trails, where they were to meet the groom at the door of the kirk.
Niall was awaiting her, Sabrina saw as the vehicle drew to a halt. As he aided her descent, she chided the sudden drumming of her heart. It was ridiculous how anxiety and misgivings could suddenly give way to joy at merely seeing him again. Joy and relief. She had feared he might not bother to show up for his own wedding and leave her stranded at the church steps.
He seemed fully prepared to go through with the marriage, though. He wore full Scottish dress, his tartan kilt and short jacket accentuated by a silver-embroidered waistcoat, white silk hose, and lace cravat. A silver broach secured the McLaren plaid at his shoulder, while a black ribbon bound his ebony hair in a queue at his nape, emphasizing the rugged beauty of his face—broad forehead, finely chiseled nose, and carved cheekbones.
Sabrina had never seen such a combination of polished elegance and raw virility in a man. He was devastatingly, dangerously male, and he brought out every feminine instinct she possessed.
“You look bonny, mouse,” he murmured in greeting.
Sabrina glanced sharply up at him to divine if he were mocking her, but he wore an enigmatic look that gave little clue.
“How is your arm?”
“Well enough, thank you.”
“Does it pain you?”
“Nothing to signify.” When she felt her stepfather press her elbow, she cleared her throat to make the introductions. “My lord McLaren, this is my stepfather, Charles Cameron.”
Niall offered a polite bow. “I’ve had the pleasure. Mr. Cameron called last eve at Creagturic.”
She eyed the older man in surprise, wondering why he had made such an endeavor after so wearying a ride.