The Lover

“He came,” Niall explained with a bland smile, “ostensibly to present a wedding gift…French brandy, Lyon silk, Brussels lace. But he vowed to break my head should I make you unhappy.”

Sabrina felt herself flush with warmth, both at the absurd notion of an aging merchant challenging a Highland warrior, and the comforting thought that her stepfather would champion her even against overwhelming odds.

All the leaders of the nearby clans had gathered in the kirk, it seemed when she entered on her intended’s arm. It was a major event when a Highland chieftain wed the granddaughter of another laird. She was grateful to recognize a number of familiar faces among the crowd: Geordie, Liam, the beautiful Widow Graham, Niall’s cousin Colm, the gruff John McLaren.

The ceremony was simple, and over too soon. The McLaren presented her with a nuptial ring, a simple gold band, and the Presbyterian minister pronounced them man and wife before God.

Then Niall bent to kiss her.

It was only a brief brushing of lips, but it roused fresh panic within Sabrina. Her fate was cast, her decision irrevocable. She was wed to the greatest lover in Europe, and she was totally inadequate to the task. She scarcely felt the warmth of her husband’s mouth as it touched hers in a fleeting caress, she was trembling so badly.

The moment they left the kirk, however, her anxiety was overshadowed by a deeper fear. Sabrina’s heart lurched to see a party of armed Highlanders ride up to the church steps, with the black-bearded Owen Buchanan in the lead.

Beside her, Niall went rigid, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. “What do you here, Owen?” he demanded when the horsemen came to a halt.

“I ken I was invited to the weddin’.”

Niall’s face was set like granite. “’Twas a courtesy, no more. Meant to serve notice that Clan Duncan is no longer fair game for the butchering Buchanans.”

“Butchering, ye say?” His black eyes flashed. “Two of my kinsmen lie wounded, and ye call me a butcher?” With a creak of saddle leather, the Buchanan shifted his fierce gaze and fixed Sabrina with a dark glare. “Nay, ’tis a bloody gomeril, I am. I should hae known better than to bargain with a mere lass and leave ma herds unguarded.”

Sabrina stared back at him. She was still furious at Owen Buchanan for deceiving her and breaking their pact before it had even begun, yet she could not understand his anger. He was the one to blame for the cattle raids and the resultant bloodshed.

“Such a guileless mien,” Owen sneered. “Who do ye think to deceive, lass? I suppose now ye’ll claim ye couldna control yer clan.”

Niall’s jaw clenched. “My wife’s veracity is not in dispute, but if you care to settle the issue with swords—”

“No!” Sabrina exclaimed, vexed with them both for resorting to violence. “That will be quite enough. This should be a day of peace.”

The two men eyed each other savagely. Sabrina hoped they would not start a battle on holy ground, with so many of their kin present who would undoubtedly enter the fray.

Willing herself to calm, she pressed her lips together, hoping reason could prevail. “My lord Buchanan, perhaps we may defer this discussion for a more auspicious date. You and your clansmen are welcome to join us at Banesk for the wedding celebration, if you can forswear violence for the moment and put away your swords.”

Owen gave her a scathing glance. “I’ll no’ break bread with a thieving Duncan.”

Beside her, Niall gripped the hilt of his sword and took a threatening step forward.

Still fuming, Owen turned his mount and spurred it into a canter, his kinsmen following hard on his heels.

Sabrina let out her breath in relief. All it needed was a bloodbath at the steps of the church to make her wedding day uniquely memorable.

It was a somber crowd that filed out of the kirk, despite the brilliance and ripening warmth of the sun high overhead. Niall joined Sabrina in the carriage to return to Banesk, while the other guests followed on horseback or on foot.

Her new husband said little during the short journey, but Sabrina was aware of the undercurrent of anger emanating from him.

“I cannot understand,” she ventured at last, “why the Buchanan seemed so outraged by the resumption of the feud. He seemed to blame me for the raid.”

“What does it matter? There will never be peace between our clans.”

“Why not?”

“Because the bloody Buchanans butchered my kin in the act of a coward.”

Sabrina winced. She understood why Niall held such hatred for the Buchanans; they were responsible for the deaths of his father and brother. Yet Owen reportedly had not instigated the ambush…

At present, however, was not the best time for a discussion of the feud. Niall could not view the issue rationally, and in truth, she was in no state to be objective, with her wounded arm throbbing and her nerves in tatters.

When Niall fell silent, lapsing into a dark mood, Sabrina followed suit, gazing mutely out the carriage window, bracing herself against the sway and lurch of the vehicle.