The Lover

It was a long, long while before she herself found slumber.

They toured his lands the following day, and called on many of his tenants. Sabrina was gratified yet dismayed by the reception she received. At each home, she was given some small bride’s gift as a token of welcome into Clan McLaren.

When she worried that Niall’s kinsmen could not afford to be so generous, he dismissed her misgivings. “’Tis our way.”

Even so, Sabrina was disturbed by the difficult conditions the Highlanders faced. The simple, sometimes rude crofters’ cottages were dark and haze-filled, with floors made of earth and smoke from a peat fire spiraling up through a hole in the roof. More often than not, the dwellings were shared with the family pigs and goats.

When she remarked on the hard life to Niall, however, he shook his head in amusement.

“Save your pity, lass. Life is richer in these hills than could ever be found in a Lowland palace.”

It seemed his entire clan shared his view. Highlanders were a dour, practical people, but fiercely proud and highly industrious. The men tilled the fields or watched over herds and flocks, while the women tended their gardens or worked their churns and looms.

As the largest landowner in the district, the McLaren laird received rents paid in money or cattle, yet before the day was through, Sabrina began to realize that the wedding gifts were a mark of affection rather than an obligation. Niall was well liked and respected, by the women in particular. The lasses, young or old, held a special fondness for him, perhaps because he treated each one as if she were infinitely special.

When they visited an aging crone who was nearly blind, her back bowed and bent, Niall bowed over her bony hand like any courtier and teased her about dancing a jig. The old woman cackled with pleasure at his flirtation, and after interrogating Sabrina ruthlessly, sent them on their way with a gift of sweetmeats she had made for her grandson.

As they rode away, Niall offered Sabrina an apologetic, rueful smile. “You must forgive Dame Morag for her inquisition. She has been like a grandmother to me since before I was breeched.”

Sabrina brushed aside his explanation with a shrug. “’Tis no novelty, seeing you pursued by females of any age. I am growing accustomed to them swooning at the sight of you—though I cannot imagine why they should.”

A reckless grin flashed out. “Can you not?”

In truth, she could understand. She herself was not impervious to the incredible appeal that made women yearn for Niall. She would swallow hot coals, however, before she admitted her weakness to him.

“You need not worry,” Sabrina replied loftily, “that I will play the jealous wife, or that I will suddenly demand fidelity from you. I told you, you are free to take your lusts elsewhere. Although…it does seem rather unfair that I cannot enjoy the same freedom you claim.”

Niall considered her a moment, his appraisal thoughtful. “I see no reason why you cannot indulge in a discreet affair…after you produce an heir, naturally.”

“Naturally,” she said stiffly, hurt to think she meant no more to him than a broodmare.

The next call, however, disturbed Sabrina, more than she cared to admit. As they rode toward a low-roofed crofter’s hut, Niall warned, “This may take more than a moment. The well needs repair and I’ve not found time to see to it before now.”

He had barely finished the sentence before two young, ebony-haired boys came bounding from behind a lean-to shed. They gleefully called to Niall as he dismounted, yet came to an abrupt halt when they spied Rab.

Without waiting for Niall’s assistance, Sabrina slid off her horse to place a hand on her dog’s head. “Come and greet him. He will not hurt you.”

She spent a moment letting the children and dog get acquainted. When she rose, she realized that a woman dressed in traditional Highland garb had joined them in the yard. She had raven-wing’s hair and a delicate, quiet beauty that made Sabrina’s heart sink.

Niall’s familiarity with the family was evident as he made the introductions. “Sabrina, this is the Widow Fletcher, and these worthless bairns”—he tousled the boys’ hair—“are her sons, Simon and Shaw.”

“We’re no’ bairns!” they protested, even as they clung to him like limpets and gazed up at him adoringly.

Studying the children of perhaps eight and six years old, Sabrina could not help but note the resemblance to Niall. With an ache in the vicinity of her heart, she wondered if he had sired them.

“I am Fenella,” their mother said in a soft, musical voice. “Please, my lady, will ye join me for refreshment?”

“I should be grateful,” Sabrina replied. “But I hope you will call me by my given name.”

While Niall went to inspect the crumbling stone of the well, Fenella guided her inside the cottage and offered her tea. Rab remained outside to play with the boys.

The widow had been sitting at her loom, Sabrina saw. “Pray, do not let me interrupt your work.”

“Oh, no, I will be glad to rest a wee spell.”

Lifting the kettle which had been left boiling over the hearth fire, she made a pot of tea while Sabrina examined the tartan cloth in the McLaren colors.

“How beautiful,” she murmured, admiring the exquisite workmanship.