The Lover

“Aye. In a flirtation, your primary goal should be to pique a man’s interest.”

“And just how do I go about doing that?”

“’Tis not so difficult,” Niall observed thoughtfully. “You laugh and smile at even the most inane remarks a gentleman makes. You pretend an attraction, hanging on his every word, while lowering your gaze coyly. Now and then you flash him a longing look, as if you cannot help your feelings of desire. In short, you make him feel as if he is the only man in the world.”

Much the way you make a woman feel, Sabrina reflected. “It seems such a frivolous exercise.”

“But first,” Niall insisted, pointedly ignoring her comment, “you begin by sweetening that tart tongue of yours. Honey will gain you more than vinegar.”

His eyes danced with the laughter that was so much a part of him. Niall was goading her, she knew, yet it was impossible to take offense, or to resist his notorious charm.

He exercised that lethal charm fully in the days that followed. During her first week at Creagturic, Sabrina even began to hope their uneasy alliance might blossom into a worthwhile union, if not a true marriage.

Her days began to assume a pattern. Niall was away much of the day, seeing to clan affairs, but he usually returned for supper, which he spent conversing with her about his clan and hers or giving her lessons in dalliance. Afterward she often took up her needlework while he read—sometimes aloud to her. The first time he opened a serious volume, Sabrina was startled enough to express surprise.

Niall gave her a long, level look, his eyes laughing at her. “I do enjoy pursuits other than carnal ones. I’ll have you know that in my misspent youth, I applied myself to my studies with nearly as much seriousness as I did my amorous endeavors.”

At this subtle reminder that he had been educated in the finest universities of Europe, Sabrina felt an unwilling admiration. If she’d once thought him shallow and frivolous, she was having to revise her assessment. Niall McLaren was much more complex than she had ever suspected, showing depths she could only begin to fathom.

“It must have been supremely taxing,” she said dryly, “to be forced to labor at such mundane chores as studying.”

“Indeed, it was.”

“I fear you will get little sympathy from me, sir,” Sabrina advised.

“You’re a hard lass, mistress.”

She shook her head ruefully, surprised to realize how much she was enjoying their exchange. “No, merely truthful.”

“I’m not half as debauched as you prefer to believe.”

“Well…perhaps not half.”

She was pleased to win a wry chuckle from him. It was exhilarating to be matching wits with such a man, like challenging a swift-moving Highland storm. And Niall encouraged her in their verbal skirmishes with scandalous remarks bordering on the outrageous.

His instruction in the art of dalliance gave her more enjoyment than she anticipated. To her bewilderment and dismay, though, her marital bed proved her greatest disappointment. After the first night, her husband made no attempt to make love to her.

In truth, his disinterest was no more than Sabrina expected. She was not the sort of woman to inspire lust in a man of Niall’s legendary passions. Yet she could not claim he had abandoned her entirely. She slept naked in his arms, since he would not allow her to wear her night smock.

Their physical intimacy grew little by little, with nudity becoming more natural between them. Sabrina grew accustomed to seeing the whole of his magnificent body, and grew familiar with his touch as well, for he made it a point to caress her casually and often.

He seemed highly concerned about her arm wound, and each night checked its healing himself. His solicitous regard, however, disturbed her more than neglect would have done. He was infinitely more dangerous than she’d feared, and she was far more vulnerable.

Her relationship with his clan at least proved satisfactory. To Sabrina’s surprise and relief, they appeared to accept her willingly. She felt welcomed in her new home, while the magnificent Highlands had captured her soul.

Later that same week Niall took her to explore the mountain valley that had been in possession of Clan McLaren for generations, introducing her to lofty peaks and tranquil lochs and magical glens, and watching with amused indulgence her expression of delight and awe.

With such splendor, she could almost forget that danger and bloodshed ruled the Highlands. Peace had not come with her marriage to Niall, yet she had reason to hope. The terrible feud with the Buchanans continued, but Clan Duncan would be safe, now that Niall had been designated Angus’s successor.

The morning immediately after the ceremony, Sabrina had learned, Niall had paid a visit to his archenemy; she heard about it from Geordie when he came to call.

“He warned the Buchanan most harshly,” Geordie claimed. “Clan Duncan is to suffer no more raids. ’Twas odd, though. Owen claimed he wasna the one to resume the feud, that he never lifted our cattle. Wheesht, ye canna believe such blethering.”

Niall refused to discuss the Buchanans with her, however, and grew testy whenever Sabrina even hinted at the subject.

He did approve of her becoming involved with his clan, at least. Her visit to the Widow Fletcher had given Sabrina an idea, which she broached to Niall one evening at supper.

“The tartan cloth Mistress Fletcher has woven is quite beautiful. I have rarely seen such fine quality, nor have the markets of Edinburgh, I suspect. I would very much like to write my stepfather, asking him to propose an arrangement with the merchants there.”