The Lover

“What did you have in mind?”

“If our kinswomen could be persuaded to produce enough woolen cloth to sell, they could make a small fortune. It would perhaps ease their burdens by providing a steady income.”

“I am impressed, sweeting,” Niall remarked seriously. “You do indeed have a head for business.”

His praise warmed Sabrina more than she cared to admit. She wanted to prove herself worth more than just the wealth her dowry would bring, and aiding her new clan in some small measure was a start.

As for her duties as mistress,

she had plenty to occupy her time seeing to the household and clan concerns that were not a male purview. Mrs. Paterson helped greatly, as did the Widow Graham.

Eve paid a visit two days after the wedding, offered her advice on dealing with the tenet crofters and suggesting they make plans for the May Day celebration that would be held the following week.

It was a tradition for the castle to supply food and drink for the populace during the pagan festival of Beltane. When Eve accompanied her to the open market in Callander to shop, Sabrina felt quite domestic choosing giant wheels of cheese and ingredients for meat pasties.

By silent consent, they avoided the subject of Sabrina’s husband. Yet he was constantly in her thoughts. Despite her best efforts to ignore him, she was not proof against his bewitching appeal.

Her emotions swung between elation and dismay whenever she considered the future of their relationship. Niall McLaren was the most charming, infuriating, fascinating man alive, and against her will, she was falling under his irresistible, tender spell. It frightened her to realize how very vulnerable she was to him.

It was the fourth day of their union when they had their first argument. To her dismay, she learned at breakfast that Niall had ordered a half dozen gowns made up for her from her stepfather’s gifts of fabric and some other bolts he himself had chosen.

Despite the large dowry she would bring to her husband and his clan, Sabrina’s sense of frugality rebelled at the unnecessary extravagance.

“The material is already paid for,” Niall replied when she objected. “Your stepfather obviously intended it for you.”

“But there is no need to hire a seamstress. I can make up my own gowns.”

“I prefer to maintain some semblance of style and fashion,” he said dryly.

When Sabrina protested the expense, Niall looked at her oddly. “Do you ken how few women would refuse a new wardrobe?”

“Perhaps not many. But I hope I am not like the simpering, fashionable ladies of your acquaintance.”

He gave her an amused glance. “That you are not, but you are a laird’s wife now, with a certain presence to uphold. You require styles and colors that flatter and enhance your features to best advantage. And even if the dull frocks you wear didn’t offend my sense of dignity, a comely lass should be gowned in silks and lace.”

“If I were comely—”

He pressed his fingers to her lips, silencing her. “Hush, sweeting. Be a douce wife and indulge me in this.”

Sabrina bit her tongue and subsided, knowing it was useless to protest. Niall had no more than a stranger’s acquaintance with the word no. He knew how to bend a woman to his every whim, and would have his way by any means necessary.

It was when the seamstress came to take her measurements, however, that she discovered her husband intended to watch the proceedings. Niall settled himself in a chair before the fire, saying he wished to advise. Short of causing a scene, Sabrina could do little to prevent him from remaining in his own bedchamber.

She tried to ignore him as she stripped down to her shift, yet she was palpably aware of his presence. He wore a leather waistcoat and trews, his hair drawn back in a queue, and though he looked quite at home amidst the rich bolts of fabric, his potent masculine energy was disquieting. As was the spark of interest she saw in his eyes when a swatch of lace was pulled tightly against her breasts.

“The décolletage should be lower,” Niall recommended. “To show her bosom to advantage.”

“Any lower would be indecent!” Sabrina protested.

“Nay,” the seamstress said, agreeing with the laird, “’tis all the rage, milady. For daytime, ye may wear a modesty piece tucked into the bodice.”

“Aye,” her husband concurred. “A fichu will provide a softness for your features that will be exceedingly alluring.”

When Sabrina muttered again about the cost, Niall brushed aside her opposition. “These simple gowns cannot hope to match the extravagance of the costumes currently being worn in Europe. There the price of a single ball gown would feed a crofter’s family for a year, whereas these can be made up for a pittance.”

And so it went, with Niall tossing out a suggestion here and there, and ordering accoutrements to go with each gown.

When the seamstress had finished, Niall dismissed her, saying pleasantly, “I shall help my lady dress.”