“I’m not certain I understand.”
“The thrill for men is in the chase, Sabrina. If they win too easily, they become bored and lose interest.”
“But you just advised me to fight for Niall.”
“Yes, but you must be extremely subtle about it. The object is to arouse him, not drive him away. A man like that much prefers to be the predator than the prey. Trust me in this, I know. I held him longer than any other of his paramours, and it was not by pursuing him overtly. In the game of dalliance, it is deadly to admit your surrender. You must remain elusive, Sabrina. In any event, ’twill be good for Niall to realize he does not have you at his beck and call.”
“That I can agree with,” she murmured wryly.
“It would not hurt, either, to encourage the interest of other gentlemen as well. If you are sought after by others, it piques a man’s vanity and encourages him to compete for your favor.”
“It seems somehow…disloyal to my marriage vows.”
“Never! All is fair in the battle of love, and you are vying for a prize of inestimable value.”
Sabrina smiled weakly. The prize was Niall McLaren’s wayward heart.
Watching her, Eve shook her powdered, bewigged head. “Faith, why am I confiding this to you? You are my chief rival.”
It was all too true, Sabrina thought, her heart wincing. The widow very obviously wanted Niall back in her bed.
Nevertheless, the advice plagued her long after her visitor had gone. Should she attempt to fight for Niall? Could she win his regard if she dared try? Could she possibly hope to hold him with her own charms?
The following day gave Sabrina reason to hope. Preparations for the holiday kept her busy, but after helping make pies and seeing to last-minute details, she donned the traditional form of women’s Highland garb: a simple bodice of blue homespun with a white muslin fichu tucked over the bosom, secured by a brooch, and a skirt made of green and blue tartan cloth, belted at the waist. The cloth was long enough to drape over her shoulders like a plaid.
Her breath caught when her husband’s eyes roamed over her with approval. “You are a fetching sight, mouse.”
No more fetching than he was, Sabrina thought mutely. Wearing the McLaren kilt and plaid, Niall looked every inch the bold Highlander. “I would have thought the neckline far too modest for your taste.”
He responded with a slow, deep curl of the lips. “For my taste, aye, but for the mistress of Clan McLaren, ’tis entirely appropriate.”
“I am overwhelmed by your adulation.”
“Termagant,” he remarked mildly, a teasing light in his eyes.
Offering his arm, Niall escorted Sabrina beyond the outbuildings of Creagturic to a distant meadow where the festivities were beginning.
The late afternoon air was filled with mouth-watering aromas from the oxen and sheep roasting on huge spits, while beer and malt whisky flowed freely among the crowd. At the far end of the field, men played games: tossing the caber—a long, heavy wooden pole cast end-over-end—and the sheaf—a hay-stuffed burlap bag flung with a pitchfork. At the edge of a birchwood copse, bagpipes and fiddles provided music for dancing in the interval before supper.
Sabrina felt her heart sink at the sheer number of Niall’s former interests she recognized: Betsy McNab, the dairymaid of Banesk. Jean McLaren, the chambermaid of Creagturic. The beautiful Eve Graham. Fenella Fletcher, although that widow had brought her two young sons.
And yet, to her surprise, Sabrina discovered she had admirers of her own.
Geordie’s eyes went wide when he beheld her in full Highland dress. “Ye make a bonny Highlander, mistress,” he said, sounding startled.
Sabrina laughed. Niall’s efforts to increase her appeal were evidently working. “I would that my grandfather could see me.”
John McLaren came forward to greet her then. “Ye do us proud, my lady,” he said appreciatively.
Curtsying, Sabrina flashed him a smile. “A high compliment indeed, coming from you, sir. I feared you disapproved of me.”
“Nay, ye mistake me. ’Tis glad I am that Niall took ye for his bride. Not since his da passed have I seen the lad so carefree.”
Sabrina felt her smile waver. She glanced over her shoulder at her husband, who was occupied greeting others of his clan.
“In truth, our kinsmen are pleased to have ye as mistress,” John added.
“I suspect I cannot hope to measure up to Niall’s mother. By all reports, Lady McLaren was a saint.”