His powerful response had startled him. Never had he expected to experience such fierce need himself, such feverish craving…or this haze of contentment that wrapped around him now. He felt almost intoxicated, as if he’d drunk too much potent usqueba.
Mayhap he was losing his touch.
With a sensual sigh, Niall shrugged aside the serious thought. He would do better to merely savor his bride’s wanton surrender, to simply enjoy the pleasure of the moment.
“That is how you stay warm on a raw night, mouse,” he breathed faintly when he could speak.
Sabrina’s low, hesitant reply was just as faint, no more than a whisper, but he heard it. “Would you…perhaps…mind showing me again?”
Remarkably he felt his male flesh stir. Drawing her close, Niall laughed helplessly against her hair.
“’Twould be my pleasure,” he murmured, before resettling her body beneath him once more.
Chapter
Twelve
Thus began a magical time for Sabrina, engendered by Niall’s sensual, bewitching spell. They spent nights of heated enchantment together, tangled in each other’s arms. She wanted to touch him a thousand times a day, and when he was away, he preyed constantly on her mind and heart.
He taught her the meaning of pleasure. He seemed to worship her body, arousing in her a t
remulous passion, a ravenous desire as savage as the wild Highland hills. Under his tutelage, she discovered a hedonistic, uninhibited side of herself she never expected existed.
He made her blossom as a woman. Her fragile self-esteem grew as he continually challenged her modest view of her attractions. She was beginning to believe that she was beautiful in his eyes, that he wanted and desired only her. She could almost hope that their marriage might flourish.
And yet…even as she succumbed to his tantalizing touch, she was haunted by the apprehension and uncertainty any woman would feel in the arms of a man she knew would ultimately hurt her.
In truth, Sabrina warned herself sternly and frequently, she had to remember that all this—their marriage, her seduction, Niall’s instruction in the sensual art of desire—was merely a game to him. His heart was not engaged, nor would it likely ever be. Their bond was purely physical, and even that might cease to exist the moment his interest was captured by another woman more beautiful and experienced than she.
At least her grandfather seemed pleased by the reports of her marital felicity. When Sabrina paid one of her regular visits to Angus at Banesk, he crowed mercilessly.
“What did I tell ye, lass?” he cackled. “Dinna I say the lad would settle down and make ye a fine husband?”
Sabrina refrained from responding too tartly. The aging chieftain had not left his sickbed, although his health seemed measurably improved.
“’Tis early yet, Grandfather,” she murmured wryly. “We’ve been wed but a few weeks.”
“Aye.” His rheumy gaze turned sober. “But ye did well by yer clan, Sabrina. We’ve had no more trouble with the Buchanans. For that ye have m’ gratitude.”
Her stepfather, too, seemed relieved that her marriage was proceeding smoothly. She had corresponded frequently with Charles Cameron, primarily to arrange a shipment of woolen cloth from the women of Clans McLaren and Duncan. His return letters had praised the quality of the Highland fabric and renewed his offer of refuge should Sabrina require it. She had written back, assuring him that she was quite content with her lot.
She was indeed surprised to realize she was not so very homesick. She missed Papa Charles deeply, but not her dull existence in Edinburgh. Her moments were rarely dull here in the Highlands. Her duties kept her fully occupied.
As spring ripened and June kissed the land with warmth, the Highlands bloomed in all their magnificence; the hills dusted lavender with wild bell-heather, the glens with shimmering greenness.
The untamed beauty beguiled Sabrina, though no more than did her charming rogue of a husband. She felt enraptured by his seductive spell.
She couldn’t ask for a more devoted lover or bridegroom, yet she was continually discovering depths to Niall that she never expected. Beneath the elegant charm and wicked wit, Sabrina found, he possessed a sober side to his nature that she could respect and admire.
One afternoon, after she had dryly wondered aloud if he enjoyed other sports than frivolous carnal pursuits, he took her trout fishing. He chose a stunningly beautiful place, where the burn rushed through a wild glen, emerald with rowan trees and mountain ferns and bracken.
Niall spread his plaid in a patch of sunlight, and they shared a luncheon of bread and cheese, boiled eggs, and a jug of hard cider, while Rab bounded along the banks ecstatically, intent on scaring any fish away.
“My father often brought me here as a lad,” Niall murmured after a time.
Sabrina heard the note of sorrow in his voice. “You miss him deeply, don’t you?”
His look grew wistful. “Aye. There was no finer man…nor laird.”