When they arrived home, she retired directly to their bedchamber, yet to her surprise and dismay, Niall followed her.
They undressed in grim silence. Sabrina wished he would simply go away. His coldness made her ache. He was a stranger to her, nothing like the tender lover she’d known during the past few short weeks of wedded bliss. She fought down the urge to cry, her wounded heart aching at her loss.
She was starting to pull on her nightdress when Niall’s low command stopped her.
“Leave it off.”
Sabrina froze, unwilling to obey his orders like a trained lapdog. “Why? I have no desire to share your bed.”
“Your desires matter little to me, madam.”
He came up behind her, placing his hands on her bare shoulders. “I told you, mouse, you’ll not defy me.”
She stood stiffly as his hands skimmed over her skin, knowing he only intended to prove his mastery over her. It hurt to have him touch her after what he’d done. Hurt to endure his caresses when all she could think of was Niall caressing another woman, making passionate love to another woman. She wanted to fight him, to rail at him for his betrayal and pound his chest with her fists.
Yet it was a battle of wills which she lost. The instant Niall drew her into his arms, she melted.
During the following fortnight, their relationship grew ever more volatile. By day they argued frequently, over the most inconsequential matters. By night they tried to conquer each other with passion, their coupling ruthless and primal, their hunger fraught with anger and wounded pride.
Sabrina had never felt such turmoil of the heart. The explosive tension was almost unbearable.
Her clansmen felt it as well. The household servants tread lightly, while the number of visitors to Creagturic dwindled to a trickle. Niall remained in a savage mood, snapping heads off at the least offense. Few dared to confront him or even to attract his attention for fear of earning his displeasure.
Sabrina found her own temper raw as fresh-killed meat, her usual serene disposition nowhere in evidence. The dissension with Niall had dismayingly brought out the dark side of her nature, and she did not like the woman she was becoming.
The conflict had the additional unexpected effect among the clans of setting husband against wife—or so Mrs. Paterson told her. In cottages and crofts, the McLaren’s lady was branded a saint or an interfering witch. The women applauded her efforts to bring peace to the Highlands, but the men were less forgiving. Some even considered Sabrina a traitor. John McLaren in particular could not regard her without breaking into a scowl.
Of all the Duncans, Geordie seemed the most tolerant, but Angus refused to hear her name spoken.
It was a letter from Sabrina’s stepfather which finally brought matters to the boiling point—or rather a letter from Charles Cameron’s clerk. Sabrina had not heard from Charles for several weeks, and even with her troubles, had begun to grow worried, though she told herself letters were often misdirected, particularly in the wild Highlands.
It was with relief when the missive arrived from Edinburgh, relief that swiftly turned to alarm. She recognized his clerk’s hand in the neat, even strokes, but the signature was her stepfather’s, weak and nearly illegible.
My dearest daughter:
I have not written of late as I have been bedridden for a time. Pray do not worry, a slight inflammation of the lungs, merely…
He went on to say that the shipments of tartan cloth her clanswomen had delivered to market had thus earned forty-three pounds, ten shillings, and sixpence, a fortune by Highland standards. Sabrina’s gratification at such welcome news, though, was entirely overshadowed by her concern for her stepfather.
She went directly upstairs and packed a valise, and then paced the floor of the great hall, anxiously awaiting Niall’s return home. She confronted him the moment he entered the hall.
“My stepfather is ill. I intend to go to him in Edinburgh—at once.”
Niall frowned. “Is such haste necessary? I cannot permit you to set out with dusk nearly upon us.”
She stiffened. “I am not asking your permission, sir. I am going, whether or not you forbid it.”
He shot her a sharp glance. “I have no intention of forbidding you. I only wished to understand the seriousness of his illness and to ensure that you have a safe journey.”
Sabrina bit her lip. “I don’t know how serious it is. But he is truly ill—unlike my grandfather,” she couldn’t help adding with a trace of bitterness.
“Very well. I shall need a moment to set my affairs in order before we can leave.”
“No, please…there is no need for you to accompany me. You are needed here.”
He hesitated, his eyes focusing on her face with searing intensity. “Then I’ll send an armed escort with you.”
“I don’t need—”