The Lover

When Angus was gone, Sabrina knew, she would nominally be head of her clan, but she was in no position to lead them against the Buchanans. She had neither the skills nor the experience.

And the threat to a clan’s survival came not only from enemies without. Unless Angus chose a strong successor, his death could cause conflict within their clan, prompting a bloody battle over who next would be laird.

Sabrina shook her head in dismay. A union with Clan McLaren alone wouldn’t bring peace to the warring clans, yet by wedding their chieftain, she could at least provide the means to protect her kinsmen once Angus passed away.

She rubbed her throbbing temple. “I should have been born male,” she murmured absently.

“Aye, that would have served. ’Twould have been far better had yer own da not died so young. Ye’ve the look of my dear son about ye, Sabrina.” Angus searched her face, his rheumy eyes blurring. “I ken ye’ll do what’s right.”

Sabrina felt her throat tighten with emotion. His methods of persuasion were unfair—using the memory of her late father against her, as well as his own deteriorating condition and her strong sense of duty. It wasn’t fair, either, of Angus to ask so much of her. He had washed his hands of her all this time, yet now he expected her to become the Clan Duncan’s savior.

She could refuse his plea. Her inheritance gave her independence enough to chart her own future. Her stepfather was the only person whose blessing she needed.

Yet fair or not, Angus was depending on her. It left her feeling trapped, cornered, helpless to deal with an impossible dilemma.

“Is it so great a sacrifice I’m asking ye to make?” he said as if he could read her thoughts. “There’s gain in it for ye, as well.”

“Is there?” she couldn’t help retorting.

“Aye, ’tis true. Ye belong in the Highlands, lass, as I told yer mother before she took you away. As I told ye yerself lang syne.”

Sabrina shut her eyes for an instant, remembering Angus’s letter to her years ago, when her mother lay dying. He had implored her to return home, but only now did she regret being unable to. Not until this day, when she’d spied the rugged grandeur of her homeland, had she realized how truly she belonged here. The Highlands were in her blood; she couldn’t escape it.

But was wedding the McLaren the only option?

“Surely there is another clan we can ally ourselves with. Another laird who would not be averse to an arranged marriage.”

“Nay,” Angus replied abruptly, putting that line of argument to rest. “None within two days’ ride. None who are in need of a bride. None I would trust to deal fittingly with the Buchanans. And none who have such strong ties of kinship to the Duncans.”

His penetrating gaze searched her face. “Ye canna be afraid, can ye, Sabrina? Ye have pluck, lass. Even as a wee bairn ye dinna fear me.”

No, as a child she had not been frightened by his gruffness or overly awed by his power.

In truth, she’d felt an affinity for the crusty laird that she felt even now. But being unafraid was not the same as being willing.

“Then there’s family,” Angus added. “A lass should have a husband…bairns of her own.”

That was indeed a prime benefit of marriage. She wanted children. She wanted a husband…a loving relationship like her parents had known. A permanent commitment that only death could sever.

Yet she had few illusions on that score. She was unlikely ever to marry for love. She’d had several suitors in recent months, but she was realistic enough to know they sought her primarily for her inheritance. As an heiress she would always be the target of fortune hunters. Oliver had been different, she was certain—but then he’d fallen in love with her cousin.

“And the lad is no’ so poor to look at.”

Sabrina wanted to laugh at that understatement. Niall McLaren was endowed with a physical beauty that startled at first glance. Utterly masculine, dangerously sensual—and quite out of her league.

She was well aware of her own merits. Her breeding and education alone made her a worthy candidate for a laird’s wife. But in truth her personal attributes were modest. She was practical, dutiful, resourceful…Desirable in no way described her. Niall himself had called her a mouse.

Sabrina wrinkled her nose in remembrance. Yet she’d always known gentlemen favored beautiful women, with softer, rounder shapes than she possessed. Oliver had, certainly. Her dark hair—and perhaps her darker eyes—were her only claims to beauty.

Niall McLaren’s discriminating instinct for ravishing females was legendary. She felt decidedly drab and plain in comparison to all the lovely women he’d surely known.

“Is there another mon ye wish to wed, then?” her grandfather demanded.

“No…” Her choices of husband at the moment were slim. “There is no one else.”

“Aweel, then, it should pose no problem. So what is yer answer, lass?”

Her answer?