The Lover
“I’ll have a talk with the lad—”
“No!” The incident this afternoon had been humiliating enough. It would be even more so, having her grandfather plead with Niall to take her back. “He doesn’t wish to wed me, I tell you, any more than I wish to wed him.”
She would not let Angus change her mind, Sabrina vowed. By the time her grandfather had renewed his pleas, however, she was suffering fresh doubts. Had she acted too impulsively, breaking off the betrothal? She knew full well that she had responded from wounded pride. She had put personal sentiment before the welfare of her clan, forsaking them in their time of dire need. She had let them down, when she’d wanted very much to prove herself worthy of her clan name.
When at last she emerged from her grandfather’s bedchamber, Sabrina was despondent and near tears, yet her jaw remained clenched. Her emotions were too raw to think clearly just now, but she had to contrive some other way to protect Clan Duncan than marriage to the McLaren.
By the time supper was served below in the dining hall, anger and hurt had given way to a grim determination to find an answer to her dilemma. After the meal of barley bannocks and hotch-potch—a thick, delicious mutton and vegetable soup—Sabrina drew her cousin aside in order to question him.
“Geordie, what do you know of the Buchanans?”
“They’re our blood enemies,” he said simply.
“Yes…but why?”
His brow furrowed. “Why? Aweel, the feud began lang syne. The Buchanans stole a bride from Clan Duncan, but she couldna bear the mon and put a dirk in his ribs when he tried to claim her. A blow from his fist killed her before he expired. The Duncans and Buchanans have been foes ever since.”
“What can you tell me about their present laird? Owen, I believe is his name.”
“Owen is a canny de’il, for cert.”
“I understand he is a widower?”
“Aye.”
“And his sons? He has four sons, does he not?”
“Aye, all wed, but for the youngest. A lad of some five-and
-twenty years.” Geordie frowned at her. “Why, what are ye thinking, mistress?”
Sabrina gave a casual shrug. She didn’t dare tell him the idea that was forming in her head. “I just wondered how it all began. Has my grandfather ever considered trying to end the feud? Has he ever discussed the issue with Owen Buchanan, perhaps?”
Geordie’s brow furrowed more deeply. “Last year…I thought there might be a truce. Owen wanted peace—but that was before the McLaren was murdered in a cowardly attack.”
“Niall’s father? Was Owen Buchanan responsible?”
“’Twas his kin that did the foul deed, but it doesna matter. Owen is laird, and as such is answerable for the acts of his clan.”
That conversation gave her a great deal to think about. Thus when Geordie proposed a game of chess, Sabrina pleaded fatigue and retired to her bedchamber.
Yet as she began the tedious process of undressing for bed, removing her stomacher and bodice and overskirt, her thoughts involuntarily shifted from the fate of her clan to Niall McLaren and her brief, fruitless betrothal to him.
What a daft gomeril she’d been! For a few fleeting moments, she’d let herself foolishly hope that Niall might come to accept her as his wife. That their political union might blossom into something deeper, a true marriage. Faith, she’d made a narrow escape. She didn’t want him as husband and lover—any more than he wanted her. She wasn’t willing to endure the humiliation and heartache which wedding that profligate rogue would entail.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the pier-glass that hung on one wall, Sabrina faltered. She had stripped off her petticoat and stockings and stood clad only in her shift, but she scarcely recognized the fierce-eyed lass staring back at her. At the moment she looked every inch a Highlander, prepared to do battle with anyone who threatened her or her kin.
Hesitantly she drew down the neckline of her shift. The skin of her bosom was red and ribbed where the stiffened bodice had pressed, but as she let her shift fall to the floor and studied herself critically, she had to admit that her physical attributes were not unattractive. Her breasts were pale and high, the rosy jutting nipples hard and tight. The curves of her waist and hips were modest, with a dark bush of curling hair between her slender thighs…
Too modest. Too slender. Her charms were nothing compared to the voluptuous females Niall McLaren favored.
Sabrina frowned at her image. How could she ever have been naive enough to think a man like that would be satisfied to wed her? He would want someone beautiful and desirable and wickedly sophisticated, like he himself was. Or a wench who was lushly endowed like that dairymaid this afternoon…
Muttering an oath, Sabrina stepped out of her shift and roughly drew on her nightdress. She was glad she would not be wedding Niall McLaren. She was certain she despised that libertine.
Shivering in the chill then, she snuffed the candle and slipped beneath the bedcovers, burying her face in the pillow. She could not allow herself to seek slumber, though.
She had some critical decisions to make.