The Lover

His kiss was a slow, intimate knowing of her mouth. His lips stroked hers, playing, conducting an exercise in sensual pleasure, his passion leashed for the sake of her sensibilities.

Sabrina felt lost in a thick, dreamy pleasure as he filled her with his tongue in a sensual invasion. Need broke over her, warm, rich, loosing a tide of longing. The slow glide of his rough-soft tongue was sleek, wet, intoxicating beyond anything she’d ever known, arousing a hot flush of desire and excitement within her.

Helplessly, her hands rose to his shoulders, clinging to him for support, while his mouth and tongue tantalized and coaxed in a slow erotic dance that probed and explored and expertly enticed.

Her limbs grew warm and honeyed, her body liquid and weak. She was only dimly aware when McLaren shifted his stance slightly. His pliant fingers moved to caress her shoulders with practiced sensuality, drawing her even closer against him, gently accommodating her body to his, making her feel an ache that began imperceptibly in her breasts and gradually spread downward to gather between her thighs.

A whimper escaped her lips as she felt the bold press of his body, his maleness. She couldn’t fight the sweet tempest he was arousing in her, didn’t want to fight…

He was caressing her again, stroking the column of her throat with his long fingers, making her intensely aware of her bare skin above the square neckline of her bodice. Then his hand slid lower, to brush her breast. A sweet blinding hunger flooded her.

Suddenly alarmed by the fierce sensation streaking through her, Sabrina gave a soft cry and abruptly pulled free of his embrace.

Her breath coming in soft pants, she stared at him in shock.

The Highlander returned her stare, his gaze hooded.

When he finally spoke, his laughter was muted, softly triumphant. “I think we can safely say you enjoyed that, mouse.”

Sabrina felt all color drain from her face. He was entirely correct; she hadn’t wanted his embrace to end. For a few brief moments, he had made her feel special, cherished, sought after. Yet his mockery was like a douse of cold water. Absurdly she felt spurned, when she should be grateful he had ended his seduction before it went too far.

She understood his intent now in kissing her, though. He had meant to prove his power over her, perhaps in punishment for interrupting his liaison with his latest paramour.

It was impossible to recover her dazed senses so abruptly, but Sabrina summoned every shred of dignity she possessed as she stepped back on shaken limbs.

She took a deep, steadying breath and forced a feeble laugh. “I suppose I should thank you for your instruction, sir. After all, one isn’t honored every day with such noted attention from a renowned rake. But in truth”—she lifted her chin defiantly—“I found your kiss rather overrated.”

A frown of irritation swept his handsome features. Yet before he could reply, a sudden commotion from beyond the yew hedge made him turn his head

abruptly.

Sabrina gave a start. What if she should be discovered here with him, like this?

“Niall?” a man’s voice called out in a harsh brogue. “Niall, are ye here, lad?”

“John?” the Highlander replied sharply.

From the direction of the terrace came the sound of booted feet running down the stone steps.

When Niall McLaren strode swiftly around the hedge, Sabrina followed, a vague sense of alarm raising the hair on the backs of her arms.

“What brings you here, John? What’s amiss?”

“I’ve come to fetch ye, lad. Ye’re needed at home. I fear…I have terrible tidings. ’Tis yer da.”

A powerful hulk of a man came to a halt before Niall. He wore the McLaren plaid, Sabrina noted, and looked savagely out of place in the moonlit garden, dressed in Highland battle gear, complete with claymore and leather-covered targe, the round shield carried by fighting men.

“Lad, I fear yer father has met with treachery,” John rasped, his voice rough with emotion and fatigue. “Caught in an ambush. ’Tis suspected the hand of the bloody Buchanans at work. Hugh is not expected to live through the night. He calls for you, lad. Yer the last of his sons now.”

“The last?” The word was a hoarse whisper.

“Aye, there’s worse. Jamie was killed.”

“Merciful God, not Jamie…” McLaren staggered, his hand rising to his temple, and Sabrina caught a glimpse of his expression. Stunned disbelief and savage pain warred in his eyes.

Instinctively she reached out to support him, her hand grasping his arm. Reflexively he clutched her wrist with a force violent enough to crush it, yet his devastation hurt her more than his grip. He had been the youngest of three sons, she recalled, but now he was the last.

Sudden tears blurred Sabrina’s gaze. She had lost her mother last year, but after such a long illness, she’d had time to prepare herself for the loss. She could only imagine the anguish of losing a father and a brother in one fell stroke. She wanted to reach out to Niall, to hold him to her breast and comfort him. Powerful feelings for a man who until a few moments ago had been a stranger. Yet she was dimly conscious of the throng of ball guests gathering on the terrace.