The Lover

“You seem to be filling his shoes admirably.”

Niall smiled humorlessly and shook his head. “Not so very well. I might do better had I been properly prepared for the chieftainship. But there was no reason. I never thought to become laird. A younger son cannot inherit and must shift for himself. Instead of remaining home, I struck out for the continent to seek my fortune, making use of what gifts I had.”

“Gifts?”

“Aye”—a tinge of self-mockery invaded his tone—“my charming address and braw countenance. Such attributes gained me entry into the wealthiest circles, where I kept myself in funds, winning games of chance from moneyed nobles.”

She watched Niall restlessly lie back on the plaid, one arm draped across his forehead. He was wrong to think himself unworthy to lead his clan. Even though he hadn’t expected the responsibility of leadership, he cared deeply about his kinsmen and was deadly serious about protecting and caring for them. She knew he would make any sacrifice to ensure their prosperity.

“My brother Jamie should have been laird,” he said softly, gazing up at the sky. “Jamie should be here now, in my place. But he died with my father at the hands of the bloody Buchanans.” His eyes squeezed closed. “I was spared their death because I was away attending a ball.”

Sabrina felt a sudden ache in her throat, comprehending the guilt Niall felt because he had survived when his father and brother had not.

“It would have served no one,” she murmured, wanting to offer comfort, “had you perished with them.”

“Aye, but I might have saved them. Or died in their place.”

Sabrina looked away. Perhaps she was being selfish, but she was glad Niall had not perished. She could not imagine the world without this vital, beautiful man in it.

“The culprits were punished, were they not?”

His jaw clenched. “Aye, the murdering bastards paid for their treachery. I saw to that.”

“Geordie told me once…that Owen Buchanan was not directly responsible for the ambush.”

“Mayhap he didn’t give the order, but they were his clansmen all the same. A laird is accountable for the actions of his kin.”

Turning, Sabrina gazed down at Niall. Sorrow and tenderness pulled at her. “You still seek revenge against him, don’t you.”

“If so, what of it?” The question was venom-sharp, the tone bitter.

Sabrina winced. She had just been trying to understand Niall’s savage intolerance. “Geordie said that at one time…before the tragedy…Owen desired an end to the feud, that he sought a truce.”

Niall made a scoffing sound. “Geordie Duncan talks too much. And the Buchanans are liars as well as cowardly curs. A truce? ’Tis folly to expect them to bargain in good faith. Owen betrayed you when you attempted it. I should think you would have learned your lesson.”

Sabrina had no answer for that. “I know…It just seems—”

“No, lass, leave it! I’ll not have you championing my blood enemy.”

When Niall rose abruptly to his feet, Sabrina lapsed into an uneasy silence. Time stretched between them, echoing the tension and resentment of their earliest relationship.

Niall felt the strain as well. Fetching his rod, he strode to the bank to fish, vexed at her and at himself. He had said too much to her, divulged more of himself than was wise…going on about his father and brother so…letting Sabrina prod him into arguing about the feud. He did not have to justify his hatred of Owen Buchanan, to her or anyone else.

Faith, but his mouse of a bride had a way of slipping beneath his guard—

Except that Sabrina was no longer so much of a mouse, Niall reflected grudgingly as he baited his hook. As his pupil, she was progressing admirably, frequently showing glimpses of the sensual, alluring woman he’d thought her capable of becoming. In his bed she was as wild and passionate as any man could wish. And he felt his heart softening with warmth at the oddest moments…

Tightening his jaw, Niall cast out his line.

In truth, their marriage hadn’t proven the hardship he’d envisioned. To his surprise, he was actually developing a fondness for his wife. He liked Sabrina. He liked her intelligence and her courage. He liked her refreshing frankness and the wry laughter lurking in her dark eyes. He found even her tartness refreshing as she endeavored to match wits with him.

And she was fitting into his

clan far better than he’d hoped. His kinswomen in particular regarded her as a benefactor, lauding her efforts to augment their meager incomes by selling cloth at the Edinburgh markets.

But Sabrina was stubbornly determined to meddle in affairs that were not her ken. He could not reproach her earnestness, but she was naive to think she could change the conflicts of a lifetime.

And on this issue in particular, he would not brook her interference.