“Aye, that he has.”
Still stunned, she raised a hand to her temple. “But why? Why would he wish to wed me?”
“Ye’re an heiress, are ye not?”
Of course, Sabrina thought with a twinge of bitterness. Her dowry was her chief attraction for any suitor.
But that did not explain why Niall McLaren would choose her over any other genteel woman of fortune. With his title and his devastating appeal and his legendary powers of seduction, he could doubtless have any bride he wished. He had not even seemed pleased to see her this afternoon—
A flush of embarrassment besieged Sabrina as she remembered her brief encounter with Niall McLaren several hours ago at the tavern. He must have known about her grandfather’s plan all along. Was that why he’d scrutinized her with such smoldering—almost hostile—intensity? And why he had tried to warn her away from the Highlands?
Because he was not eager for the marriage?
“There must be any number of heiresses he could choose from,” she protested.
“None that would suit so well. Our lands march together, and we share the same enemies. He’s laird of a powerful Scots clan, willing to fight our foes to the death.”
Sabrina glanced around the darkened bedchamber, lit by a single candle. She vaguely remembered Angus’s medieval manor house from her childhood. This room clearly belonged to a fighting man. More weapons than tapestries graced the stone walls, and the chamber boasted few comforts other than the massive four-poster bed and a huge hearth. It should have struck her as cold and gloomy, yet inexplicably she found it intriguing. This had been the Duncan Clan’s family seat for over a hundred years.
“Still,” she murmured, “that doesn’t seem reason enough for the McLaren to agree.”
“I tell you lass, he’s willing. ’Tis not so far-fetched that he should look favorably on the union. The marriage will bind our two clans together.”
Perhaps it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Niall McLaren should be willing to wed her, Sabrina conceded. Political marriages between clan allies were entirely common, after all—indeed, the rule rather than the exception.
“Can ye not see how vital it is that ye wed him?” Angus demanded, the question an urgent plea. “When I’m gone, the bloody Buchanans will ravage Clan Duncan if the laird is no’ strong enough to prevent it.”
Sabrina nodded unwillingly. She understood very well what her grandfather wanted of her. He wanted her to marry a laird powerful enough to protect her clansmen from their enemies.
But his choice of husband for her…The very notion of wedding Niall McLaren dismayed her. A rogue and a libertine. He would as soon break her heart as look at her.
No, the thought was preposterous. They were supremely ill-suited for marriage. In truth, they had rubbed each other wrong from the first.
“Is there no one else who can act as your successor?” she asked unhappily.
“Liam would be next in line. He’s a good mon, but no’ so good as the McLaren. Liam himself kens it.”
“But…surely there must be someone else who can take over—”
“Nay, there’s no one. Do ye no’ ken I would hae acted were there another choice?”
“But Grandfather—”
Suddenly a violent cough shook Angus’s wiry frame, and he spent a long moment wheezing into his fist.
Alarmed, Sabrina took a step closer, reaching out a hand to help him.
Impatiently he waved her away and lay back panting. “Is there nothing I can do to comfort you, Grandfather?”
“Aye…ye can ease my mind by agreeing to wed the McLaren.”
He must have seen her misgivings in her expression, for he took another rasping breath and continued with relentless fervor. “Niall McLaren is a valiant leader of men, a warrior born and bred, like his da. He’s strong enough to hold this clan together and lead it against the bloody Buchanans. He kens how to fight. And he has good cause to hate the Buchanans. His da perished at their hand, cursing their name. Just as yer own da did.”
Sabrina gazed down at her grandfather, understanding his immense hatred for the Clan Buchanan. Angus held them to blame for the death of his only child. Sabrina’s father had been thrown from his horse while pursuing the Buchanans after they’d raided Duncan cattle, and Angus considered them mortal enemies.
Indeed, the feud between their clans had existed for over a hundred years.
There was no government to speak of in the Highlands, other than the relic of a medieval feudal system. The lairds ruled their clans loosely, at the volition of their followers. Highlanders looked to their chiefs for protection, even for food, but they would only support a leader they respected—which ordinarily meant a man. The mantle of clan leadership passed through sons and brothers and rarely came to rest with women.