Sabrina glanced around her at her kinsmen. Their grave, hopeful faces tore at her heart. She couldn’t turn her back on these people, even if it meant sacrificing her own happiness. She was needed here.
Sabrina forced her lips into a semblance of a smile. “I shall think on it carefully, I promise you.”
Yet there was little choice left to her. When she’d come home, she had never expected to be caught up in the fiery passions of a proud people. But her fate had been decided for her even before she stepped foot in the Highlands, Sabrina realized.
She knew she would consent to her grandfather’s marriage plans. She would protect her clan the only way she knew how.
Even if it meant enduring a loveless marriage to the infamous Niall McLaren.
Chapter
Three
Sabrina passed a restless night, assaulted by wicked, treacherous dreams of the McLaren. Dawn found her tossing in her bed, grappling with the tormenting question of whether to wed him as her grandfather asked.
Their union would not be the ideal, based on love and esteem and shared goals. Doubtless Niall held her in as much dislike as she did him.
Their mutual antagonism did not bode well for happiness in marriage. But then was happiness truly a necessary requirement? Sabrina demanded honestly of
herself. She would be no worse off than most women. If she could not have love, she could gain fulfillment in doing her duty, in working for the good of her clan. It would be a marriage of convenience, nothing more.
Faith, it was not as if she had more estimable suitors pressing for her hand. And while she and Niall McLaren had started off on the wrong foot, perhaps something positive could be salvaged of their relationship.
By the time she rose to dress, Sabrina had reluctantly reached a decision: to fulfill her grandfather’s dying wish and provide Clan Duncan with a protector. She would wed the McLaren.
She informed her grandfather of her resolve directly after breakfast, before she could change her mind. From his sickbed, Angus rejoiced at the news, calling for Liam to break out a barrel of his finest malt whisky. Dozens of Duncan kinsmen crammed into his bedchamber, where with trembling hands, Angus raised a toast to his granddaughter, who would be the saving of Clan Duncan.
Then dismissing any misgivings Sabrina might still have, he sent word to the McLaren of the wedding to come, putting the date of the ceremony for a week hence, and issued invitations to neighboring clans to attend the festivities.
Sabrina was pleased when her grandfather’s health seemed to improve measurably at the prospect of Clan Duncan’s deliverance, but dismayed that events were moving so quickly.
It was two days more, however, before she managed to speak to the prospective bridegroom—and then she was forced to go to him, since she received only a terse response to her note requesting that he call to discuss arrangements for the ceremony. He was, he regretted to inform her, too busy at the moment to answer her summons.
It vexed her that the McLaren could not make the time to meet with her. She desired to speak to him privately, the man to whom she would soon give herself in marriage, whose life and bed she would share, whose children she would bear.
“Doubtless he is occupied with clan matters,” Angus said in his defense.
Or engaged in his usual licentious pursuits, Sabrina thought tartly.
The weather had turned stormy, with gusting rain lashing at the manor and enveloping the interior in a chill, gray gloom. Unhappily, the delay gave Sabrina too much leisure to regret her decision. Her grandfather attributed her qualms to bridal nerves, but when she remained determined to speak to her future husband, Angus sent her kinsman to accompany her.
“Take Geordie with you, lass,” he ordered. “It isna safe for womenfolk to go traipsing about the countryside with the Buchanans lurking about.”
With an armed Geordie riding escort and Rab bounding along beside her mount, Sabrina struck out for the McLaren’s home, Creagturic.
Her spirits rebounded as she rode through the rugged hills. The rain had ceased, and on this bright, blustery spring morning, the early mists had burned away, leaving an emerald vision of untamed grandeur.
Sabrina felt her breath catch with enchantment. Whatever doubts she had about her marriage to the McLaren, she was glad she had returned home to this splendid country. The Highlands were seeping into her soul, calling to her; she felt the lure deep in her blood.
And as she drew rein and sat gazing up at the imposing stone castle that would soon be her new home, her heart hammered with delight and trepidation.
Set against a range of sweeping hills, surrounded by forested glens of alder and birch, the ancient family seat of the McLarens stood overlooking the clear blue waters of a tranquil loch. Despite its stark beauty, it was a formidable stronghold, obviously the domain of a warring clan.
“’Twas built by Malcolm the Bold, Niall’s great-great-grandda,” Geordie volunteered. “Besieged twice, but never been taken.”
They rode across a stone bridge to enter the walled bailey, although the portcullis, a relic of feudal days, was no longer in use. The yard was immense, boasting a dozen timber outbuildings including a stable and smithy. After dismounting and securing her mount’s reins to a ring, Sabrina ordered her canine escort to remain at the foot of the sweeping stone stairway, and climbed with Geordie to the great oaken entrance door.
The interior of the castle, at least, appeared to have been gentled by a civilized hand, Sabrina reflected admiringly as they were shown inside. The stone walls of the great hall had been brightened with whitewash and adorned with fine tapestries in addition to weapons, while the massive oak furniture gleamed with beeswax.