Wincing at the soreness in his ribs, Niall strode across the room to the window and glanced through the leaded panes to the yard where she stood. Her giant hound fawned at her feet, while Geordie Duncan prepared to help her mount her horse.
Aye, she had won this time, Niall mused. But this was merely the opening volley. If he had to wed her, it would be on his own terms. He would not be ruled by his bride.
Yet this, he had to confess, was one battle he would enjoy. Strangely, Niall found himself anticipating the challenge with relish.
A cool smile touched his lips. “We shall see who wins the next skirmish, lovely witch.”
Chapter
Four
Sabrina returned home from her disastrous interview with the McLaren, feeling rash and resentful. However, she said little about the encounter to her grandfather when she visited his sickbed
that evening. She couldn’t dash Angus’s hopes for a union between their two clans, especially when she herself was uncertain just what had happened.
Niall McLaren hadn’t refused to wed her exactly, but neither was he overly eager to have her as his bride. Or lover, for that matter. She much doubted she could satisfy his requirements for physical compatibility. He was a master at passion, while she was an utter novice.
Sabrina winced, recalling Niall’s fierce countenance after she’d cooled his sensual assault with a strategically targeted drenching. He would not forgive her easily for that offense. And it was, most assuredly, no way to inspire his desire.
Her impetuous action had been instinctive, spurred on by his infuriating air of supremacy and her own sense of powerlessness. Yet maddeningly, his arrogant assumption that she would fall swooning at his feet had been no mere boast. Her defenses had shattered the moment his lips touched hers.
It dismayed her profoundly to recognize her weakness for the brazen rogue. She’d thought she was strong enough to resist him, but she wasn’t proof against his devastating appeal. His boldness, his sensuality, his compelling vitality, were all more than someone of her limited experience could handle.
To make matters worse, Sabrina received a long letter from her stepfather, questioning the suddenness of her betrothal. He had received an invitation to the wedding, and was more concerned for her happiness than the fate of her kinsmen.
In truth, Sabrina wondered if she ought not call off the match. Torn between wounded pride and a desire to help her clan, she was no longer certain she could summon the fortitude to carry out her grandfather’s wishes.
She had thought Niall could be no worse a husband than her other suitors, but at least they wanted to wed her, for her dowry if nothing else. And as the McLaren’s bride, she would have to endure the indignity of knowing he might be bedding any wench in the country.
To her dismay, she had dreamed of him that first night—of Niall kissing her, his warm lips touching, teasing, tasting hers, driving her slightly mad with yearning—and awoke feeling hot and vexed and restless. Now she resigned herself to a long wait before hearing from him again, believing it might be several days, so it came as an unpleasant surprise when she saw him that very afternoon.
When she rode into the yard after touring the estate with Liam, a stable lad mentioned that the McLaren had arrived at Banesk and had asked for her. Upon learning that he was last seen disappearing into the barn, Sabrina made her way there, with Rab trotting at her heels. The stone outbuildings of the estate clustered behind the manor house in haphazard fashion. In the distance beyond lay a verdant meadow dotted by gorse and broom, where shaggy cattle grazed.
As she entered the low-roofed barn, Rab pricked his ears forward, but it was a moment before Sabrina caught the slight rustling noise that had attracted the dog’s notice.
At first glance the barn appeared to be empty, but as she moved deeper into the dimly lit interior, she heard the sound of feminine laughter, followed by an unmistakable masculine murmur. Instantly recognizing the enchanting timbre of that voice, Sabrina came to an abrupt halt.
At the far end of the aisle, Niall lay sprawled elegantly on his back in the straw, his hands behind his head, while a voluptuous, ginger-haired woman lay laughing beside him.
Sabrina froze as she realized she had come upon her betrothed engaged in another liaison—this time with a dairymaid in her grandfather’s employ.
“Indeed, I shall miss you, sweeting,” Niall asserted seriously.
The woman laughed again. “Fah, do ye take me for a gomeril? You havena looked at me in years.”
“And yet I carry your memory close to my heart, Betsy-love.”
She struck his shoulder a playful blow. “Begone with ye, now, ye silver-tongued de’il. I must get back to work.”
He pressed a hand to his chest as he turned his head to gaze at her. “How you wound me, to dismiss me so heartlessly. And to desert me for such a man…”
“Hah! Did ye think I would pine after ye? Ye’re no’ the only fish in the sea, ma fine fellow.”
His soft laughter was a husky caress. “I am happy for you, in truth, sweeting. Think you Dughall would object if I were to kiss the bride?”
“I ken he would…but I wouldna.”
Niall tossed away the straw he’d been chewing on and rolled toward her. Slipping one arm around her shoulder, he brushed back a flaming curl from her flushed face and gazed deeply into her eyes.