“If I wished to wed,” she managed to say with a serenity she was far from feeling, “I would have offered myself as part of the bargain. But I much prefer the single state.”
“Do ye now? And what’s to stop me from taking ye prisoner and holding ye to ransom?”
“You could try, certainly…if you wished to escalate the feud between our clans. But my capture might prove difficult. I will not go with you willingly. And I am hardly without protection. My dog would come to my rescue, you see.”
She glanced down at Rab, who had bared his teeth again and was growling fiercely. “He will aim for the throat, sir, and you will be dead before your men can react.”
The laird eyed the dog narrowly.
“You might also,” she advised sweetly, “wish to consider the dirk I hold pressed against your ribs.” She increased the pressure slightly on the blade she had slipped beneath his armpit. “Even if I could not strike a mortal blow, you might find it difficult to explain how a mere lass wounded such a brave Highland warrior with such ease.”
Owen Buchanan stared at her a long moment, so intently Sabrina could see a vein throb in his temple.
Then abruptly his dark eyes lit with laughter. When he threw back his dark head to give a loud guffaw of delight, his men stared to see what had amused their laird so.
“Angus would be proud of you, lass,” Owen declared as he clapped her on the back as he would a man, a buffet which nearly sent her sprawling.
Instantly Rab lunged forward, and it was all Sabrina could do to stop him from assaulting the laird. With effort she pulled the dog away and spoke to him soothingly, then called out reassuringly to Geordie, who had uttered an oath and raised his claymore, despite the peril.
Owen was still chuckling. “Aye, ye’re kin to Angus Duncan, ’tis plain to see. Put away yer dirk, Mistress Duncan. If we’re to ally ourselves with you, it calls for a dram. Ye’re a gallant lass, to come here, but I warn ye, I’ll no’ take so wee a sum as ye proposed. A hundred head of cattle quarterly, ’tis my price, and not a hair less.”
Sabrina let out a slow breath of relief. She would have willingly paid double that price to secure her clan’s safety.
“You drive a hard bargain, my lord,” she replied meekly.
“Ye did what?” her grandfather exclaimed when she confessed her actions that same afternoon.
“I struck a bargain with Owen Buchanan,” Sabrina repeated placatingly.
“The de’il, you say! Over my dead body!” Angus threw off the covers and struggled to rise from his sickbed, his nightshirt hiking up over bare legs still brawny with muscle.
“Grandfather, you mustn’t get up!”
“Dinna tell me what to do, girl! Ye’ve ruined all my plans.”
“Perhaps so, but this might prove a better solution—”
“Hah! ’Tis little ye know, ye interfering gomeril.”
She winced to hear herself termed a fool, but she couldn’t let it bother her just now. Angus’s complexion had turned alarmingly scarlet, Sabrina noted with dismay. Calling for his manservant to come quickly, she grasped her grandfather’s shoulders in an attempt to restrain him. It required all her strength to press him back upon the pillows.
“I had to act, Grandfather, don’t you see? Since I ended any possibility of a betrothal to the McLaren, I felt obliged to see if I could protect our clan some other way.”
“Well, giving away our herds is not the way of it!”
“Why not?” She met his fierce gaze with a gentle query in her own. “You were willing to sacrifice me in the name of clan security, but you hold your cattle in higher esteem?”
Angus’s answer was a muffled curse as he wheezed into his fist. “I dinna see it as a sacrifice. Ye were to wed the McLaren. ’Tis all I asked of you.”
“You needn’t worry that my agreement with Owen Buchanan will impoverish you. I intend to pay every penny out of my dowry.” When Angus refused to respond, she added quietly, “I should think you would be glad to end the feud.”
The fight seemed to go out of him, and he shut his eyes. “We’ll ne’er see the end if it, lass. The bloody Buchanans canna be trusted, ye’ll ken.” Weakly, Angus lay back on the pillows, refusing even to look at his granddaughter.
“Grandfather, are you all right?” she asked, troubled.
“Nay…I’m a dying man, and ye’ve plunged a dirk through ma heart. ’Tis a sad trial, to be betrayed by one’s own kin.”
Sabrina bit her lip hard, distressed that he should have put such a dark construction on her actions. She had managed to bring sanity and hope to a conflict that had been rife with bloodshed for decades, yet he could not forgive her betrayal.