Angus looked as if he might protest, but one glance at Niall’s savage expression silenced him.
His claymore drawn, Niall urged his mount forward and rode alone across the drawbridge, into the bailey. Not a soul was in sight, nor any hint that the Buchanans expected a visit of retribution.
It made no sense.
The massive wooden door to the tower swung wide just then, and Keith Buchanan stepped onto the upper landing of the stone entrance stairs. He wore a leather frock coat but no sword. Apparently he was unarmed. “Greetings, Laird McLaren,” he called down to the yard. “We expected Angus, but you are welcome as well.”
“Where is she?” Niall demanded, his tone explosive with rage.
“Safe and sound—and ’tis not what ye’re thinking.”
“My thinking be damned! Tell me where my wife is, or God rot you, I’ll slice your gullet open and feed your vitals to the corbies!”
“I’ll gladly spill what I know, if ye allow me the chance. Your lady is here of her own accord.”
Niall made a visible effort at control, though his eyes remained narrowed in mistrust.
“She came here to seek peace.”
Niall’s jaw clenched as he stared. “The de’il she did,” was his muttered curse, but the knife-edged tone was blunted with the briefest hint of uncertainty.
“Pray, come and see for yourself.”
Keith stepped back, gesturing within the tower.
Dismounting, Niall held his claymore at the ready and swiftly climbed the entrance stairs. He followed the son of his fiercest foe through a great hall and up a winding flight of stone steps, to a chamber that was apparently used as a salon. Even before he reached it, he heard the sound of Sabrina’s laughter.
“Check, sir! I warned you not to risk that move.”
His hand clenched on his sword hilt, Niall stood in the doorway, staring grimly.
Before a crackling hearth fire, Sabrina sat facing Owen Buchanan across a chessboard, obviously at ease, while the Highland chieftain scowled down at the knight she had just captured.
“See you, milord,” Keith said smugly at Niall’s shoulder. “’Tis no abduction. Your lady is clearly enjoying our Buchanan hospitality.”
Chapter
Fifteen
As if sensing Niall’s presence, both Sabrina and the elder Buchanan looked up.
Owen grimaced, his good humor disappearing instantly. “I’ve won our wager, lass. I told ye he would come.”
“So you did.” She offered the Buchanan laird a charming smile. “It seems I owe you half a crown. But I shall have to redeem it by trouncing you soundly in our match.”
Niall moved into the room, his face set like flint, anger hooding his gaze.
“He doesna look pleased to find ye here,” Owen said.
Sabrina’s smile cooled. “I think you may be right. But he’s doubtless concerned that I’ve set up a flirtation with you. You must forgive him. His suspicious nature, I fear, results from lurking behind too many bedchamber doors, avoiding jealous husbands.”
Owen threw back his head and let out a roar. “By God, lass, ye’re a treat for an old man!”
“I trust you mean to explain the meaning of this, wife,” Niall said through gritted teeth.
Turning, Sabrina eyed him calmly. “If you wish. I have had an exceedingly pleasant visit with Lord Buchanan. I came to apologize for our clans’ breaking the truce, and for my grandfather’s deception. You might be surprised to know Angus was never as ill as he led us to believe.”
“So Liam informed me.”