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Chapter One

The Scottish Highlands April 1740

His teeth clenched as the frenzied, panting woman beneath him wound her legs tighter around his hips, drawing him deeper into her voluptuous, writhing body. Her naked breasts strained lush and wanton against his palms as with an expert rhythm, Niall McLaren satisfied his former mistress’s ravenous need.

They hadn’t managed to attain the bedchamber upstairs. Eve had not permitted it. Instead he had taken her standing in the drawing room, not pausing to remove his leather breeches or her silk dressing gown. Pressing her back to lie on the whist table, he had plunged deep between her welcoming thighs, not surprised to find her wet and pulsing for him.

She was flame-hot with desire, begging him in erratic whimpers for the intense pleasure only he could give her. And in his present mood, Niall was more than willing to comply. He had called at her elegant manor house directly after his meeting with Angus Duncan. And just now he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in the dark grip of passion.

He succeeded momentarily with their primitive, restless coupling. His blood surging thick and hot, Niall covered her fully with his body, thrusting into her sleek, heated passage with a driving motion of his hips. His lips smothered her wild moans as his fingers closed tauntingly around the hard-peaked nipples of her lush breasts.

Another tremor shook her and Eve cried out with ardent hunger. Yet only when he felt her first convulsions ripple around his shaft did he allow himself his own gratifying release. Urgently Niall surged into her, propelling her over the edge to an explosive, cresting pleasure.

His own climax followed swift and fierce, his powerfully muscled body contracting with stabbing pleasure as Eve quaked and sobbed beneath him.

Even when it was over, she clung to him with feverish strength, still impaled on his receding erection, gasping as the aftershocks of his violent release abated.

“Welcome back, my bonny rutting stallion,” she exhaled at last, the breathless, throaty sound loud in the hushed quiet of the room. “I had almost forgotten what a ferocious lover you can be.”

Perhaps, Niall thought unamused, because he rarely displayed such violence in his lovemaking. Just now he’d employed little of the finesse he was renowned for, although the sated woman sprawled beneath him seemed well pleased by his savagery.

The candles on the carved mahogany sideboard flickered, sending shadows dancing over her beautiful features. Eve lay gazing up at him contentedly, her pale skin glowing from exertion and arousal, her smile languorous.

Niall murmured a muted oath. He had gratified her lust and his own, yet it hadn’t managed to cool his temper. His frustration hadn’t diminished with the appeasement of his body, nor had he found the oblivion he’d sought in her arms. His dilemma still hadn’t changed.

He must shortly wed a bride not of his own choosing.

Disentangling himself from Eve’s silken limbs, Niall pulled down her skirts to cover her naked thighs and fastened his breeches. Then turning, he made for the crystal decanter on the mahogany side table and poured himself a tumbler full of malt whisky.

Declining his silent offer of a drink with a shake of her head, Eve lay back on the table, stretched her arms lazily above her, and gave a replete sigh.

“To what do I owe the honor of this call, my lord? I vow I haven’t been ravished so well since . . . since your last visit. It has been months since you’ve shared my bed, Niall. Indeed, I’ve scarcely even laid eyes on you since you became laird.”

“Clan duties have occupied far more of my time than I envisioned,” Niall prevaricated.

“I have missed you sorely.”

“And I you, sweeting,” he murmured, his mind elsewhere.

“Niall, will you not tell me what is troubling you?”

“How do you ken something troubles me?”

Her smile was indulgent. “That black scowl you’re wearing is proof enough, even had I not felt it in your embrace. And I don’t remember ever seeing you quite so distracted. Tell me about it, and perhaps I can help.”

“I rather doubt you can.” His mouth curled cynically. “Tomorrow I ride to fetch my bride.”

“Bride?” The word was a gasp. “You are to marry?”

“The idea is not mine, I assure you.”

“Then what . . . ?”

“Angus Duncan has demanded that I wed his granddaughter to fulfill a debt my father owed him.”

“What debt could possibly require such a high price as payment?”

“Angus once saved his life. My father promised him any boon he asked.”

“Oh.” Falling silent for a moment, Eve raised herself to a sitting position on the table, before saying regretfully, “Then you have no choice. I had thought . . . hoped . . . we . . .”

He knew what she had hoped. As a wealthy widow and one of his nearest neighbors, Eve Graham had contemplated a match between them for years. And she might have been an acceptable choice, had she cared ought for clan affairs. But new ball gowns and elegant soirees were her chief interests. And she had already run through the greater portion of her late husband’s fortune. Eve was not the bride for him, Niall knew.

Nor was Mistress Sabrina Duncan.

Niall muttered another oath. Angus’s demand this afternoon had left him feeling cornered, trapped. It was not a pleasant sentiment.

“Why has this matter come to a head now?” Eve asked. “Because Angus is dying?”

“Just so. He fears Clan Duncan will be leaderless at his death, at the mercy of any rival clan, most particularly the Buchanans. Angus wants a strong laird to insure his kinsmen’s protection after he’s gone and has chosen me for the task.”

Niall took a long swallow of whisky, welcoming its sweet burn as he recalled Angus’s weakened voice imploring him.

Ye’re a warrior born and bred, lad, despite yer randy ways, and I need a good mon to lead my clan after I’m gone. The Duncans will follow you willingly into battle, ’tis all I care about. As for the rest, yer eight and twenty, lad. ’Tis time you settled down to raise a family. You’ll find wedlock no’ so burdensome as ye fear.

Niall grimaced. It was not wedlock he objected to. He was the McLaren now, chief of a mighty Highland tribe, and as such, he would eventually need heirs to succeed him. Yet he preferred to choose his bride himself.

He had never expected to become laird of his clan. In truth, he would give his own life to have his father and brother back, hale and hardy. It was Jamie who should have succeeded to the lairdship. Jamie who had been groomed to fight and breed strong sons to carry on the line. Or Thomas. Hugh McLaren’s middle son had perished in a storm at sea two years before while crossing the Channel to France.

Niall had accepted the chieftain’s reins with grave reluctance and a fierce determination to prove himself worthy of the momentous responsibility. Over the past seven months he’d managed to demonstrate an able leadership, avenging his kinsmen’s murders in a swift raid on the Buchanans. He’d sent two of the culprits to perdition and the rest scurrying from the country.

The fighting did not distress him overmuch. Blood feuds were a way of life in the Highlands, where clan wars lasted for generations. And he’d been schooled for battle nearly from the cradle. As for the burdens of the lairdship, he’d discovered an unexpected talent for the role. In truth, he’d found immense satisfaction in working for the good of his clan.

It was being forced to wed that stuck in his throat. To the Duncan lass, no less.

And yet he was bound by duty and honor to satisfy his father’s debt to Angus Duncan.

“Who is the lucky bride, if I may ask?”

A vein hammered at his temple. “Sabrina Duncan is her name. She stands to inherit a sizable fortune one day from her stepfather, a prosperous merchant.”

“That is a prime advantage.”

Niall could not disagree. With such poor ground for farming, the Highlands boasted precious little resources to support so many mouths. Indeed, much of his time went to seeing that his clansmen were adequately fed and housed. Any wealth a bride brought his clan would be welcome. It was the bride herself he could summon little desire for.

Niall stared grimly into his whisky, remembering quite clearly his one meeting with Mistress Duncan the night she’d interrupted his pleasure at her aunt’s ball. Plain, prim, sharp-tongued. A thoroughly nondescript figure of a girl, one he would not normally look at twice. Except perhaps for the intelligence in her dark eyes, her features fell far short of beauty.

Certainly not the sort of lass to appeal to a man of his discriminating tastes and strong appetites.

God’s blood, a prudish, disapproving virgin was the last woman he wanted in his bed. Mistress Duncan was too tame, too proper and dispassionate for him. Too vexing.

He was passionately fond of women in general, long addicted to the charms of lushly endowed beauties. He preferred women like Eve Graham, who were startlingly attractive and who could match him in passion.

In truth, his requirements for a bride were not so exorbitant. He could forswear beauty in a wife if necessary. And perhaps even passion. He was willing to make most any sacrifice for the sake of his clan. Since becoming laird, he had searched for a bride who would make a worthy mistress of Clan McLaren. He needed a lass who would give him strong sons to carry on after him. One who would put the welfare of the clan above her own interests.

His own mother had been such a woman. Judith McLaren’s husband and sons had fairly worshiped her. He could not see mousy Sabrina Duncan filling her shoes. Mistress Duncan knew nothing of the Highlands or the needs of his clan.

Nor could he picture her as his lover. They would not suit in any respect, not if the virginal inexperience he’d tasted in her kiss was any indication.

He had kissed her because . . . why? For the challenge, perhaps. He’d been irritated with her from the first. And she seemed unimpressed by his face and form, completely immune to masculine charm. Her obvious skittishness over his advances had brought out the primitive male urge to chase fleeing prey.

Most assuredly, he would never have seriously considered indulging his desire.

But before he could put it to the test, he’d received the terrible news about his father and brother. He still winced to recall the savage blow. And even now he could not think of Sabrina Duncan without recalling that terrible time of pain and grief.