Prologue
Edinburgh, Scotland
September 1739
She never intended to eavesdrop. Never meant to intrude on a celebrated libertine enacting a practiced seduction. Yet neither did she anticipate being captivated by a dark, caressing voice as sleekly velvet as the night.
Her restless mood ebbing, Sabrina Duncan stood beyond a hedge of topiary yews, an unwilling interloper upon Niall McLaren’s amorous pursuits. She’d escaped her cousin’s betrothal ball for the refuge of the moonlit terrace gardens only moments before the Highlander unexpectedly appeared for an apparent rendezvous with his latest conquest, the noble wife of an English colonel.
Hidden from view, her presence further disguised by the muted strains of a minuet issuing from the ballroom above, Sabrina scarcely dared breathe. She should have made herself known at once, but she hadn’t wished to cause embarrassment. And then she’d found herself held captive by that enchanting voice as it beguiled its way into her senses.
“Well met, my bonny Belle….”
Sweet heaven, how could he infuse so much warmth into a simple murmur? It was like being stroked. No woman alive could remain unmoved by those low, honeyed tones: lilting, warm, devastatingly sensual. Full of the heather and mist of the Highlands. Doubtless it was a prime reason for the man’s remarkable success with the fairer sex.
“They say he can draw a woman’s soul from her body,” her cousin Frances had confided with great relish. “And that no female’s virtue is safe.”
Sabrina could well understand the Highlander’s appeal. She recalled being stunned earlier when Niall McLaren strode into the crowded ballroom, eliciting excited feminine whispers and dreamy sighs. Powerful, virile, sinfully handsome, he cut a bold figure in full Scottish garb.
He wore the McLaren plaid draped over his coat of black satin, while his belted kilt bared strong, muscular legs above tartan silk stockings. The rapier at his side seemed a natural extension of his person—and a stark contrast to the touch of lace at his throat and wrists. With his ebony hair and sun-bronzed features, he stood out among the crowd of painted, bewigged aristocrats like a Highland mountain against tame lowland hills.
Sabrina knew him by reputation only. The youngest son of a fierce Highland chieftain, Niall McLaren was a thief of female hearts, infamous for his sexual exploits. “The Darling of Edinburgh,” the ladies were wont to call him. Yet he’d cut a wide swath through the female populations of France and England as well.
Now, having returned from his travels abroad, he was engaged in another sensual chase—that of seducing a married lady. Most of the company at the ball tonight had seemed more titillated than shocked.
“Everyone is wagering on the outcome of his pursuit, whether or not Lady Chivington will surrender,” Sabrina had heard her cousin remark.
She knew how she would wager. Hearing that enchanting voice, she couldn’t suppress a dismaying ache of longing, an inexplicable yearning for impossible dreams. What would it be like to be pursued by Europe’s most infamous rogue? To have him gaze at her with such single-minded devotion, to be the recipient of the formidable charm she’d seen him lavish on his chosen partners earlier in the ballroom….
Clutching her fan, Sabrina chided herself. What was wrong with her? She rarely lamented her circumstances or felt such melancholy as she did tonight. The bitterness she’d known when her chief suitor had fallen in love with her beautiful cousin had mellowed to regret by now. She was content with her life; she was needed, appreciated, loved by her family. She found pleasure in being a dutiful stepdaughter. She enjoyed quietly spending her evenings with her stepfather and his account books for company.
If there were times, like now, when she felt moments of restlessness, if sometimes she was bedeviled by romantic yearnings and the depressing suspicion that life was passing her by, well then, she was usually practical enough to quash them.
Except for tonight. Her pragmatism couldn’t quell the sense of envy that pierced her now, or repress the yearning that stirred deep within the secret recesses of her heart. Or stop her fascination with the man whose reputation was a byword for wickedness. Was this how rakes enticed females into carnal love?
“Come and sit beside me,” he exhorted in a murmur, his voice a warm handstroke on her heart. Sabrina almost wished he were speaking to her.
She could picture the moonlit scene on the other side of the yew hedge: the handsome Highlander lounging on a stone bench, while Lady Chivington kept her distance—to tease and torment him.
She recalled the Englishwoman’s stylish elegance, her voluptuous figure resplendent in a wide, panniered ball gown of blue silk brocade, her towering, powdered hairdo adorned with pearls and ribbons. Her voice, however, currently held a note of waspishness that didn’t match her beauty.
“I am not certain I wish to sit beside you, sir,” Lady Chivington observed, pouting. “I think perhaps you deserve a punishment for your neglect of me this afternoon. You did not come to me as you promised.”
“Surely you will forgive me, my sweet. As I mentioned, I was unavoidably detained.”
A faint scoffing sound issued from the lady’s lips. “By a tavern wench, no doubt. Or another gentlewoman.”
“Never, ma cherie,” he replied, his voice holding a uniquely seductive rasp in his apparent attempt to win her from her sulks. “How could I contemplate another lass when the hope remains you might favor me with your attention?”
“You never even replied to my note.”
“Yet I am here now, am I not? And if we are at all alike, Belle, you’ve found that anticipation only heightens the pleasure.”
In the resulting silence, Sabrina could imagine the lady unfurling her ivory fan and plying it vigorously.
“Do you make it a habit, sir, of ignoring a lady’s request to call?”
“Only when the lady in question has a jealous husband…a colonel in the English army, at that. I do cherish my skin.”
“Pooh! I doubt you fear my husband in the least. Besides, Richard cares little if I engage in dalliance.”
“He is a fool, then, to neglect such a beautiful wife.”
The compliment seemed to mollify her only slightly. “Perhaps you should seek out another lady who will dance to your tune.”
“Do you wish me to withdraw, then, Arabella?” The question held skepticism and a lazy amusement.
“I suppose not,” she replied petulantly. “I was facing an evening of unutterable boredom.”
“I shall endeavor to relieve it, if you will permit me.”
“If you can, then I expect I can contrive to forgive you.”
“I am gratified.” His reply was edged with a smile. “Finding a new object of worship would require too much effort.”
“Do you worship me, sir?” It was a flirtatious, coy remark.
“Indeed, I do, Belle. Behold me enraptured.”
“Hah! You are little better than a knave, sir. A disreputable Scot preying on womenfolk.”
“Surely not preying.”
“We English consider the Highlanders barbarians,” Lady Chivington remarked.
“Which I suspect is part of our appeal,” he returned smoothly. “Confess, you occasionally tire of fops in velvet and lace, with soft hands and powdered wigs.”