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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.
    “Well,” Eve murmured, interrupting his grim thoughts. “’Twill be unfortunate if you must enter into an arranged marriage, but not catastrophic. An unwanted bride cannot expect you to remain faithful to the marriage bed. You can still enjoy your former pursuits, can you not?”
    Aye, Niall thought silently, resentment and frustration flaring anew. He would do his duty. He would endure a cold-blooded marriage for the sake of his clan. But he had no intention of