He took a menacing step closer, his hulking frame looming over her. “Do ye call me a liar?”
Sabrina took a deep breath. “I have no earthly idea if you are lying, but I assure you, you are gravely mistaken as to the sequence of events. We would never have raided your cattle had you not stolen ours first!”
Keith reached up to grasp her chin with hard fingers, forcing her face up to his. Sabrina held her ground, despite her sudden trembling.
“We dinna start the feud, I tell ye!”
“Nor did we!”
He muttered an oath at her fierce denial, his rough hands gripping her upper arms, crushing the fine silk of her gown.
“Unhand me, sirrah,” she demanded breathlessly, “before I cry for aid. My husband would not be best pleased to find you mauling me.”
He made no response as he stared at her, his angry eyes searching hers stonily. He must, however, have been surprised by what he saw, for over the span of a dozen heartbeats, his withering scorn took on a measure of doubt, almost of puzzlement.
“’Tis a rotten fish I smell,” he said slowly. “If ye dinna start it…”
Never one to be slow-witted, Sabrina grasped what he was intimating. If neither of them was lying about initiating the raid, perhaps they had both been deceived.
Her own brows drew together in a frown. “Yet someone had to have resumed the feud. Someone bent on mischief…”
“Or treachery.”
“But who?”
“What of yer husband?”
“Niall? He would never attempt anything so underhanded. He’s made no secret of his dislike of your clan.”
“Perhaps he wouldna tell ye.”
The murmur of voices startled them both from their quarrel. A young couple had strolled out onto the terrace and were eyeing them curiously.
Sabrina tried to pull away, but Keith Buchanan’s grip tightened, frustration ripe on his expression. “This discussion isna over, milady. Can ye meet with me on the morrow?”
“Meet with you?”
“Aye. Do ye know Loch Voil?”
“Yes, but—”
“At the northern end, a burn spills into the loch. Ye’ll find me there when the sun is highest—”
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” a drawling masculine voice interjected, a voice which held the cutting edge of a claymore.
Sabrina froze. Niall stood at the open French doors, looking ruggedly elegant in his formal attire. Beyond him, Eve Graham hovered, her eyes wide with curiosity and dismay.
Sabrina gave a guilty start. She had not meant for her husband to see her associating with his foe. Yet Niall gave her no opportunity to explain, before saying in a dangerously silken tone, “You will no doubt desire to return to the drawing room, my sweet. You would not wish to miss the remainder of the excellent performance.”
Sabrina hesitated. She had no desire to cause a scene, yet perhaps it was wiser to wait till she could speak to Niall privately, when his fury had diminished a bit.
“Sabrina.” He said nothing further, his eyes merely impaling her.
“Yes…of course,” she stammered. With an apologetic glance at Keith Buchanan, she picked up her skirts and fled inside—only to come face to face with the Widow Graham.
“I know,” Eve murmured, her eyes troubled, “that I advised you to engage in a flirtation with other gentlemen, but really, Sabrina, was it wise to choose Niall’s blood rival?”
“I assure you, I was not flirting.”