A Promise Given
v1.1
Samantha James
contents
It was the smothered round of laughter that drew the lad to the stable.
Though he was not yet a man, he was well beyond the point of boyhood. He stood
tall for a youth of ten and five—aye, taller than many a man twice his age.
There was the wiry promise of vigor and brawn to the proud set of his arms and
legs; beneath the kilt he wore, his legs were sturdy and long.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, the curve of his brow wrinkled in
concentration, wondering if mayhap his ears had deceived him.
But then a flicker of movement caught his eye—it came from the shadowy corner
just beyond a precariously perched pile of hay. A trill of feminine laughter
drifted high and bright into the gloom of the murky interior.
He knew that laugh.
The lad blew out a weary sigh. Why wasn’t the girl on her knees at the kirk?
Her father Duncan would be furious if he knew of her absence—not that he was
surprised, the lad decided dryly. “Always into trouble," the lass's father would
shout at her.
Aye, and that she was, the lad reflected. For at that very moment he spied
her, on her knees in the dirt, along with half a dozen lads from the
village.
All eyes were fixed intently upon the pair of dice that bounced to a stop on
the ground.
The lass squealed and clapped her hands in delight. "I won again!" She
laughed, displaying white, even teeth. In but an instant she was on her feet,
bare and small beneath her, her arms flung wide, her skirts worn and whirling as
she spun around and around in circles. If she were aware of the avid attention
the lads lavished upon her sun-browned ankles and lithe, supple calves, she gave
no sign of it.
No beauty was she—nay, not like her sister Margaret. Her hair was the color
of flame shot through with glimmers of amber and gold, wavy and thick and
untamed. But her eyes were glorious, as clear and bright as verdant fields of
green, fringed by lustrous black lashes; within those depths sparkled the
essence of spirit and life. As always, in some distant corner of his being he
was struck anew by such purity and color…
The lad smiled. "But the game is not yet won," he said from his place in the
shadows. "I've yet to roll."
The lass whirled. The sudden darkening of those remarkable eyes betrayed her
ire at his discovery. She beheld him warily, her regard baleful and silent as he
stepped out and approached the group.
The village lads hailed him heartily.
"Ian!"
"Come sit with us!"
"Aye, 'fore this wee lass steals the very clothes from our backs!'
The lad called Ian eyed the small pile of trinkets where the lass had been
sitting. A slow smile crept across his lips.
"Cheating again, is she, laddies?"
Her jaw clamped shut. "I do not cheat!" she flared. "And you cannot roll, for
you are not part of this game!"
Good-natured grumbling arose.
"Och, come now, Sabrina. Let him roll!" This came from Jeremy, a fair-haired,
freckled lad of four and ten.
"Aye!" chimed in another. "What harm is one more roll?"
One boy nudged another. "Perhaps she doesn't wish him to roll because she is
cheating.
“I am not!" she shouted.
"Then prove it," said another with a sly smile. "Let Ian roll."
Her lips compressed. Her eyes narrowed. "So be it then. "
"And what are the stakes?"
"There are none." Her tone was short.
"Ah, but surely there must be something—" He stopped, for a decided gleam had
begun to glow in her eyes.
Her chin came up. The makings of a smile tugged at her lips. "Aye. There is,"
she murmured. “If I win, you must spend the next fortnight with Douglas in the
high pasture."
Douglas was her father's chief sheep-tender. He spent most of his days—and
aye, his nights as well!—away from the keep and in the company of those woolly
four-legged creatures. Och, but it seemed she truly wished to be rid of him!
His own reply was just as prompt—and every bit as firm, though he could
barely keep the twitch from his lips. "And if I win, you must kiss Robert." He
nodded toward the lad who sat at the very end, a boy of nearly his own age who
gazed at her with calf's eyes whenever he thought she was not looking.
He'd startled her. He could hear it in the shrillness of her cry. "Kiss
Robert! Whatever for?"
"Because that is the wager. But only if you lose, of course."
Already the shock had faded from her eyes. The lad gazed at her with one dark
brow arched high. "Well, Sabrina? Do you accept this promise?"
Her head had lowered. The bright curtain of her hair shielded her expression
from him, yet the lad could almost see the turning of her mind—oh, a dangerous
thing, that! Then all at once she tossed her head. "That I do, Ian. That I do."
She flashed a sunny smile, then bent to retrieve the dice from the ground.
"Nay." The lad stopped her with a word. "We will use Jeremy's."
Jeremy obligingly dug in his pocket for a pair of rough-carved dice, then
dropped them into Ian’s hands. In turn, Ian passed them to the lass with a
flourish. "You may roll first," he said with a faint smile.
She snatched them from his band. Her eyes lifted briefly toward heaven, then
with a deep breath she rubbed them within her palms and threw them across the
dirt.
She rolled an eight. Hiding a smile, she gathered them and returned them to
Ian. "Your turn," she murmured. She was smiling, clearly pleased with the
outcome of her roll.
Without a word Ian squeezed the dice tight in his palm, then released
them.
Shouts punctuated the air.
"Look at that! He won!"
"Aye, he won! Ian beat her!"
"Robert, you sow! You get to kiss her!"
All eyes turned to the flame-haired lass. She had risen to her bare feet and
stood stiffly erect. Only now the thunder of a hundred storms darkened her eyes
to a turbulent blue.
"You are low," Ian pointed out. "You must kiss Robert."
For the first time she looked ready to bolt. The other lads all held their
breath. It was Ian who broke the silence. "A promise given is a promise kept,"
he said very quietly.
By now Robert was on his feet as well, a silly grin on his face. Casting one
last arch glance at Ian, the lass marched forward. Her eyes wide open, she
leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
Shouts arose. Emboldened by the other lads' cheers, Robert's hands shot out.
He grabbed her waist and snatched her against his chest. He mashed his mouth
against hers. His tongue shot out and darted against the closed seam of her
lips. Sabrina wrenched herself back as if she'd been burned. "That is
disgusting!" she cried.
There were hoots of laughter as she scrubbed the back of her hand across her
mouth. The lad who stood watch near the door could not help it; his own laughter
joined the others'. She whirled around, her glare encompassing the lot of them.
"Begone," she shouted.
The group of boys dispersed from the stable with good-natured grumbling.
But it was on him—the lad who had yet to move from his berth near the
doorway—that the fire of her gaze burned hottest.
"You enjoyed that," she accused.
He made no secret of it. "Aye," he agreed. "Why? You like seeing me humbled?
Is that it?" "Humbled? You?" The very thought made him chuckle anew. "Sabrina,
were you ever humbled—by anyone—I do believe God would strike lightning down
from the heavens."
She made no reply, but raised her chin so high that he thought with amusement
her spine would surely crack. "What are you doing here?" she asked. "Ah, but
it’s to be expected I suppose. You Highlanders are a lazy lot.' She stuck out
her tongue. "And you're the worse of all, my fine Highland prince."
The lad was undaunted. "And I might ask the same of you. I'm well aware your
father went out hunting at dawn, Sabrina. But were you not to spend the morning
on your knees in the kirk, preserving your silence and praying that your tongue
be more honeyed in future, in the hope that you would grow to be more like our
Blessed Virgin?"
The lass muttered something under her breath. Ian withheld a smile. She had a
rash and reckless tongue, of that there was no doubt 'twas the very same that
incurred her father's wrath, and subsequent punishment. Also of a certainty, the
lass did not flatter him. But this he ignored, and went on lightly, "The dew has
not yet left the fields, yet here you were, on your knees throwing dice!" He
shook his head, unable to resist teasing her. "A most unholy endeavor, at
that."
The set of her chin was mutinous. "What!" she cried. "Think you that you are
my keeper?"
"Nay, never that—though mayhap you need one."
His ready reply did little to soothe her.
"I thank the Lord above I was not born the eldest. I feel sorry for
Margaret—to think she must someday marry you—a Highlander, yet!"
Ian directed a thankful prayer heavenward that she'd been born the younger,
not the elder, for there was a pact between their fathers that he should wed the
eldest daughter—Margaret was nothing like Sabrina. Young as she was, Sabrina
could be as biting as a bitter east wind. Ah, but she was a bratling. A bonny
one, but a bratling nonetheless.
"I bear you no ill will, lass. And indeed, I pray you take comfort in this,
for it seems you have won this wager after all. There is no need to wish me well
away from here, for I've been summoned home."
She blinked. "Home… to the Highlands?"
"My father has determined there is no longer any need for me to foster here
at Dunlevy. I will see your father when he is home from the hunt, and then I am
off."
He'd startled her. She stared at him, her small mouth parted in shock.
"What! Will you not wish me god speed?"
At last she blinked. "Aye," she said faintly, and then again: "Oh, aye! May
your journey be a swift one."
He noted with wry amusement she did not bid him a
safe
journey.
Well, little wonder, for they were ever at odds, it seemed.
He swept her a low, gallant bow. "I pray you remember me long and well,
Sabrina, for I remain ever your true and loyal servant."
Small fists knotted at her sides. She stomped her foot. "True? Nay, not to
me! Loyal? To thine own end, I daresay."
One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "And what is wrong with that, I ask?"
She stomped her foot.
Ian threw back his head and laughed. He was not surprised, for such was the
young lady's temperament. His smile still wide upon his lips, he turned to
leave. But before he could take a single step, the sound of her voice stopped
him.
'`Ian!"
He glanced back at her. "Aye?"
"You won't tell Papa you found me here?"
There was something in her tone, something almost akin to fear…
The lad frowned, faintly puzzled. Sabrina was a wild one. This he knew well
and true. And Donald Kincaid was often harsh with the lass, but not cruel. For
all that he himself was occasionally irked by her antics, he was not wont to see
her punished.
He shook his head. "I won't tell him."
"Do you promise?"
"Aye. I promise."
Her gaze flitted away. When her eyes swung back to him, they seemed to blaze.
"Remember," she said almost fiercely, "a promise given is a promise kept."
"I do not forget, lass," he said gently.
A slight incline of her head was her only response. With that she darted past
him and flung the door wide. Ian watched as she fled into the misty wood.
What mischief was she off to now?
He smiled, his good humor restored. In the years to come, he had no doubt she
would lead some man a merry chase, hither and yon, this bonny wee lass, until
the poor man was dizzy and would no doubt not know what whirlwind possessed
him.
Oh, but he did not envy that man!
He walked from the barn, whistling a quaint old tune. Praise God he was to
wed the elder—Margaret—and not her. Yet he could not help but ponder mildly,
what would come of Sabrina Kincaid. It was inevitable that their paths would
cross again, for he would someday wed her sister. Yet their destiny would never
be entwined as one…
Or so he thought.
The Year of our Lord 1306
It was the last day of summer, and the billowing breeze carried with it the
sweet scent of fresh plump roses still abloom.
The courtyard at Dunlevy Keep bustled with activity like a brew bubbling in a
pot. Men and horses and animals milled about; chickens zig-zagged across the
yard. From around the corner Game the clang of battle lances. But inside the
great hall an angry shout bounced from the timbered rafters.
"Sabrina! Where is that blasted girl? God's teeth, she is never around when I
need her!"
Two of the maids exchanged glances. The younger of the two sprinted toward
the flat-topped building that housed the kitchens. Speeding toward the vegetable
gardens, she rounded the corner, bracing herself as she carne to a halt. An
instant later, she lowered her eyes at the sight of her mistress, held fast in
the arms of a fair-haired giant.
"Psst," Game her whisper of warning, "your father is calling for you, my
lady."
Immediately the young woman sought to wiggle from his embrace. But the
fair-haired giant would have none of it, and merely clasped her tighter.
Even while the lady gloried in his possessiveness, caution reigned supreme.
"Jamie," came her urgent whisper, "I must go. It is not wise to keep Papa
waiting."
His embrace loosened, though he did not release her. With a ferocious scowl,
the blond giant raised his head. "Curse the man," he stated bluntly. "Why does
he never call upon Margaret?"
Sabrina Kincaid wrinkled her nose at him. "Margaret has responsibilities as
well. No doubt she is already busy with other duties."
Jamie MacDougall's lips thinned. "Och!" He made no secret of his disdain.
"The man allows you no peace. He treats you more like a servant than a
daughter."
Sabrina's smile wavered. The denial which sprang to the fore would not
emerge, though she knew not why. In his own way, she knew her father loved her.
And yet… she knew also that he blamed her for her mother's death, for it was
just after giving birth to her that her poor mother had died.
As if he sensed her distress, Jamie's arms tightened anew. "Faith, but I wish
I could wed you now," he said, his voice low and fervent. "By the saints, this
very day."
Sabrina tipped her head back so she could see him. A hint of sadness tinged
her smile. "As do I. But we both know Papa would never allow it. I am the
younger, so Margaret must wed Ian first."
Jamie's arms fell to his sides. "It’s because I am a MacDougall."
"Nay," she said quickly, though in truth she was not certain. Her father
harbored no fondness for the MacDougall clan. She knew he disapproved of her
seeing Jamie; to date, she had discouraged Jamie from asking for her hand, for
she already knew her father would refuse. Mayhap when Margaret was wed, he would
be more accepting.
"Ian." Jamie practically spat the word. "What keeps him in the Highlands—and
away from his bride-to-be?”
Sabrina smoothed the lines from between heavy blond brows. "I do not know,"
she said with a sigh. "But his father died nearly a year ago. And I heard Papa
say there was talk of trouble in his clan."
Jamie scoffed. "Mayhap he does not wish to wed Margaret."
Nay. It could not be so. Oh, at times Margaret's tongue cut deep as any
blade; but Margaret was fair as an English rose—as fair as their poor dead
mother had been. Sabrina could not conceive of any man who would not wish to
claim such beauty for his own.
"Sabrina!"
She started at the nearness of her father's roar. "Co," she pleaded quickly.
"Jamie, you must go now!"
A brief hard kiss upon the lips… and then he was gone, vaulting nimbly across
a low, ivy clad stone fence and into the forest beyond. Sabrina whirled,
gathered her skirts in hand, and darted back toward the keep.
Papa's stout form lumbered into view. "Sabrina!" he bellowed, then stopped
short as he spied her. He scowled at her. "There you are, girl! Where the devil
have you been?"
Sabrina's voice was a trifle breathless. "Checking the vegetable gardens. I
daresay we shall have a fine crop of cabbages and leeks to store for winter."
Deftly she guided the subject away from her whereabouts. "Did you wish to see
me, Papa?"
"Aye!" Duncan Kincaid straightened to his full height. "The MacGregor comes,
Sabrina! He comes to Dunlevy this very day!"
"The MacGregor," she echoed blankly, then all at once her heart seemed to
stop. Did he mean… "Ian?" she whispered. "Ian is coming?"
"Aye, the very same."
Sabrina swallowed. She was unused to thinking of Ian as the MacGregor.
Indeed, she would prefer not to think of that Highland rogue at all!
But she was no longer a child. Though discretion was not in her nature, over
the years, she had worked hard to curb her tongue and hold her opinions to
herself.
She glanced at Papa. "Does Margaret know?"
"Aye. He has sent word that he wishes to prepare for the marriage. She is in
the kirk praying for his safe arrival." He cast her a glance from the corner of
his eye. Sabrina didn't miss the full import of that glance; she knew full well
he thought she spent too little time in the pursuit of heavenly guidance.
But for once he did not chastise her. "There's much to be done," he said
shortly. "There is food to be prepared and rooms to be readied for the MacGregor
and his clansmen. See to it, lassie."
Sabrina hurried to obey. Very soon the keep was a buzz of frenzied activity.
Within the hour freshly laundered sheets clapped in the breeze, like sails
beneath an azure sky. Sabrina sent three maids above-stairs to clean several
vacant chambers, then went in search of Margaret.
She found her sister in her chamber, sitting in a straight-backed chair near
the window, as if the day had wrought no news whatever of the imminent arrival
of her husband-to-be it was as if this day were no different than any other.
Sabrina paused from her place near the doorway; Margaret was not yet aware of
her presence, nor was the maid Edna. In truth, the two sisters were nothing
alike—nay, not in looks or demeanor. Margaret was tall and slender, her face
pale and heart-shaped; her eyes shone like vivid blue sapphires. Her blond hair
shimmered down her back like glimmering moonlight.
Unbidden, Sabrina's dirt-smudged fingers tugged at the end of the thick
red-gold braid that dangled over her shoulder. As a child, Sabrina had longingly
wished that she could have been blessed with sleek, lustrous hair like
Margaret's instead of her own unruly curls. Indeed, she'd gone through several
years where she'd wavered between hurt and resentment that God had seen fit to
fashion Margaret in their mother's image—that He had favored her so and thus
Margaret had attained their father’s unquestionable devotion and love, while she
was considered naught but a nuisance—aye, and one who resembled neither father
nor mother. But she was not given long to envy, for such was not her way.
Sabrina lingered a moment longer. Her brilliant green gaze drifted over the
perfection of her sister's ivory profile. As always, Margaret's facade was one
of tranquil serenity. Many a time Margaret had played hostess to her father's
guests; all were enraptured by her charm and beauty. Her laughter floated in the
air like the lilting notes of a songbird…
Indeed, it was hard to believe that Margaret could dare speak a harsh word to
anyone. Yet Sabrina was well acquainted with the sting of her sister's
tongue—and aye, her temper.
Once, some years earlier, she had trod upon the hem of Margaret's new gown,
accidentally soiling it with her muddy slippers. Margaret had been furious. With
a cry of rage, Margaret had whirled and slapped her face.
Odd, that she should suddenly remember that now, after all this time… She
knew Margaret better than anyone. Yet there were also times when Sabrina felt
she knew her sister not at all… Still, she was certain her sister would never
deliberately hurt a soul on this earth.
Closing the heavy wooden portal, she stepped within. "Well, well," she said
cheerily, it would seem that you alone have your wits about you this day." She
smiled across at her sister, the elder by a year. It would seem a miracle if
everyone in Scotland did not hear Papa's bellow that the MacGregor comes, clear
to the Highlands and beyond."
Margaret laid her sewing in her lap. "And why should I be all in a dither?
'It’s only Ian."
"Oh, but the MacGregors are fearsome giants," chimed the wide-eyed maid. She
paused from her task of stripping the bed of its linens to hastily cross
herself. It’s said if provoked, they eat their young alive!"
Sabrina bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud. Edna was a shy,
superstitious young girl, afraid of her own shadow, but Sabrina loved her
dearly.
A mischievous twinkle glinted in her eyes. She pursed her lips, striving for
a properly worried expression. "Well, he is, after all, a Highlander. And we all
know what barbarians they are. But mayhap that is why Ian was sent as a child to
foster here at Dunlevy—to save his clan from extinction."
Edna's eyes nearly popped from her head. She pressed a hand to her rounded
bosom. "He has no brothers? No sisters?" she whispered.
Sabrina shook her head. "Nay, not a one. None that survived childhood, at
least." It was true. There had been two younger brothers, but they had both died
in infancy.
Edna was properly horrified. "Savages! Savages, all of them!" With a great
cry she snatched up the dirty linens and fled.
Margaret sighed. "You know," she said dryly, "she will carry that tale to
Papa, and it will no doubt have been embellished a good deal by the time he
hears it."
The corners of Sabrina's lips crinkled in merriment. "Well, I should hope so.
I did try to give a bit of fodder to the imagination."
"But she is right," Margaret mused. "Ian is a giant."
"A giant!" Sabrina's snort was distinctly unladylike. "I think not, Margaret.
He was always as skinny as a sapling in winter!"
"Ah, but I'd forgotten. You did not see him when Papa and I journeyed to
Edinburgh, did you, Sabrina? His cousin Alasdair was with him, and he, too, has
the look of a MacGregor about him. But you had taken ill to your bed, as I
recall, and could not travel with us."
Indeed, Sabrina had forgotten. Ian's last visit had come several years
earlier, but she had missed him. According to Cecilia, the village healer,
Sabrina had eaten something rancid—she'd been so sick she could barely raise her
head off the pillow for days.
Throughout the afternoon, she'd held thoughts of Ian at bay. But now, now she
allowed the memories to fill her mind. The last time she had seen him was years
earlier, that day in the stable. A shadow seemed to slip over her, enfolding her
in darkness. She could not help the trace of bitterness that seeped through her.
He had made a promise… a promise… only to reveal his true nature in the
bargain.
Margaret had fixed keen eyes upon her. "I've come to note that you do not
care much for Ian, do you? But 'twas not always so, was it?"
Nay, Sabrina nearly cried, for it was true. Though they had played together
as brother and sister—and verbally sparred like the very same—deep inside there
had been a time when she'd thought of Ian in a way that was anything but
sisterly…
Odd, that she should remember it… and remember it now…
But all that had changed. And Margaret was looking at her in a way that made
her wish she was more adept at hiding her true feelings. Lightly she said, "You
need not worry, Margaret. Of course I shall welcome him into the family."
One elegantly shaped golden brow climbed high. "Ah," Margaret said smoothly.
"But would you wish another husband for me?"
"Indeed, I've never even thought of such a thing," Sabrina admitted. "This
marriage has been arranged for nearly as long as I can remember."
"Yes," Margaret murmured. "Yes, I do suppose there is little point in
speculating. The men I'm acquainted with are either clansmen, married, already
betrothed, or a trifle too young."
Sabrina's mind had already sped straight to Jamie.
A pang of guilt nipped at her, for she regretted that Margaret's choice of
husband had never been her own to make. Mayhap it was selfish of her, but she
was eternally grateful that Papa had not made similar efforts to see his
youngest daughter betrothed. Yet for the first time she was given to wonder if
Margaret loved Ian…
It was much later when she was at last able to slip away. Her steps carried
her down a little-used dirt pathway that wound away from the keep, to a glade
hidden deep in the forest, a place she had always treasured as her own. There
was never anyone about to disturb her musings, and it was here that she had come
when she tired of Papa's roars of disapproval.
The day's last spears of sunlight burst rich and golden through the boughs of
fir trees which arched overhead. At the center of her haven was an oval-shaped
pool of clear, glistening water. Feathery-rimmed ferns grew thick and abundant
near the pool's edge.
The keep seemed a world away. Sabrina sat in the sweetly scented grass and
hugged herself in mounting excitement. Margaret would soon be married; the
prospect of telling Jamie they might wed sooner than even she had hoped filled
her with happiness. She had tamed the wicked ways of her youth and there was no
reason for Papa to refuse. No doubt he would count himself well rid of her.
A smile curved the softness of her lips as one small skipper slid off her
foot, followed by its mate. Sabrina wiggled her toes delightedly, loving the
coolness of the grass against the soles of her feet; she'd always hated the
constraint of footwear. Suddenly feeling free and carefree as she never could in
the company of others, she loosened her plait and ran small, slender fingers
through thick, wavy skeins of amber-gold.