A Promise Given (14 page)
But what of the people of Castle MacGregor? Would they have loved her?
Sabrina was all at once reminded… though Margaret's air was always that of a
lady, her tongue could be caustic indeed.
A vivid memory assailed her. Once, when she was perhaps ten or so, Sabrina
had worn a jeweled brooch that had belonged to their mother. On seeing it,
Margaret had been livid. She had torn it from Sabrina's shoulder, caring not
that she'd ruined Sabrina's gown. Margaret had made her cry. Indeed, Margaret
had oft made her cry…
Shame pricked her. What did that matter? Margaret was gone.
Dead
.
She would never see her children grow straight and tall. Never feel the golden
rays of the sun upon her head…
Unknowingly, Sabrina's hands had dropped to her lap. Her gaze had fallen as
well. She felt humble and sad and small all at once. But most of all she felt a
burning shame at her pettiness.
"What is it, Sabrina? What are you thinking?"
Her lips pressed together. She shook her head. Were even her thoughts not to
be her own?
"Tell me, Sabrina. What are you thinking?" Ian’s voice jabbed at her, like
the point of a dagger. Slowly she raised her head. "If you must know, I— I was
thinking of Margaret."
He sat back, his long fingers toying with the stem of his goblet. "Indeed.
Wishing that Margaret were here instead of you? That it was Margaret who lay
with me in bed last night?"
Sabrina's eyes blazed. "Aye!" she flared. "For then she would be alive!"
He was silent a moment. "I do not mean to be cruel. But Margaret is gone,
Sabrina. And you are very much alive… and very much my wife.”
“I do not forget." God above, she could not forget. "Margaret lies cold in a
watery grave, while I lie warm in your bed. Am I not allowed to mourn the loss
of my sister?"
"You are. Indeed, 'tis to be expected. But I wonder, Sabrina"—beneath his
quiet voice was a note of steel—" do you mourn the loss of your Jamie as
well?"
Their eyes locked. "Your words, my lord, not mine."
He swore softly. "You do not fight, yet neither do you yield. I told myself
I'd let you be. But then, why should I deny myself what I want? And yet I've no
desire to take you unwillingly."
His fingers drummed atop the table. To Sabrina, the sound was like
fingernails raking along her spine.
"A wager," he said suddenly. "You were always fond of dice, were you not?
Well, I propose a wager. A single throw of the dice by each of us will decide
the outcome."
She glanced at him sharply. His smile was dangerous. She liked it not a
whit!
"I rolled against you once before—and lost," she reminded him flatly.
"I remember. But I stand just as much chance of losing as you."
This was true, she realized. "And the stakes?"
"That you do not disdain me—nay, not with words.
Not with the touch of your hands, or eyes—that you come to me willingly."
A voice inside urged caution. She was intrigued despite that. "What if I
win?"
"You spend your nights in solitary comfort."
But she would be spending her nights alone. In the dark. Uncertainty gnawed
at her. And yet… "Will you abide by it?"
His reply was swift and unwavering. "I will."
"A promise given is a promise kept, Ian."
"I'm well aware of that, lass. So. What do you say? Shall we roll the
dice?"
Sheer bravado pushed her to her feet. "Aye," she said recklessly.
While Ian went to the cupboard and retrieved a pair of dice, Sabrina sank to
her knees upon the floor, tucking her skirts around her. Squatting down on his
haunches, he joined her.
His dark brows hiked imperiously, he extended his palm. Within lay the dice.
"You may go first," he murmured.
Sabrina nearly snatched them from his hand. Oh, but he was so confident he
would win! She cupped them in her hand, directed a quick prayer heavenward… and
rolled.
Eleven!
She clasped her hands against her breast, nearly chortling her glee. A smile
upon her lips, she watched Ian reach for the pair. He rubbed them between his
palms… and let them drop.
Twelve.
She stared disbelievingly. She had lost to him… again.
Ian rose. There was a heartbeat of silence. Eyes downcast, Sabrina could not
bring herself to look at him.
Strong hands curled warmly about her shoulders. He pulled her to her
feet.
She could look no higher than the bristly tangle of hairs at the base of his
throat.
He didn't mock her with his victory. His words were not at all what she
expected. "You kissed Robert that day," he said softly. "Do you remember?"
Her mouth turned down. "Aye. He used his tongue." Her tone turned accusing.
"As you did on our wedding day. 'Twas ghastly!"
"You’ll not always think so," he predicted. "Besides, there are other things
one can do with the tongue—a very skilled French woman taught me that. The
French have a way of making love—indeed they have many ways. And… how shall I
put this? When it comes to making love, the French are connoisseurs."
Sabrina was both curious and appalled. " 'Tis sinful to talk about such
things. 'Tis sinful to—to do such things!”
A smile curled his lips. "Then may the devil take me, for I intend to do
both!”
“If you are so taken with the French way, mayhap you should have married a
Frenchwoman!" His smile widened. "Careful, lass. I could almost believe you're
jealous."
"Nay, not jealous. I merely wonder that you—that you wish to bed me again
when you clearly find me lacking."
"Not lacking," he corrected. "Merely lacking in experience"—his smile slowly
ebbed—"a matter I fully intend to rectify."
There was a ringing silence, and then he said, "Look at me, lass."
It was a quiet demand. Reason scattered in every direction. Sabrina longed to
run, yet where could she go that he would not find her?
Swallowing, her gaze trekked slowly upward, only to find herself captured in
the hold of his eyes as surely as a rabbit in a snare.
"Put your arms around my neck."
The air was suddenly alive with a thundering tension. His eyes glowed silver,
ablaze with some emotion that was oddly exhilarating—yet somehow almost
frightening as well. Her stomach knotted. Faith, but when he gazed at her so,
she could scarcely think!
She drew a shuddering breath. "Ian—"
"I'll not be swayed, lass." Quiet as his tone was, within was a note of
warning. "You said you would come willingly—and so you shall."
Helplessly she obeyed, slipping her arms about his neck, lacing her fingers
together that he would not feel her trembling.
His regard had dropped to her mouth. "Excellent," he murmured. "Now part your
lips and bring them to mine."
Her pulse skittered wildly, but she did as he said. Her lashes fluttered
closed as he kissed her, the contact slow and warm and sensuous. She gave a
breathy little sigh, unconsciously molding her body against the rock-hard
contours of his.
"More," he invited huskily. Her jaw slackened. In turn he deepened the kiss.
Now he explored her mouth with the wanton stroke of his tongue, tracing the
ridge of her teeth, the sleek wet interior. The thought spun through her mind
that it was not so very unpleasant after all.
The world was spinning when at last he raised his head. "That was not like
Robert." The confession spilled forth unbidden before she could stop it.
"I should hope not," he murmured, and then his mouth was on hers again. His
kiss was like a drug, luring her into a realm where she could do naught but
cling feebly to him—the only rock in a world tipped awry.
She had little recollection of being relieved of her gown. She watched
dazedly as Ian filled his hands with the roundness of her breasts. Lazy
fingertips traced slow, maddening circles around the boundaries of her nipples.
When at last his thumbs raked again and again over tautly straining peaks, she
exhaled, a rush of sound.
"That was what you wanted, wasn't it, lass?"
She couldn't deny it. She couldn't deny
him
.
Suddenly he was on his knees before her.
The hot wet cave of his mouth replaced his hands. He sucked first one pink
crown and then the other, creating in her belly a rushing torrent of need. Her
breath grew quick and shallow.
His hands slid down to her hips. His thumbs rested near, yet not quite
touching the golden thatch between her thighs. She felt the heat of his kiss
there in the dip of her naval, the ridge of each hipbone. With lips and tongue
he blazed a nerve-shattering path down the hollow of her belly, closer and
closer to the apex of her thighs.
His mouth brushed reddish-gold fleece.
“Ian!" She caught her breath in shock. His name was a soft cry of
confusion.
If he heard, he gave no sign of it. He was intent upon his task.
The grasp of her mind faltered. God's teeth, would he indulge in still more
taunting play? Nay. 'Twas unthinkable!
With his thumbs he bared her core. A stab of sheer pleasure shot through her,
a dart of fire as he took the gliding exploration of his tongue ever further.
With hot, torrid strokes he lashed her quivering bud of sensation, a wantonly
erotic caress that ripped the air from her lungs, the strength from her
limbs.
She lost the battle to keep hold of her senses. Her fingers curled and
uncurled against his shoulders. 'Twas as if she were melting, inside and out.
Blindly she clutched at him.
He caught her just as she would have collapsed. She was borne swiftly to the
bed. His eyes burning, he divested himself of his garments and crawled over
her.
He pulled her full and tight against him. Sabrina was achingly aware of
everything about him. Smooth, corded muscles. Hair-roughened skin. The press of
her thighs against that part of him that pulsed with a life of its own.
With his fingers he parted damp, weeping folds. He came inside her with a
single stroke; she could feel the sleek wet heat of her passage stretch to the
limit, but there was no pain. She could feel him—all of him—heat and power, his
rigid thickness—encased within her. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the
place he possessed so fully. Her belly pressed his. Dark hair mingled with
red-gold silken down.
He withdrew, the spear of his sex wet with passion’s nectar. The muscles of
his buttocks tightened.
His swollen rod pierced deep within her, again and again. With every plunge
of his body into hers, heat stormed all through her.
His mouth was on her neck. The curve of her cheek.
"Say it," came his dark whisper. "Say my name."
The timbre of his voice was oddly thrilling. He raised his head and stared
down at her. Candlelight flickered over his shoulders, awesomely wide. His
expression was taut with strain, but his eyes shone with an unmistakable
hunger.
Something in her rebelled. He would have her body, aye. But not her heart.
Never her heart.
Her lips clamped together. No sound would pass through them. Her eyes
squeezed shut, to shut out his need—his image—but even then she could still see
the shape of him behind her closed eyelids.
She thought he swore. The rhythm of his hips quickened. Faster and faster,
driving almost wildly. And all at once she was caught up in the same frenzy.
Dark, forbidden ecstasy exploded inside her. She bit back a cry. Even as she
did, his seed spilled hot and thick within her.
Above her, she felt his body relax by subtle degrees. She lay there, stunned
by what had happened.
Twice now—twice!—he'd awakened her to a passion she'd not known she was
capable of. Her heart cried out the outrage. Why? Why Ian? It was as though he
commanded her body, as though he governed the very beat of her heart. She didn't
understand it. She didn't understand herself.
But she was too tired to think. Her eyelids grew heavy. No protest found
voice when Ian eased to his back and drew her close to his side. Lulled by his
warmth, oddly comforted by his strength, she slept.
Not so with the man at her side.
His mood was still dark when he’d risen from his lumpy bed of hay this morn.
He'd risen before dawn that alt would not know of the discord with his wife. Yet
when he'd come upon her this morn, he’d been sorely tempted to laugh, for his
soldiers were utterly confounded by her orders.
Nay, he decided anew. He'd not spend the night in the stable again. He'd find
a far softer comfort in his bed—and her slender, shapely arms.
Lifting the sheet, he gazed at her. He allowed his regard to wander where fit
would, savoring the beauty of face and form, with no worry of reproach from his
shy, prideful wife.
A powerful swell of possessiveness carne over him. It was just as he'd said.
She was in his home. His castle. His bed. Now fit was real, real as fit had not
been before.
She was his. His and no other's.
He was pleased with the way she'd embraced her role as mistress of the
castle. A twinge of bitterness crept through him. If only she embraced her
husband so readily!
Theirs would not be a chaste marriage. This he knew well and true. He would
not even try to keep his distance, for he knew he'd fail. She had only to be
near and he was stirred beyond reason.
If she needed time to accept their marriage—to accept him as husband—so be
it. But he would not deny himself the enjoyment of the marriage bed. It felt so
right with Sabrina, right as it would never have been with Margaret.
'Twas fate that had robbed Margaret of her life, he decided. 'Twas fate that
led him to Sabrina. Their destinies were entwined as one. He could not fight it.
His mood grew suddenly fierce.
Nor could she.
Sabrina woke amidst a flood of sensations. She seemed impossibly warm, though
the covers were twisted down around her feet. The reason for that fire-like heat
suddenly struck her— Ian’s hard body lay flush against her own. Her head was
pillowed on the sinewy pad of his shoulder. Her hand lay small and white atop
the wiry forest on his chest. Her legs were twisted with his, one hairy thigh
snug against her own. It was the memory of what lay cradled between those thighs
that made her go hot all over, as if she were ill with some dreaded ague.
Her gaze trickled slowly upward, over the strong column of his neck, the
squareness of his jaw, shadowed with a day's growth of beard. He was, she
thought with an odd little shiver, a most handsome man, both in face and
form.
But she froze when she saw that her perusal had not gone unnoticed. Ian's
eyes were open.
He moved. With a blunt fingertip, he traced the shape of her mouth. "So tell
me, bratling. Do you still despise me?"
Despise him? Indeed, at that moment, she knew not what she felt! Her heart
was in a frenzy. His touch, light though it was, made her quiver anew. Her eyes
grazed his, then slid away. "Nay," she whispered helplessly.
A finger beneath her chin, he tipped her face to his. Something blazed in his
eyes. His mouth took hers in a deep, unbroken kiss. She could feel the rise of
passion in him—aye, feel it in the iron-hard shaft against her belly! Their
mouths still fused, he rolled her to her back.
She tore her mouth free. "Ian!" She was aghast. " 'Tis daylight!"
"So it is, sweet." He bathed the peak of one breast with the moist heat of
his tongue. She trembled to think that he would do to her in the full light of
day what was better done in the dark.
"Ian—" Her hands caught at his shoulders, but there was no stopping
him… and soon she didn't want to. With lips and hands he set about arousing her,
stoking the dormant fires within her to blistering flames, his touch as bold and
brazen as the man himself.
When at last he parted her thighs, he gazed down at her, his eyes alight with
a sweltering passion. His penetration was tormentingly slow; she gasped at the
long, torrid friction. He whispered her name, the sound low and strained,
bringing her eyes to his face. The cords of his neck were taut. She sensed his
restraint as he began the rhythm that would take them both to heaven. But she no
longer cared if he was slow and easy. Her nails dug into his back, a wordless
plea.
In answer he plunged harder. Deeper. As if he sought her very womb. An
exquisite ecstasy seemed to burst inside her. She buried her face against his
neck and clung as she was flung high aloft, to the sky and beyond.
Long moments passed before her ragged breathing slowed to normal. Above her,
Ian braced himself on his elbows and gazed down at her.
His fingertips were pleasantly rough as he brushed a tangle of hairs from her
cheek. "Still so reluctant?" he murmured.
Sabrina willed her anger to come. It would not. But she could not meet his
eyes.
"Oh, you can tell yourself that you were meant for another. But there is a
bond that draws us together—a bond of desire—a bond I cannot fight. Nor can
you." His tone was almost whimsical. "I know you feel it… as I feel it. Admit
it, Sabrina."
His tone held no malice. No challenge. Not even the veriest hint of
triumph.
Her throat closed. Suddenly she was perilously—foolishly—near tears. Was he
right? she wondered in alarm. God help her, she didn't know. She knew only that
when he touched her, her body seemed not her own. Her
will
seemed not
her own.
He sighed. "So be it. But there'll be no other man between us in this bed.
Promise me."
She looked at him then. To her confusion, his expression was utterly
grave.
She gave a tiny shake of her head. "I- I do not know what you mean.”
“ I mean only this. I have only to touch you—to look at you—and thoughts of
no other dare intrude. It's been this way since the day I returned to Dunlevy."
There was a heated rush of silence. "I would ask the same of you."
Jamie. He meant Jamie. Until now, she'd forgotten her careless taunt the
night they'd wed.
I cannot stop you from taking me. Indeed, I will not fight
you. But when you do, know that I will be thinking of Jamie. Not you, never
you.
"Why?" she said unevenly. "Why would you have my promise?"
"A promise given is a promise kept. I know if you give it, you'll keep
it."
For the life of her, she didn't understand why he asked this of her—why it
mattered. But he was intent.
And he was right. There was something between them. A powerful lure she could
neither fight, nor deny.
Nor, it seemed, could he.
She swallowed. "You- you have it," she said haltingly, her voice very low.
"You have my promise."
He bestowed on her a gaze so deeply probing she felt it to the marrow of her
bones. He must have been satisfied with what he saw there, for he brushed a
brief kiss on her lips and arose.
She watched as he strode to the fire and stoked it. Naked as a newborn babe,
he crossed the room and washed from the washbasin. His body was so unlike hers,
she mused—hard and muscled where she was round and curved. Dark and hairy where
she was fair and pale. Yet he was all sleek, supple grace…
At that very instant, he glanced over at her. Sabrina blushed fiercely,
mortified that she'd been caught staring at him with unabashed curiosity. Not so
with Ian—he planted one hand on the ridge of his hip, grinning hugely, as if he
could read her mind.
"Why do you blush, Sabrina?"
"You know very well why I blush; " she said without thinking. "You are
naked!"
He chuckled, a sound that made her think of days gone by… lazy, happy days
when they were just children.
"As I recall, Sabrina, you once harbored a desire to see me naked."
"And as I told you before, you were just a boy!"
His grin was wicked. "Naught has changed, I assure you." He raised his arms
from his sides. "You see? I still have two arms. Two legs—"
"You—you are bigger." This emerged before she thought better of it.
"Indeed. Where?"
"You- you know where," she blurted. Her gaze strayed where it should not, and
then her cheeks burned hot as fire.
He glanced down his body. "Ah," he said knowingly. "Mayhap you are right. Of
course being a man, I do like to think that
some
things have
changed—"
His tone had turned brash, yet still underscored with a hint of laughter.
Sabrina squeezed her eyes shut, groaned, and pulled her pillow over her head.
Oh, but he was a brute to torment her so!
The bed dipped; the pillow was plucked from her hands and pushed aside.
"Open your eyes, Sabrina." His tone held no small measure of laughter.
Sabrina opened her eyes and gazed at him, silently pleading that he cease his
play.
He was undeterred. A daring finger swept down the arch of her throat, clear
to the swell of her breast revealed just above the edge of the blanket. There it
traced a shattering path to and fro.
"Why do you chide me so, dear wife? Why, you are naked, too."
Sabrina swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly dry as dust. "Have you no business
to attend this morn?"
His laughter was low and husky—and somehow oddly pleasing.
"Your mood is certainly much improved." Her tone was tart, her glare but an
abysmal attempt.
"What is this?" he said lightly. "Would you be rid of me, wife? Why, I recall
many a time when we were children when you were ever and always at my
heels."
Sabrina was silent. Lo, but it was true. Most of the time Margaret had aught
to do with her—indeed, Margaret had often scorned her. Her sister had made her
feel small and awkward and ugly. As her father, he forever disapproved of her.
She was forever fearful of making a mistake and earning his censure.
Only Ian had paid her any heed, though she was aware he felt she was often
underfoot. But with Ian she could be herself. She had depended on him. Looked to
him for approval. Oh, they had bickered as children were wont to do. But she had
felt far closer to him than anyone. But then even that had changed…
Somehow she managed to meet his eyes. "I- I'd forgotten." But it was not so
much a matter of forgetting, but not wishing to remember…
“You’ve not," he said promptly. "Why, you followed me like—like a hound to
its prey. Indeed, there was a time I thought you were more than fond of me.”
"You were mistaken," she said stiffly.
"Was I?"
His knowing smile was vastly annoying. "As I recall, my lord, you had no time
for me."
"That was never true."
"It was. The last year you spent at Dunlevy, you had no patience with me. You
were constantly cross with me."
"And there were times I thought you would skewer me through."
There were times she’d wanted to, for he'd teased her unmercifully. Nor had
she wanted him to know her true feelings, for he would have laughed at her…
still, she'd cried many a tear over his distant behavior. She'd masked her hurt
with a disdain of her own, vowing that he would never know she'd fancied herself
in love with him—nay, not then, and of a certainty, she would not confess such
weakness to him now!
"You were curt with me," she said again. "I remember it well."
Something flickered across his features, something she couldn’t decipher.
"Mayhap you are right," he said with a crooked little smile. "I spent those last
months anxious to fight with William Wallace, dreaming of becoming a hero. But
your father would not allow it, and I fear he was right. I was but a boy then, a
boy who played at being a man." For a moment, a faintly whimsical expression
dwelled in his eyes.
He withdrew his hand. "But you are right. I'd best be up and on my way."
He rose and dressed. Sabrina watched, the covers pulled up to her chin. She
wondered crazily if she would ever be like him—so carelessly nonchalant about
nudity. Never, she decided vehemently. She would never be able to appear naked
in his presence and not be thoroughly embarrassed.
To her dismay, he did not leave until she had bathed and dressed as well.
She knew the hour was late when they entered the great hall and found it
nearly deserted, save for Fraser. Fraser did not see them, for his back was to
them; he was ambling toward the courtyard. Even as they watched, he reached
around to scratch his rump.
Sabrina stopped short. Her gaze veered straight to Ian's. A memory leaped out
at her, a memory of a time when she and Ian had hidden in the kirk loft after
mass one morn. They'd been peering down as the kirk emptied. As soon as he
thought himself alone, Father Gilbert had hiked up his robes and scratched his
behind. As he heaved an immense sigh of relief, both she and Ian had convulsed
into laughter…
Twinkling gray eyes met hers. Her heart turned over, for she saw in him a
glimmer of the boy she'd so adored.
Her mind screamed. Sweet Mother of Mary, what was happening? It couldn’t.
Nay, not again. Not after all these years…
He bent his head to hers. "Do you remember, lass, the day we once hid in the
kirk loft after mass? As soon as the kirk emptied, Father Gilbert pulled up
his—“
"I- I remember." Her tone was breathless.
A smile twitched at Ian’s lips. "I could never regard Father in quite the
same way after that. 'Twas difficult to think of him as pious and inviolate—and
I forever feared that God would strike me dead for such blasphemy."
Strange, that her mind should work as Ian’s did, that both recalled the very
same memory, at the very same instant; even more strange was that she'd felt
that very same way whene'er she chanced to see Father Gilbert, from that day
forward.
Just then Uncle Malcolm entered, shuffling toward them.
Ian hailed him with a hearty greeting. "How are you this fine morning,
Uncle?"
Uncle Malcolm stopped and looked up. He drew his plaid more tightly about his
shoulders. “Fine, but for the chill in m' bones. I daresay we’re in for a wee
cold spell."
Ian clapped a hand on his uncle’s thin shoulder. "I'll have Mary brew some
warm spiced wine, Uncle, and see that another blanket is brought to your
bed."