A Promise Given (19 page)

The next days remained relatively quiet. Winter dropped its cloak upon the
Highlands, bringing with it a damp, icy chill. Black branches stood stark and
naked against an endless gray sky, while the jagged peaks of the mountains stood
coated in their wintry armor of white.

Within the castle, spirits were ever jovial as always. The clan MacGregor
filled their days with laughter and their nights with food and drink. And as the
days sped by, Sabrina could no longer hide from the truth.

She was with child.

She was neither naive nor stupid. She knew the signs—by her calculations, it
must have happened the very first time they'd lain together. Her last monthly
course had been at Dunlevy, but there were other subtle signs of the changes
within her. Her dizzy spells had begun to lessen, but her breasts were swollen
and tender. A peculiar sickness had begun to plague her in the mornings of late,
she who was sick but rarely. Ian had not noticed; she was usually still abed
when he rose.

There was a growing thread of closeness between them, but Sabrina did not
delude herself. All was still tentative and new between them. She could not help
it; she was reluctant to divulge the news of her condition for fear of
jeopardizing their newfound peace.

But Ian was a man of many moods. At times he was distant and remote; it was
as if he were half a world away. She was well aware of the thunder of discontent
that rumbled across the land, just as she knew he remained staunch in his
support of the Bruce. It was Fraser who told her Ian was certain the raid on the
village was a warning to those who stood behind the Bruce. Was it this which
preyed so ponderously on his mind? She did not know, for whenever she sought to
query him, he replied that naught was amiss.

She watched him one day as he led his stallion from the stable. A small lad
tugged on the trews he wore, for it was bitterly cold this day. Ian glanced
down, then went on bended knee to speak with the boy. He laughed and said
something; the boy's head bobbed furiously. He straightened, then lifted the lad
high into his saddle. Gathering the reins, he led boy and beast across the
length of the bailey and back again. Even from where she surveyed the pair from
her chamber window, she could see the child beaming. When Ian at last swung him
to the ground, he gently cupped the back of the boy's head before watching him
run off. 'Twas a tender—and telling—gesture.

Her hand crept to her belly, to the slight roundness that had even now begun
to swell, for she was some three months gone. She must tell him, and soon.
Before long it would be obvious to all.

An odd little pain gripped her heart. Ian had once stated she would bear his
sons. But would he truly welcome a babe? Though perhaps the better question was
this… would he welcome
her
babe? She hated the doubts that blistered
her mind and heart. Did he regret marrying her? Would he have preferred another
as the mother of his child? Margaret, mayhap? Or Fionna? Perhaps she was
wicked—as wicked as Papa had always accused. She despised her pettiness, for she
was jealous of a dead woman—nay, not one but two!

A shiver went through her. She wondered anew who had killed Fionna…

She sighed, chiding herself for her foolishness. There was work to be done
and she had best be about her business.

It was time for the monthly replenishment of the kitchen herbs and spices.
Since these were a precious, costly commodity, they were relegated sparingly and
kept hidden away in a locked cabinet. But the cabinet was in a storeroom deep in
the bowels of the castle where it was cool—silly though it was, it was a place
that made her distinctly uneasy. For that very reason Sabrina had resolved to
have the items moved elsewhere. But alas, the chore escaped her attention except
for these times when they were needed.

She descended the roughly carved stone steps that dipped below the level of
the ground. In her hand was a fat, stubby candle. The passageway was long and
narrow, drafty and cold, seeming to end in darkness.

Her footsteps seemed overly loud… or was there an echo? She spun around and
halted. A tingle of unease crept up her spine. Did someone follow? She searched
the shadows but saw nothing.

Again she moved forward… again that slithering sound behind her.

She whirled. But there was nothing. No one was there…

Taking a deep breath, she steadied her nerves. She quickened her pace to
match the beat of her heart. She told herself it was just her imagination, but
she could not banish the flicker of disquiet within her. The storeroom was just
ahead. She would gather the herbs and spices and be gone from this place.

Again that shuffle behind her.

She whirled. "Who's there?" she called.

The sharp echo of her own voice reached back to her.

The skin on the back of her neck prickled eerily. There was a sudden tension,
a curious chill, but she told herself she was being foolish. Unlocking the
storeroom, she swept inside and went straight to the cabinet. But her hands were
clumsy, and she dropped the keys. They skittered across the floor, and it was
then she saw what had escaped her notice until now—an iron ring attached to a
narrow door in the wall, scarcely wider than her person, bolted shut by an oak
timber. It vaulted through her mind that it must be a trapdoor of some sort…

Then it happened.

There was a stunning blow dealt to her shoulders. She cried out, in pain and
shock. Her candle fell to the floor, then sputtered and went out. In the
mind-splitting instant afforded her, she saw booted feet… a gloved hand reached
for the iron ring in the wall—she heard it ripped from its hinges. Then hard
hands were on her shoulders. She was thrust into a gaping hole.

She tumbled inside, landing hard on her shoulder. The door slammed shut; the
bolt was jammed home.

Pounding footsteps resounded, then faded to nothingness.

Her heart bounded. Conscious of a throbbing in her shoulder, her head whipped
in both directions. She blinked, rubbed at her eyes, and opened them, straining
desperately to see, seeking some semblance of light, no matter how meager. A
frisson of sheer terror blossomed in her being—there was none. God above, she'd
been cast into a pit of utter darkness, a darkness so complete she could see
nothing.

A sick dread wound its way into her belly. Someone had cast her into this
horrid place. Who? Dear God,
who
? And why? To punish her?

Icy fingers plied their way along her spine. A scream rose in her throat. She
bit it back. She had to keep her wits about her. Stunned and trembling and
afraid, she got to her feet and felt her way about. The room was tiny, scarcely
four steps in length, half that in width. The walls were made of stone. Scraping
the toe of her slipper, she felt dirt beneath her feet.

She cringed. What vile creatures might lurk here? Her neck arched. Raising
her hands, she touched the walls, moving haltingly until she encountered the
outline of the door.

She pounded with her fists. "Help me!" she screamed. "Someone help me!"

Panic erupted. Fear nourished the frenzy to escape. She hammered at the door
with all her strength, screaming until her throat was raw. Her coif came undone.
Her hair fell out from the force of her blows. She could hear the tearing rasp
of her breath, the rampant thunder of her heart jolting her entire body.

But no one heard. No one came. No one cared…

Time passed. Was it minutes—or hours? She felt she was flying apart inside.
It was as if she'd been hurtled back into her childhood. She knew not if it was
day or night. The cold seemed to reach up and surround her, like a shroud of
death. It seeped within her very bones.

It was like being buried alive… The walls were closing in on her, the ceiling
coming closer… ever closer. If only she could wake and find it was but a
dream…

"Ian!" she cried. "
Ian
!" Terror coursed through her veins. Tears ran
down her cheeks. She clawed at the door with her hands. Splinters ripped her
flesh, but she cared not.

Ian did not come. He would never come, she realized. She would die here.
Alone. Alone in the dark…

Her chest heaved. A dry sob tore from her throat. In despair she slid
helplessly down the wall and curled up in a tight little ball.

Ian returned from the hunt, a stag in tow. Shouts went up as the others saw
his quarry.

"We'll have a merry feast this night!"

"Aye, this night and many others!"

Ian grinned broadly. He crossed the hall, a lively spring in his step.

"Is my wife above-stairs?" He posed the question to the maid who had just
descended.

The girl shook her head. "Nay, my lord. I've not seen her in quite some
while."

Nor, he soon discovered, had anyone else. Ian dared not give voice to the
question that leaped to the fore. Had she fled? Nay, he thought.
Nay
!
Mayhap she was not blissfully happy, but she was content. She did not spurn his
touch, nor his longing.

And her mount was in the stable. His smile had long since vanished. Where the
devil was she?

In the kitchens, unbeknownst to those who searched for the castle’s mistress,
the cook had bid one of her helpers fetch wine from the storeroom below.

"And ye'd best be quick about it, laddie!" she warned sternly.

"Aye, mum." The boy's tone was airy, for he well knew the cook blustered and
raged, but in truth she was a pudding-heart. She'd raised the switch to his
behind but once, then cried when the deed was done.

The boy was ambling down the long corridor when he suddenly became aware of
an odd sound… like that of a faint tapping. Startled, he stopped short.

The sound came again.

The lad swallowed and crept forward. He'd heard no tales of Castle MacGregor
being haunted, but this did not mean it wasn't so. Why, not long ago his aunt
had been chased by a dark, cowled figure with demon claws at the very stroke of
midnight. Why, even now he shivered at the gruesome reminder.

The tapping came again… and this time he fancied there was a scream that
curdled his very blood.

With nary a second thought, he turned and ran back up the steps as fast as
his legs would carry him.

The cook, just coming from the kitchens, caught him by the scruff of his
collar.

"Why do ye run, lad? And where be the wine ye were to fetch?"

The lad summoned his dignity—and his courage. “I’ll not return there," he
vowed. "There be ghosts down there!”

“Och," the cook scoffed. "Ye be listenin' to your  auntie too much. Do
ye not know she's overly fond of 'er spirits?"

"And it be spirits that dwell below," the boy countered, his eyes huge.

"Ye're a laggard," she accused. "Now be off with ye and do what ye’re
told—"

"Wait," interrupted a voice from behind.

The pair turned to find the master filling the doorway behind them.

His gaze was fixed on the boy. "What did you hear?" he asked the lad.

The lad shook his head. "I canna say for certain, but there was a sound like
this. "He thumped the door frame with his fist. "And then there was a scream!
Upon my word, my lord, 'twas a ghost"

Before he'd even finished, Ian had spun around and was heading for the stairs
that led below. He beckoned Fraser, who snatched a torch from the wall sconce.
His steps. carried him to the first storeroom. He looked inside, but there was
naught to see or hear.

The second storeroom was just beyond. Again he entered, with Fraser just
behind. Both men held very still. Waiting. Listening.

At length Fraser shook his head. "The lad imagined it—"

Ian held up a hand, a gesture that silenced his friend. And then they both
heard it, a faint sound… like the mewling of a wounded animal.

"What the devil—" Fraser began.

Ian paid no mind. He traced the perimeter of the walls. He spoke, almost to
himself. "There was a chamber here long ago… it was used as a storeroom for
summer's crops when 1 was young… I'd almost forgotten it… Yes.
Yes
!
Here it is!" He threw the bolt and wrenched the door wide.

The chamber was pitch black. "Fraser, the torch! I cannot see…"

He nearly stumbled over her. She was sobbing softly, curled up tightly on the
floor, her knees to her chest.

"Sabrina!" He dropped to his knees and gathered her into his arms. She opened
her eyes and stared at him. He touched her cheeks. Her skin was ice-cold, her
eyes glazed over with tears. "Jesu," he breathed. He was up and on his feet in a
surge of power.

She turned her face into his shoulder and clung to him.

Ian strode to their chamber, taking the stairs two at a time.

Once there, he set her on her feet, keeping an arm about her lest she fall.
She stood of her own power, but there was a glazed, sightless look in her eye
that chilled him to the marrow of his bones. Tears still slipped down her
cheeks. She had yet to speak. She was trembling so violently—whether with fear
or cold, he knew not—that her teeth chattered.

He spoke her name. She gazed at him, yet he had the oddest feeling it was not
him she saw. It was as if her mind had gone elsewhere.

He set his hands to her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. "Sabrina, look
at me! Are you all right?"

Her eyes clung to his. She nodded; he sensed it was all she could manage for
now.

His hands fell lower. It was all he could do to pry her arms from across her
breasts. He sucked in a harsh breath when he saw her palms. Her flesh was torn
and bloodied, her nails broken and torn.

In two strides he was at the door, throwing it open and calling for a basin
of warm water. Mary scurried to obey. When she returned, he took it and put it
on a small table near the fire.

Sabrina had yet to move. She stood like a stone statue in the center of the
chamber. Ian led ber to the table and bade her sit. There he dipped a linen
cloth into the water and gently began to cleanse her palms. As he worked, he
glanced up at her.