A Promise Given (23 page)
Ian's features were troubled. "The lad is frantic," he murmured. "I sent him
to check with her family in the next valley."
But alas, Thomas's journey was for naught; Mary's family had not seen her.
Sabrina's worries climbed. Her fears multiplied. Something terrible had happened
to Mary. She knew it with all she possessed…
She was right.
Mary's mantle was found on the shores of the loch the very next morn.
Sabrina was sick inside. A chill seized her and she made her way to her
chamber. But there was an elusive tug on her memory.
"Just like Margaret," she whispered aloud.
Just like Margaret
…
She could not help it. Her blood ran cold. Her mind sped straight to Ian.
Nay, she thought. It could not possibly be… Ian had been with her that night.
She had slept in his arms the night through, she was certain of it. Or could he
have left her after all…?
A shadow of melancholy was cast over all. The air about the castle was quiet
and subdued. No longer were spirits bright and gay. It was as if a dark,
oppressive cloud had descended over Castle MacGregor.
The truth eluded all, like a path that twisted and turned but led nowhere.
Ian, too, was distant and remote. Sabrina wavered between fear and the desperate
hope that it couldn't possibly be true—Ian could not have murdered Fionna. Or
Margaret. Or Mary…
Or had he?
It was Alasdair who reluctantly confided that the villagers had begun to
talk.
It was mid-afternoon. They were alone in the hall, for Ian had gone out
hunting.
"I tell you because I fear it will soon reach your ears, Sabrina." He shook
his head, his handsome features unusually grave. "And I thought it better if it
came from me."
Sabrina eased down on a bench. "What do they say, Alasdair?"
"They whisper that Mary no doubt lies dead at the bottom of the loch. They
say—" He stopped, his expression uncomfortable. His eyes flickered. "Bear in
mind, Sabrina, this is not what I think. 'Tis only what is being said."
She smiled faintly. "I understand, Alasdair. There is no need to spare me.
Please go on."
"They say that first Fionna was murdered. And now there is talk that mayhap
Margaret's death was no accident. Now Mary is missing. And they wonder—“
"They wonder who will be next," Sabrina finished him. Lowering her head, she
rubbed the ache that throbbed between her brows. "Tell me, Alasdair. Do,
they think Ian is responsible?"
Ian neither confirmed nor denied it—nor was there a need to. "You must
understand, Sabrina. First his stepmother was murdered. Then his intended died."
His tone was apologetic.
"And what do you think?"
His reluctance was obvious. "As God is my witness," he stated quietly, "I
know not what to think. Yet at times I wonder the very same. Since the death of
his father David, Ian is… different somehow. Harder. More brooding." A twinge of
pain flitted across his face. “May God forgive me, it seems… oh, I know not how
to say this! It seems my cousin is not the same man he once was."
But was he the man who had murdered Fionna? Mary? Perhaps even Margaret. That
was the question…
Nay.
Nay
. Not Ian.
Not Ian
. She could not believe it. She
would
not believe it.
But someone had murdered Fionna. Had the same someone murdered poor Mary?
She shivered.
Alasdair dropped down on one knee before her. He took her hands within
his.
"You’re frightened, aren’t you?"
"Aye,” she admitted.
"Do not be. I shall have extra sentries posted throughout the castle, during
the day as well as night."
With an effort Sabrina summoned a faint smile_ "Thank you, Alasdair. You are
a dearling. But if you do not mind, I think I'd like to be alone for a
time.”
"Of course not, Sabrina. But should you ever need someone to confide in—"
“I shall think of you," she said softly.
He brought one hand to her lips before departing. Sabrina watched him stride
through the door into the bailey. He was so sweet. So very charming. Indeed, she
was surprised that some young maid had not fallen madly in love with him.
That very same day Uncle Malcolm had taken ill to his bed. Before long
Sabrina went above-stairs to check on him. Even before she reached his chamber
she could hear his rattling cough. Quickly she summoned Edna and asked that she
prepare a warm brew to ease his cough.
At his bedside, Sabrina pressed a hand Io his furrowed brow. His skin was hot
and fevered. Gathering a linen cloth and basin of water, she began to bathe his
forehead. He leaned into the coolness of the cloth almost gratefully. He
murmured something.
Sabrina bent close. "What is it, Uncle? I cannot hear you.”
His eyes opened. Before Sabrina could utter a word, his features underwent a
lightning transformation. He grabbed the cloth from her and threw it aside. He
flailed an arm. The basin went flying, spraying water everywhere.
"You are wicked," he gasped. "I saw you in the garden with him. I saw you!"
Weak as he was, his voice rang with accusation. "You like the blade between his
thighs—and there lies the proof!" He gestured toward her belly. "I've seen you
with others as well… David will rue the day he wed you. By the Cross, he should
never have wed you!"
David. Shocked and confused, it was a moment before Sabrina's tardy mind made
the connection. He must think she was Fionna.
“Uncle. Uncle, it is I… Sabrina. Not Fionna. Do you hear? I am Sabrina, not
Fionna!"
His eyes were wild. "I know who you are. I know what you are!"
It was into this chaotic scene that Edna entered, carrying a steaming goblet
on a tray. Malcolm saw her and cried out. "Help me, lass. Don't let her near
me!" He stretched out his arms and pleaded. "Don't let her near me!"
Sabrina was already at Edna's side. "He does not know me, Edna. Please, give
it to him if he will take it. Then find a maid to come sit with him."
All at once it was just too much—the strain on her nerves was more than she
could bear. First Alasdair’s suspicion—and now this. Tears blinding her vision,
she ran clumsily from the chamber.
She stopped near the top of the narrow stairway. Her lungs were burning. Her
breath came in jagged bursts. She bent slightly to ease the ache in her
side.
Even as an eerie prickling tightened her skin, it happened.
There was a touch between her shoulder blades, and then she was tumbling down
the narrow, twisting stairway.
A strangled cry tore from her throat. She flung out a hand, landing heavily
on her arm. A jarring pain tore through her wrist, but she’d managed to stop her
headlong fall.
For several moments she was too dazed to move. Someone had pushed her.
Someone had pushed her!
She lurched to her feet and reclimbed the stairs. By the time she reached the
passageway, it was empty. There was no one in sight.
Too winded to give chase, she sank down to the floor. Her left wrist throbbed
mercilessly. She cradled it in her hand, inhaling rapidly, her senses all
awhirl.
Footsteps drew near. Her head jerked up and twisted toward the sound.
It was Ian.
All her fears came rushing to the fore. A staggering dread ripped through
her. It was Ian who had discovered Fionna. It was Ian who had last seen Margaret
alive. And now he was the first one she saw… And all was well when Ian was gone
with the Bruce… His name bounced off the walls of her mind.
Ian, Ian,
Ian.
Was she wrong? Was he a madman?
His steps quickened as he closed the distance between them.
"Sabrina! God's teeth… is it the babe?" He dropped down beside her.
Instinctively she scrambled back against the wall. Oh, but his tone held just
the right amount of anxiety. She flung up an elbow, as if to ward him off.
"Nay," she shrieked. "Do not touch me!"
"Sabrina, what nonsense is this! You have naught to fear from me and well you
know it!"
"Do I? Someone pushed me down the stairs!" Her voice took on a note of
hysteria. "No doubt I was meant to—to die! Yet who do I come upon but you! When
you are gone, all is well. Yet when you return, these—these terrible things
happen!"
His jaw clenched. He swore a vile oath. Pushing her hands aside, he grasped
her arms and pulled her to her feet. He did not release her, but stared
down at her, gray eyes ablaze.
“It was not I, Sabrina. Do you hear me? It was not I!”
"So you say! But what about Fionna, Ian?"
His features were terrible to behold. He said nothing.
"You see? And what about Margaret?" "Margaret's death might well have been an
accident."
"And it might well not!" she cried. "So tell me, Ian. Will I be like Fionna?
Murdered in my own bed? By the same hand?"
He shook her. "Stop this, Sabrina! I tell you, I had nothing to do with her
death!"
There was a stifling heaviness in her chest. Her face was pale and ashen. Her
hands shook as though she were ill with some palsy. "Then who did?"
His eyes cleaved directly into hers. "God above, it was not me."
"Then who, Ian? You know," she cried wildly. "I know it. You know who killed
Fionna, don 't you? You know!"
His eyes squeezed shut. Turned his face upward—to the heavens?—as if he
fought some tremendous, inner battle. When they opened, they were filled with
such darkness and pain she nearly cried out.
"Aye," he whispered, and then there was a heartbeat of silence. "It was my
father."
Sabrina had no conscious recollection of going into their chamber. The next
thing she knew she was sitting on the bed. Instead of sitting beside her, Ian
prowled restlessly around the room.
She was numb. “Your father," she said faintly. “Your father killed
Fionna?"
He stopped. His hands balled at his sides, he nodded.
Dazed, Sabrina shook her head. "I—I thought he was wildly in love with
her—"
"He was. Indeed, he worshiped her."
"Then why would he kill her?"
He was silent for a moment. "He discovered she'd been with another man."
She should have known, she realized. Uncle Malcolm's words vibrated all
through her.
You are wicked… You like the blade between his thighs… David
will rue the day he wed you. By the Cross, he should never have wed you!
And he'd once said that Fionna took his nephew to his grave.
Slowly she said, "It had happened before, hadn't it?”
Ian’s features were lined and drawn. “Aye.”
Sabrina wet her lips. "I asked you once if you loved her, Ian. I know what
you said. But I—I would ask again now."
His eyes flashed. "I did not love her. Ever," he emphasized. "Oh, I know all
believe it was so. But it was not." He gave a harsh laugh. "Aye, I thought she
was beautiful, for she was. But during my eighteenth summer she made fit plain,
she would welcome me into her bed. 'Twas then I discovered what she really was:
a faithless, lying bitch. Selfish and vain." His denunciation was scathing. “I
was appalled that she would think I would lie with her—my father's wife—my
stepmother! She was furious that I spurned her. Indeed, I believe she was the
one who spread it about that I was smitten with her. But I soon discovered that
had I relented, I'd have not been the first—nor the last."
"And your father never knew?"
"She managed to keep it from him. And no man who succumbed would dare tell my
father. I tolerated her only for my father's sake."
Her eyes were steady on his face. "What happened the day you found her?"
He moved, finally, to sit by her, his face shuttered from all expression.
"The door to her chamber was jammed. I was summoned by one of the maids. When I
opened it, I saw her lying there." He paused. "She’d been strangled with her own
veil. At first I thought it might have been a jealous lover who killed
her. I dreaded telling my father, for I knew how he loved her… when I told
him, he spoke not a word. Nary a sound. He merely turned away… I remember
thinking how odd it was, that he displayed no hint of sorrow. Nor did he cry out
in anguish. But there was a desolate emptiness in his eyes… he shut himself away
and would see no one. I thought it was grief, for he did not even attend her
funeral mass. But I knew he could not go on like this. I entered his
chamber"—there was a betraying catch in his voice—"but I was too late. I found
him as he lay gasping his last…"
Ian's eyes squeezed shut. The muscles of his throat worked. Sabrina's heart
twisted, for she knew then at what cost he told her.
Her own throat greve tight. Her hand slipped within his.
"That moment will live on within me forever, for I knew that he was dying. He
beckoned me close and told me… He'd returned home early that evening—earlier
than Fionna expected. The scent of lovemaking was musky in the air, and on her
person. And he'd seen a man in the passageway just before he
entered…”
"So that was when he discovered she'd been unfaithful?" Sabrina held her
breath and waited. "Aye. He confronted her and she admitted it." His mouth
twisted. "Indeed, she taunted him with her faithlessness. He said something
snapped within him. He was crazed with rage and jealousy"—there was a pulse-beat
of silence—"and in that rage he killed her."
Sabrina listened with aching heart. "But he could live with himself, could
he? That is why he took his own life?"
"Aye," he said heavily. " 'Twas a burden he could not bear—a guilt he could
not live with."
This, then, was the secret that Ian had been hiding. For Ian was not a man
capable of murder—faith, but regretted that the notion had ever crossed
her mind! The talk that Ian had murdered Fionna was just that—talk. Ian
would not dishonor his father by revealing that David had killed Fionna. He had
protected his father's honor…
At the cost of his own.
Her heart went out to him, for his pain was etched deeply into his features.
Slipping her hands around his waist, she pressed her head against his chest.
His arms closed slowly about her. "May God forgive me," he whispered into the
soft cloud of her hair, "I do not regret that Fionna is dead. But I will despise
myself forever, Sabrina, for if I had only gone to my father earlier, I might
have spared him taking his own life. And now I—I tremble to think he is barred
from the gates of Heaven forever for taking the life of another, and his own as
well. I pray you do not think ill of him, for despite this sin, he was a brave,
virtuous man.
All at once her eyes were abrim with tears. His heartache was her own. Her
throat clogged with emotion; she drew back slightly so that she could see him.
"You cannot blame yourself, Ian. Despite what the church tells us, I do not
believe that God is such a harsh judge. Nor do I believe your father burns in
Hell. And I make you a promise here and now, Ian. What you have told me will not
pass my lips. No one will ever know the truth of who killed Fionna."
His eyes darkened. He reached for her anew, burying his face in the curve of
her neck; this time his embrace was tinged with desperation. How long they
stayed like that, the beats of their hearts as one, she did not know.
It was impossible not to notice when a sudden tension constricted the arms
that held her. Troubled, she gazed up at him.
"What, Ian? What is it?"
His expression was shadowed. "What about you? Are you all right?" His
fingertips went to her injured wrist.
Until this moment, she'd forgotten it. "I will be fine," she murmured, her
smile shaky.
His regard was darkly intent. "Are you certain you were pushed?"
She shivered, feeling the chill of remembrance all through her. "I—I think
so." Her eyes grew cloudy. "Do you think Mary is dead?"
"I do not know. But I have an awful feeling she may well be." Something
fleeting crossed his face, something she couldn’t discern. "But it occurs to me
that someone wishes you—or everyone—to believe I am responsible for pushing you
down the stairs."
Her skin went cold. "And for locking me in the dark?"
"Aye." His tone was as grim as his expression.
Thoroughly unnerved, she stared at him. "You think I was not meant to
die?"
"I do not know. At the same time, mayhap that was the intent after all…" He
spoke, as if to himself. An icy coldness gripped her, for he was in deadly
earnest.
Suddenly he framed her face in his hands. "I know only this. It may not be
safe for you here. Perhaps it would be best if I sent you back to Dunlevy—"
"Ian, nay! Nay, I will not go!"
"I want you alive and unharmed, Sabrina. God help me, if anything should
happen to you, I would never forgive myself!"
"And what about the babe? You said you would be with me when he is born!
You—you promised!" Perhaps it was unfair, but she could not help but lay the
burden at his feet. Her cry was both a plea and an accusation. "Did you lie
then?"
Though his jaw was taut, his gaze avoided hers. "Nay," he answered. "But I
did not know the danger you might be in."
"And we may well be wrong about everything, for indeed, why would anyone wish
me dead?" Her hands went to her middle. "Besides, I cannot travel. My time is
too near, or would you have your son born in some field between here and
Dunlevy?"
In the end, it was this which won out. "This is true," he admitted with a
grimace. With a touch of familiar arrogance, he pulled her close against his
side. "But you must have a care and guard yourself closely, Sabrina. Go nowhere
alone—"
"Yes. Yes, I know." Secretly she breathed a sigh of relief.
"When I am gone, make certain Edna is with you. And when I am near, you must
stay close by my side."
She nuzzled her cheek against the hard curve of his shoulder, thinking that
would not be difficult at all. Nay, not at all. "Gladly, my Highland prince,"
she murmured. "Gladly."
Over a month earlier Ian had received the news that Robert the Bruce had
soundly defeated the English troops at Loudon Hill in Ayrshire. Now, in the
midst of summer, came still more news. Longshanks, it seemed, had been furious.
In retaliation the English had put together an army, determined to crush
the Scottish upstarts once and for all. But Longshanks had fallen ill and died
on the march northward.
"His son, now Edward II," Ian noted dryly at table that evening, "decided it
more prudent not to engage in battle. Instead he turned tail and retreated
south."
"He feared our mighty Scots blades!" someone shouted.
One corner of Ian's mouth curled upward. "And we all know why—an English
sword is no match for a Scots blade."
"What will happen now?" Sabrina asked later that evening when they were
alone.
Ian was quietly pensive. "There is every chance the fighting has not yet
ended. England refuses to recognize the Bruce as sovereign, though there is talk
that Longshanks' son Edward is not the king his father was. As for the Bruce, he
must continue to rally those to his side. And I fear his blood feud with the
Comyns and their kin is not yet over."
Gently she touched his arm. What she had to say was painful, yet she knew it
must be said.
"I know you have cause to doubt me, Ian, but I have come to realize that you
are right. That the good of all Scotland is at stake. Robert the Bruce has done
much to accomplish what many thought impossible in our land—to unite enemies one
against the other against a common foe—the English."
His gaze sharpened, boring into her as if he sought to see into her very
soul. Then with a hand he cupped her cheek. "It pleases me to hear you say that,
sweet. It pleases me greatly."
The next few days passed unremarkably. Sabrina lifted her braid from where it
lay on her nape. The afternoon was hot, and the babe was a weight that grew
heavier with every hour that passed. She could not endure the day without
stopping to rest every afternoon.
But there would be no rest for her on this day. She had barely lain down than
there came a great hue and cry from the bailey. She rushed to the window.
"Raiders! They come this way!”
Ian heard it too and headed straight for the stable and his horse. Seconds
later he was galloping through the gates in a whirlwind of dust. The pounding of
hooves filled his ears, for a half a dozen other soldiers gave chase, and it was
these he joined. He recognized at least three who belonged to the Bruce’s own
guard.
The raiders were just ahead—three of them, all told. One of them veered off
to the right, toward the forest. Ian followed swiftly. From the corner of his
eye, he saw the other two raiders separate, one to the north, one to the west.
Clever they were, for their chances of escape increased tenfold by splitting
up.
His eyes narrowed. Hunched over the neck of his stallion, he spurred the
animal even faster. His quarry had disappeared within a copse of trees. Cursing
vividly, Ian slowed to a trot. His head swiveled all around him, searching for
any sign of movement.
Suddenly he straightened. Even as his senses screamed a warning, there was a
mighty blow to his back. Unable to save his seat, he tumbled to the
ground, landing in a pile of leaves. He lay stunned for an instant, the smell of
damp earth assailing his nostrils, the breath driven from his lungs. The moment
he was able, he rolled to his back, instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden
inside his boot. An errant shaft of sunlight caught the glint of shiny steel,
and then the dagger was tumbling high and away, end over end, to land far
distant in a swirl of fallen leaves.
"I think not," drawled a voice from directly above him. Two booted feet
planted themselves on either side of him.
Grimacing, Ian beheld his attacker.
Dear God, it was Jamie MacDougall.
The shock of recognition flared in both their eyes.
Jamie's sword was raised high, poised for the death blow he would render. A
hundred things flooded Ian's mind in that instant, for he knew the end was at
hand—the fever of battle flared high and bright in the ice-blue eyes that
glittered down upon him.
But the blow never came. Time hung never-ending.
Ian bared his teeth. "Just do it," he grated out. "Do it and be done with
it!"
Abruptly Jamie lowered his sword. "I cannot kill you," he said tautly.
Ian sucked in a harsh breath. "What the devil—"
Jamie's jaw thrust out. "I will not kill you," he said again. "I
cannot
kill you."
Hoarse shouts drifted on the breeze.
In a heartbeat Ian was on his feet, his mind turning frantically. He made no
move to go for his sword. Instead he whistled for his mount. The horse glanced
up from where he was grazing on the bushes, then trotted over.
Ian inhaled a stinging lungful of air. “Give me your dagger," he said
tightly.
Jamie remained motionless. Shaggy brows drew together over the bridge of his
nose.
"For God's sake, man, give me your dagger! I will tell the others you wounded
me.”
A dawning enlightenment flickered in those brilliant blue eyes. The other man
reached for a long-necked dagger and tossed it to him.
Ian caught it. Without hesitation he plunged it deep into his left shoulder,
feeling it rip through cloth and muscle and flesh.
He gritted his teeth against a rolling wave of pain. "Go," he urged tautly.
"Take my horse and go. Go now!"
The pain was intense now. He, sank to his knees, aware of a rustle of
movement. His eyes squeezed shut. He prayed that Jamie would hurry…