A Promise Given (4 page)

The wedding preparations began in earnest.

Many a horse and messenger was seen entering and leaving the keep, for Duncan
sought to let all  those nearby know of the impending marriage of his
eldest daughter, that they might join in the celebration.

Ian spent that first night rather troubled, wondering what Duncan had heard
about his father's death. That  his father had taken his own life was no
doubt common knowledge. Did Duncan believe it was because his father was
heartbroken over the death of his beautiful young wife? It was a story Ian
himself had fostered. Nay.
Nay
! Duncan couldn't possibly know the
truth—no one but he knew all that had happened…

Ian was determined to keep it that way. He'd not allow his father's name to
be blackened further. But now that he was back at Dunlevy, he walked the same
paths he had as a youth. He slept in the very same chamber. And there dwelled in
his mind many a distant memory, some he'd forgotten until now.

He remembered the day a messenger had come to announce that William Wallace
sought men to fight the English at Stirling Bridge. He had wanted to charge off
to join Wallace's army. He'd been a hot-headed lad, eager to serve his
compatriots, eager to practice what he'd spent these past years learning. But
Duncan had stopped him. He'd said he would not allow it lest his father David
approved.

The battle at Stirling Bridge was fought and won… he'd been crushed that
Wallace's army had triumphed without his able sword hand to lend assistance.

Ian smiled faintly. Faith, but that seemed such a long time ago! But now he
had another cause. He'd offered his sword to Robert the Bruce, for 'twas his
belief that all must come together under one man if Scotland were to fight off
the English scourge once and for all.

As for his nuptials, Ian felt faintly detached from it all. A part of him
chafed at the wait, for Ian was not a man to whom patience came easily. But
Margaret had insisted she could not be ready in less than a sennight. As the
prospective husband, there was little for him to do, and so he spent many an
hour riding through the hills, or standing atop the parapet.

At times a sliver of guilt cut through him, for oddly enough, it was not his
bride-to-be that oft consumed his thoughts…

It was Sabrina.

He had no answer for this—Indeed, more than once he questioned his
rationality. His only explanation was that she'd grown into a comely wench. Why
that truth would claim his attention, he knew not, for many would have deemed
Margaret the fairer of the two. And indeed, he'd bedded women just as
comely!

As for Sabrina, she was polite but distant when they chanced to meet. Ian was
faintly puzzled. He could have sworn she was angry with him, yet he could think
of no reason why it should be so. Little had changed since they were children.
Margaret, for the most part, kept to herself except at meal-times. More than
once, Ian found himself irritated with Duncan, for Duncan still took little
notice of his youngest daughter—except when he called upon her to complete some
such task, which was rather often. Always the lass was quick to oblige, with
nary a complaint or a cross word, though her father kept her on her feet from
morning till late eve. Never a word of praise nor approval came her way,
either.

He was standing atop the tower wall early one evening when he saw a glint of
copper-colored hair in yard below, a small, slim figure. His eyes homed in like
a falcon on its prey. She cast a glance all about her, as if she feared she
might be seen. A half-smile curled his lips. So she was sneaking away, was she?
Well, he could not blame her. He watched as she ducked into the narrow stair
well that led to the tower and wall-walk.

Her footsteps announced her arrival even before he saw her. She hurried along
the parapet, her head slightly lowered, her shoulders hunched against the bit of
the wind. She stopped midway along the wall, then turned and gazed out toward
the forest.

Her hair was long and loose and free. It whipped about her shoulders, a
banner of purest flame. Ian caught his breath at the profile she presented.
God's teeth, but she was lovelier than she looked from afar. His gaze trickled
slowly over finely sculpted ivory features, down the slender grace of her
throat. A gust of wind molded her thin gown to her body, outlining breasts that
were high and full and ripe. Heat shot through him, like a streak of fire. He
must have made some small sound, for she spun around to face him. He'd startled
her, he realized.

And so he had.

"Fie!" she cried. "Are you spying on me again? Oh, but 'tis just like you,
Ian!" Edna's words tolled anew through Sabrina's mind. "Do you know, it was said
you were a fearsome giant! But you are as small a man as you were a lad!"

He laughed, damn him—he laughed! "Ah, lass, but you tempt me greatly to prove
you wrong. I cannot help but wonder why you ever regard me as if I am the most
dire of enemies. We were never enemies as children, were we?"

His tone had softened, turned cajoling. Despite all, she knew he was right.
At times there had been an unspoken bond between them, for neither had known the
gentle love or warm security of their mothers. Sabrina's had been ripped from
her at birth—a fact her father never let her forget, while Ian had lost his
mother to sickness at a very young age.

Aye, there had been many a time when he was kind to her. He'd helped her bury
her beloved gray kitten that had sickened and died one winter. She'd been
crushed… but while Margaret had merely shrugged and turned away, it was Ian who
offered her comfort.

But all that had changed. Ian had made a promise…
A promise given is a
promise kept
, he had said that long ago day in the stable. But he had not
honored his promise—he’d told her father she'd been casting dice in the stable
when she should have been on her knees in the kirk. It was because of him—and
her father's punishment—that she lived in terror of the darkness. Though she
despised her weakness, it was a fear she had yet to conquer.

But she would not let him know it. Nay, her pride would not allow it. She
made no answer. Instead she regarded him warily.

"I begin to see the way of it," he said in a soft lilting burr. "Well, then,
it seems I shall have to change that." He paused, then went on lightly. "We've
had little opportunity to talk, Sabrina. But you've grown into a lovely young
woman. Tell me of your life in the years we've not seen each other."

He had caught her off guard. She knew not what to say. "There's little to
tell," she said slowly. Of a certainty she'd never admit to him that despite her
angry hurt at his betrayal, she remembered vividly that for a time she had
missed him sorely. Many a night after he'd gone she'd cried herself to
sleep.

"Well, then, I shall tell you of mine. When I went home to the Highlands, my
father was well pleased with the knightly skills I learned under the tutelage of
your father. But he insisted my instruction would not be complete—that I would
not be a man—until I’d learned to understand the ways of other men as well. So
he sent me to France… "

Sabrina listened intently as he recounted his travels. Not only had he lived
in France, he'd visited Germany and Italy as well. A wistful longing tugged at
her heart, for Sabrina had never traveled farther than the next valley. She'd
often begged Papa to take her to Edinburgh, but he'd refused. The one time he
had relented, she'd fallen ill and been unable to travel.

"How long were you in France?"

"Nearly a year."

She was intensely curious. "And what manly things did you do there?"

"What manly things do you think I did?" His slow-growing grin was utterly
wicked, his eyes irreverent.

Comprehension dawned in a flash. Sabrina's cheeks went scarlet. "Bedding
scores of women, no doubt." She meant to mock him as he mocked her. Instead her
voice came out oddly shaky.

His chuckle was low and deep. "Ah, but I could hardly come to my marriage bed
with no idea what to do there. But these are things you should not know
about."

"I am not a child," she said stiffly.

An odd expression flitted across his face. "Nay," he agreed slowly. "You are
not." He turned away then, gazing down at the yard below where a cart full of
hay weaved toward the stable.

Sabrina pointed suddenly. "Look, there is Margaret. But who is with her…
Alasdair?"

When he made no answer, she glanced at him. His attention was not on the yard
below, but on her. Only this time he was not laughing. He looked almost
stern.

“Your father was not pleased with you at supper that first eve,” he said,
"when you spoke out against the Bruce.”

“There is nothing about me that pleases Papa." She strived for an airy tone
but was not at all certain she succeeded.

He regarded her, his dark head tipped slightly to the side, as if in query.
"Do you truly believe the Comyns belong on the throne? Or do you merely wish to
disagree with your father for the sake of rebellion?"

Rebellion? Oh, but it was not true! All her life she had sought to please
Papa. A pang swept through her. But alas, she could not…

So how was she to answer? In truth, what she knew of Robert the Bruce and the
Comyns, she'd heard from Jamie. Unlike her father, he did not think her so
feeble-minded that she could not understand the turmoil of the times.

She lifted her chin. “It’s just as I told Papa—I have a mind of my own. As
for the Bruce, he changes sides as oft as a gale blows from the east. One moment
he is Longshanks' ally, the next his enemy."

“That has been true in the past," Ian admitted, "but it’s my belief he now
carries in his heart the good of  all Scotland."

Sabrina stopped short of calling him a fool. "His family has had lands in
England since the time of the Normans. And he was raised in Longshanks' court,"
she pointed out. "Methinks he is more English than Scot! And you forget—he
murdered the Red Comyn before the high altar in the kirk!"

There! That should silence him. But alas, it did not.

"Comyn let Longshanks know of a plot the Bruce hatched to claim the throne of
Scotland. He was barely able to escape with his life. That is why Comyn was
killed."

Sabrina was not convinced. "So you say. But mayhap he merely wished to
eradicate the other claimant to the throne—the
rightful
claimant."

He rubbed his chin and gave her a long, slow look. “And whose words would
those be, I ask?"

For an instant she balked. Yet somehow she managed to state firmly,
"Mine!"

“Indeed"—his gaze was cool and assessing—"why, I could almost swear that
which you speak sounds very much like… like a MacDougall." He paused. "I am most
curious, Sabrina. Is Jamie MacDougall tall and fair-haired? And do the two of
you sometimes meet in the kitchen garden?"

Sabrina was too stunned to say a word. How could he possibly know… She paled
suddenly. God's teeth, did Papa know?

Somewhere she found the courage to face his challenge. "I cannot imagine why
you should say such a thing.”

"No?" The way he arched a single dark brow lent him the look of the devil.
"Then mayhap your faculties are not so keen as you think, Sabrina—for Edna was
rather forthcoming about your trysts with the lad."

Edna! Her jaw snapped shut. Why, the rogue had somehow charmed Edna—she who
had thought the MacGregor was naught but a monster!

Her chip nudged upward. "And what if I have?"

"Then I would wonder what your father would think of such meetings. For I
believe I'm not mistaken when I say he is not fond of the MacDougalls."

The soft fine of Sabrina's lips tightened. It would be just like him to
discharge her secret to Papa—indeed, if his past behavior were to tell the tale,
she could well expect it!

Resentment smoldered within her. Through some miracle she held on to her
temper by a hair's breadth. "Papa does not know Jamie as I know him."

His eyes narrowed. He looked as if he wanted to say something. But a chill
breeze eddied around them, and Sabrina shivered.

He frowned. "Come," he said gruffly. "It grows cold here." He took her arm
and led her toward the narrow stone stairs. He didn't release her until they had
descended and stepped within the great hall. It was deserted except for a hound
snoring near the hearth.

Just then a servant carried in a platter full of roasted meats. He set it on
the table at the far end of the hall. A fragrant aroma drifted toward them, but
Sabrina's stomach was churning so that she could not appreciate it.

"Supper will be served soon," he said. "Shall we sit?"

She gave a quick shake of her head, all at once feeling awkward. "I- I
believe I shall take a tray in my chamber. I- I'm not feeling well."

It was a lie. Something strange was happening. Her heart was beating like a
pagan drum. So near to him like this, all she could think was how big he was. He
possessed a raw masculinity that shouted his manhood to the heavens and beyond.
Never had she been so aware of any man, even Jamie.

She swallowed, and lifted her eyes. A dark haze shadowed the squareness of
his jaw, though it was obvious he'd shaved that morning. Her gaze jerked away,
only to confront the broad width of his shoulders, covered by a leather jerkin.
He wore trews, so tight they outlined every bulging muscle in his legs. She knew
not where to look. She knew not what to do. She buried her fists in her skirts,
feeling very much like the child she'd claimed she was not.

"Then I'll escort you to your chamber."

"Nay. It's not necessary—"

"Pray do not argue, Sabrina. You are right—you do not look well."

Once again long fingers curled around her elbow. Do not touch me! she longed
to scream. His presence surrounded her like a mantle of darkness and all she
could think of was escape. The corridor was filled with shadows, for the candles
mounted high on the walls had not yet been lit. She stumbled once. Ian's grip
tightened; it was all that prevented her from falling. Their bodies brushed in
the darkness. She breathed a sigh of relief when at last they stood before her
chamber door.