A Promise Given (9 page)

I shall pray you are a better wife than daughter
.

God's bones, but it was all Ian could do to stop himself from riding back and
throttling Duncan Kincaid with his bare hands. The bastard! he raged blackly. He
deserved to rot in hell for his treatment of his daughter. Sabrina was his own
seed and still he gave her nary a care. He could neither comprehend nor condone
the man's callous disregard of his own kin.

He'd seen the look on her face, the shocked despair, the moist sheen of
emerald eyes gone dark with pain. She reminded him of a wounded doe.

Sabrina was well rid of the heartless rogue, he decided with no little amount
of disgust. Though from the look of her, he suspected she was not inclined to
share the sentiment.

Oh, no hint of hurt shown in her demeanor. Her profile was regal and proud.
She sat her mare with straight-backed distinction. But it was what did not show
that concerned him far more.

Little conversation passed between the three of them as they rode on to the
north, for Ian was intent  on journeying as far as they possibly could. He
set a steady but not arduous pace. Just after sunset, they stopped at a
sparkling little brook to water the horses. It was then he chanced to glimpse
Sabrina's shoulders slump tiredly as she reached out to pat her mare's long neck
while the animal drank thirstily.

He signaled to Alasdair. "We shall stop here for the night."

"Excellent," Alasdair said cheerfully. "I fear I've gone soft these past
days. Half a day in the saddle and I'm worn to the bone!" He glanced at Sabrina.
"But here I am, complaining endlessly when you are surely exhausted."

Sabrina flashed a faint smile. "I thank you for your concern, Alasdair. But I
assure you, it is unnecessary."

Ian dismounted, smoldering inside. Ah, for Alasdair she smiled. For her
beloved Jamie she smiled… while for her husband she had naught but contempt!

Her smile withered as he stepped to the side of her mare. She stiffened as he
reached for her. In some distant part of him, he marveled at the narrow span of
her waist. Once on the ground, she would have stepped immediately away if not
for the sudden tightening of his hands.

Their eyes met fleetingly as he took her chin beneath his thumb and
forefinger. He tilted her cheek ever so slightly, using only the veriest
pressure. With the pad of his thumb, he skimmed the bruise there.

His words were meant for her alone. "Does this hurt you?"

Her lashes dropped, shielding her expression from him. "Nay," she said
faintly.

Ian frowned. Was it his imagination—or was there a tiny catch in her
voice?

He had yet to release his hold on her. "You are certain?"

"Aye. So please just—just leave me be!" She wrenched her face away and spun
around, walking swiftly toward the bushes. But in the instant before she turned
away, he saw the storm residing in her eyes.

Ian gritted his teeth. So this is how it would be. He hardened his heart and
chided himself soundly. He'd forgotten for a moment. It wasn't him she wanted.
It was Jamie.

Alasdair set about fetching wood for a fire, while Ian unsaddled the horses
and set them to grazing. After that he erected a small tent. He'd brought it
along solely for her comfort—nay, that was not right—for Margaret's comfort. It
was odd, he reflected soberly, how things had turned out. Never in a thousand
years had he thought to return to the Highlands with Sabrina as his bride.

Nor, he decided dryly, had she.

When Sabrina returned from the bushes, she set out the food and ale they'd
packed for the journey. Darkness was complete by the time they sat down. For the
most part their meal was conducted in silence. What talk there was came mostly
from Alasdair, who seemed oblivious to the tension brewing between the
newlyweds. Once they were finished, Alasdair yawned hugely and stated his
intention to retire for the night. He spread out a blanket on the opposite side
of the blazing fire.

Sabrina nodded toward the tent. "Am I to sleep there?"

Ian nodded.

"Good night then." She rose and stepped within the tent.

Rising, he strode to the tent and pushed the flap aside. He ducked
within.

Sabrina whirled. "Ian!"

"The very same," he said calmly. His gaze slid down her body. "The gown,
wife. Remove it."

Her mouth opened. Her eyes blazed. "Do not cross me, lass," he warned
levelly. "Off with it now. And hand it here."

She clenched her fists. "You harbor an unnatural desire to see me naked!"

"You dally, Sabrina. If you do not do it, I shall do it myself."

She paled, but dragged the garment over her shoulders. The instant she
stepped out of it, Ian bent and scooped it up, then strode to the flap of the
tent. There he turned to look at her.

Clad only in her chemise, she planted her hands on her hips. "Ian! What are
you doing? Would you take it from me?"

One word was all he spoke. "Aye."

Her eyes narrowed. "How dare you? Why, I would treasure it always for the
memory it would evoke of our wedding day."

Ian gritted his teeth, strode from the tent and threw the offensive garment
in the fire.

By now Sabrina was speechless—a state he decided she did not indulge in often
enough. He gestured toward the bedding. "Into bed with you, wife."

This time she did not argue, but dove within the pile of blankets. Drawing
the edge up beneath her chin, she stared at him with wide green eyes.

Very deliberately Ian sat and removed his boots.

"Ian… Wh- what are you doing?"

She was nervous, he decided, taking a perverse pleasure in her wariness. "I
should think it would be obvious."

He stretched out beside her. Lacing his hands behind his head, he pillowed
his head on his palms.

Her breathing was quick and rapid. "You mean to sleep… here?"

Ian turned his head slightly. Coolly he said, "I dislike that wretched braid,
wife. Take it out."

The set of her mouth was mutinous, but she did as he asked. When she'd
finished, she combed her fingers through the mass of tresses.

It was a mistake, he realized. Her hair now streamed wildly around her
shoulders. It hit him like a blow to the belly just how lovely she was. He was
unable to stifle a pang of sheer desire.

"I know what you are about, Ian." Her tone was icy. "You do this only to—to
humiliate me."

"Och. Come now, Sabrina. Where else would I sleep but with my bride?" His
voice rang with false heartiness. "And this our wedding night yet!"

"Ours was no ordinary wedding," she snapped.

"Oh, on that we are agreed. But what if I told you that I see through your
ploy?"

"You speak in riddles and I am weary," she announced archly. "May we speak of
this later?"

"We may not." He smiled with false civility. If she could be disagreeable, so
could he.

"I beg your pardon?"

He turned on his side that he might face her. "I admit, I was taken aback by
your choice of wedding gown. You wore it in sheer defiance, Sabrina, and in so
doing you showed me that you are still the rebellious child, still the
bratling."

Her eyes flashed fire. "I am no such thing—"

"You are," he said harshly. "You wished to make me angry. Perchance you
thought I would not lay with you tonight. But you always did like to gamble,
didn’t you, Sabrina, even as a child? Still"—his smile was frigid—"you took the
risk that I might yet take you in anger.

"Then again, if I were to do so, I'd take little pleasure in the act. And you
would have but one more reason to despise me. And in truth, such feelings have
no place in marriage. Such feelings have no place between
lovers
."

"We are not lovers!"

“Nay,” he said softly, "not yet."

Her eyes grew huge. She snatched the blanket to her chest, as if she’d
suddenly remembered her state of undress. Ian was both amused—and insulted. Many
a lady had called him handsome—and praised his skill at lovemaking. His wife
made him feel the veriest toad!

Some devil inside seized hold of him. "I wonder, Sabrina… did your Jamie
encounter such reluctance when he sought to make you his?"

Her chin came up a notch. "Nay!"

"So you were ever willing, ever eager."

"I was!"

"And how long have you been lovers?"

Her gaze slid away. It took a moment before she answered. "I- I do not
remember."

Ian's brows shot up. "You do not know? Come now, Sabrina. Think. When was the
first time?"

"Long ago," she said quickly. "So long ago I do not remember."

A vague suspicion began to dance in his head as a most outrageous thought
occurred to him… but no. She'd taunted him outright that she'd lain with another
man.

"I see," he murmured. "And have there been others beside Jamie?"

"Nay!" she gasped.

A faint smile curled his lips. "How odd, then, that you do not remember the
first time you lay with him. I know I recall
my
first time quite
vividly. And indeed, I've heard it said a woman never forgets her first time."
He paused. "If you cannot remember the first time, perhaps you remember the
last."

"I do," she said stiffly. "It was the last time I saw him”

"Ah, when I came upon the two of you at the pond."

"Aye," she said, but her parry was neither swift nor adamant.

"Hmmm." Ian's tone turned thoughtful. "He did not strike me as looking
particularly… pleased. Could it be he found you lacking? Ah, and I was beginning
to think I'd gained a bargain—a woman who knew well and true how to please her
man!"

She was struck speechless.

He persisted.

"Virgins are such trouble, you see. They know not how to kiss. They know not
how to touch. Where to touch"—his voice fell to a seductive murmur—"and
when."

There could be no doubt. He'd shocked his lovely de to her very core.

He sat up. "So tell me, Sabrina. Do you still find me so despicable…?" As he
spoke, he reached for her.

She slapped his hand away. The set of her mouth turned mutinous. "I find you
more despicable than ever," she hissed. "This may be our wedding night, and 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. Because though my
body belongs to you, my Highland prince, my heart is forever Jamie's. In my
heart, I am wed to him, not you."

Ian surged to his feet. Damn her! he thought viciously. She was ever haughty,
ever aloof. By the Virgin Mary, he should have taken her then and there! Aye, he
was tempted! But as she stared defiantly up at him, he saw anew the bruise that
darkened her cheek. And even while a crimson mist of rage swam before his eyes,
he knew he would not touch her. She'd had enough of cruelty, enough of
force.

But this was one victory she would not relish.

He reached out and snatched her to her feet. His gaze scraped over her. "Do
not think me so smitten that I can see no other," he said through his teeth.
"There are many just as fair—and far more willing—than you,
wife
. I
will seek comfort where I please, but rest assured, you'll not do the same."

He pulled her crudely into the vice of his thighs. "You are mine, as this is
mine," he said tautly, grinding himself against her woman’s mound. She gasped,
her eyes riveted to his. "You may yearn for your precious Jamie all you wish.
But should you act on it—if I find you with him—with any man, I vow that day
will be his last on this earth. And by the Rood, you'll wish it were yours."

With that he spun around and stalked from the tent. Amazingly, Alasdair
snored near the fire, unaware of the furor that had just passed. He strode to
the oak tree and dropped to the ground.

Damn her for being beautiful! Damn her for tempting him beyond reason, for
invading into his every waking thought like an unwelcome intruder.

He'd been a fool to query her, he reflected blackly, for he'd done naught but
arouse his own jealousy. His mood was as vile as her disposition.

Faith, but the wench knew precisely how to prick his hide, to play upon his
every weakness. He was of a mind to march back into the tent, spread her thighs
and spend his anger in passion. He shouldn't have cared that it wasn't the first
time she'd felt the cuff of her father's blow.

But it would be the last, praise God.

With that his seething anger began to cool. He'd frightened her, he realized.
She'd cringed away from him, her eyes wide with fear. Well, mayhap that was well
and good. Mayhap she'd bide her tongue. Mayhap she would tread warily from now
on.

Still, his mood was not easy. Were he to believe her claims, she was not a
maid. Indeed, he’d had no doubt she spoke the truth, for she was still wild and
willful as the wind. And he'd seen with his own eyes Jamie's hand on her
breast.

But Ian was no longer so convinced, and the question tormented him, even as
the possibility pleased him—pleased him mightily. He chafed inside. By God,
there was only one way to know for certain. But he could not take her unto him
here, with Alasdair nearby.

A restless resolve slipped over him. He would wait until they reached the
Highlands, until they were home…

There she would not find refuge behind scornful denial.

And then he would know the truth.

Sabrina sank to her knees, stung to the core. His glare was endless, dark and
ruthless, burning with a fire that seemed to scald her very soul. Her arms crept
around herself. How long she huddled there, she knew not.

Her heart still beat with the driving rhythm of a drum. Ian's image swam
before her, his features drawn into a rigid mask. He had been so fierce! And
he'd been right—she had taken the risk he might take her in anger; that was
something she'd not considered. And for one paralyzing moment, she had been
convinced he meant to.