A Promise Given (15 page)

Sabrina spoke up. "There's no need for you to trouble yourself, Ian. I can
see to it." She smiled at Malcolm, but to her surprise, he looked her up and
down as if he'd never seen her before. Sabrina was puzzled. She'd talked to him
at length only yesterday afternoon.

"Who be this young lass with ye, Ian?"

Ian slipped an arm around her shoulders. "This is my wife, Sabrina, Uncle.
She returned with me from Dunlevy Keep several days ago."

 "She did, eh?"

"Aye, Uncle." Ian’s tone was one of utter patience.

"Well, ye be a lucky lad then. She's bonny as heather in full bloom."

"That she is, Uncle. That she is."

Sabrina flushed. Did he mock her? She wasn't certain. The eyes that dwelled
upon her were warm as sunshine—or did she only imagine it? As soon as Uncle
Malcolm turned to mount the stairs, his arm slid from her shoulders. She felt
curiously bereft.

When Malcolm was out of earshot, her gaze sought Ian's. "He didn't remember
me."

He nodded. " 'Tis an affliction that comes and goes like the fog these past
few years. Some days his mind is as sharp as my own. Others he is confused. He
knows where he is, and who he is. And he knows me, though he sometimes thinks I
am my father. And there have been times when he's forgotten that my father is
dead."

The day set a precedent for the ones which followed. While Sabrina assumed
the duties as mistress of the household, Ian was off tending to affairs as
chieftain.

On the surface, all was well. It appeared Sabrina was slowly growing
accustomed to her role as his wife. But whene'er their eyes chanced to meet, she
was the first to tear hers away. Ian chafed inside. His lovely wife did not
flinch from his touch, nor did she resist.

Yet neither did she yield. There was a part of herself  she withheld
from him. He wooed her as he had wooed no other. He was ever patient, when
patience was not his way. He was slow and tender, when desire coursed hot and
demanding in his veins. Had she denied him, he'd never have taken her. But there
was never any need. Her body knew. Her body accepted him. Oh, he knew he pleased
her. She writhed and twisted beneath him in passion's dance.

But he wanted more.

He wanted to hear his name on her lips; he yearned to hear her cry out in the
throes of her climax. He ached to have her touch him of her own volition. Touch
him the way he touched her…

Frustration roiled within him like a storm-tossed sea. They shared their
meals together. They shared their warmth during the chill of the night; shared
flaming kisses and white-hot caresses. But there was a bridge between them, a
bridge he was barred from crossing. She held herself distant from him.

He roused her one morning, for no matter how many times he took her, he
wanted her more with every day that passed. But she pretended to be asleep. He
persisted, kissing her into wakefulness. But he’d seen the rebellion flare in
her eyes, even as her body arched to his.

Would it be like this every time he wanted her? The question plagued him
endlessly.

Autumn had long since descended across the land, and with it the advent of
winter. There had been trouble with the Campbells of late—they had a penchant
for taking what was not their own—but these past days had been quiet. One cloudy
afternoon a steady downpour drove his kinsmen and soldiers inside.

He had asked Sabrina to cut his hair. She’d complained oft enough that he
looked shaggy as his sheep. So it was that he presented the shears to her with a
flourish, seating himself upon a stool before her.

A slender brow rose askance. "Are you certain you trust me?" she asked
sweetly. "What if I were to cut off your ear?"

The sweetness of her smile stole the bite from her tone and the darkness from
the blackest night.

His eyes glinted. He winked at Fraser and Alasdair, who sat nearby. "Better
my ear than my nether parts."

The others roared. "Ye married a woman of spirit, Ian!" someone shouted.

Sabrina had blushed to the roots of her hair. Though he knew she was
sometimes flustered by such bawdiness, she bore it well. He marveled that he had
ever thought her experienced in the ways of men. She was an innocent, through
and through.

It pleased him to no end.

Now, intent upon the chore at hand, her lovely mouth was pursed. She bent
slightly toward him, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of round, swelling flesh.
Ian inhaled sharply.

His finger traced the neckline of her gown. "She needs taming, lads, and I'm
just the man to do it." In one smooth move, he stood and hoisted her over his
shoulder.

She thumped her fists against his back. "Ian! Ian, put me down this
instant!"

Their audience erupted with encouraging cheers—and earthy suggestions. His
grin was wholly devilish. "I do believe we’ll finish this task in private,
wife."

In their chamber he sat with her in a chair before the fire, cradling her in
his lap.

He brushed his mouth against her cheek, inhaling the fresh, clean scent of
her. "Are you angry, lass?"

She sighed. "Ian, you are—impossible." Her charge lacked heat.

"Do I embarrass you, then?"

 "Aye," she said promptly.

He loved the way she blushed even now. "Ah, but I am the envy of every man
below-stairs." Her flush deepened. Her gaze flitted away. The tip of her tongue
came out to dampen her lips. "Why do you say such things?" she whispered.
"Why?"

Though he did not understand it, he sensed her uncertainty. A finger
alongside her jaw, he guided her eyes to his.

"You are beautiful, Sabrina. Beautiful and—"

"Nay," she interrupted. "I am not. Not like Margaret."

"Ah, but I did not choose Margaret. Our fathers arranged the betrothal. As
for you, I
did
choose you."

 She shook her head. "Only to unite the clans—"

"No." It was his turn to interrupt. “`Twas naught but an excuse to wed you…
and bed you."

He 'd shocked her. He could see it in the way her eyes flew wide.

He gave a self-deprecating little smile. “`Tis true, lass. Oh, I told myself
the same as I told you and your father—that I would honor the agreement made
between our fathers by marrying you. But it was a lie, Sabrina. I wanted you
then—"  his smile faded—"and I want you now."

He felt her tremble. His arms tightened. Carrying her to the bed, he laid her
down and showed her the truth of all he spoke, breathing into his kiss all the
fervent longing held deep in his being.

His reward came when she sighed and slipped slender arms about his neck. "I
truly… please you?"

His heart leaped. She sounded almost anxious. He rested his forehead against
hers. "Like no other."

A faint glimmer entered the dewy green of her eyes. "Ah. And what about the
women you left behind in France?"

"All forgotten," he whispered, busily engaged in removing her clothes—and
his.

But when he would have slid between her thighs, she stopped him with a finger
upon his lips. "You once said there are many ways of making love." Two bright
spots of red appeared on her cheeks. "I find I'm curious, my lord… is the French
way the better way?"

He gave a husky laugh. "I much prefer
my
way."

And with that his arms engulfed her. In one swift move he rolled so that he
lay beneath her… astride him. He could feel the ridge of his manhood pulsing and
erect against her furrowed heat.

She inhaled sharply. Her gaze collided with his, dark and questioning. "Ian!
Dear God, how—"

Gently he pushed her to a sitting position. "Your trusty steed awaits," he
murmured.

Hands upon her hips, he showed her the way of it… Lifting. Lowering,
imbedding himself deep in the sleek velvet of her sheath. Rooted to the hilt
inside her, he nearly groaned aloud, for her clinging heat was searing and wet
and tight around his throbbing member, melting him with her liquidity.

"Ride me as you will, lass." His voice was low and taut. His hands fell away,
dropped to his sides. He watched her, allowing her the freedom to take him as
she would.

The rise and fall of her hips was slow at first, almost tentative. He played
with the dusky tips of her breasts, leaning forward to taste those budding
crests, relishing the way they hardened in his mouth. He watched her eyes go all
soft and hazy. He buried his thumb in the soft down between her thighs, seeking
her swollen core. He felt the long, shivering breath she drew there where he lay
planted so snugly in her depths. And all the while the ritual dance of mating
continued, quickening in tempo until conscious thought was but a distant memory,
until naught else existed.

Catching her hips, he lunged almost wildly, feeling the burning rise of his
seed. Gritting his teeth, his climax exploded inside her, scalding him inside
and out. Above him, she collapsed against his chest.

In the aftermath, he eased her to her side and brought her close. Her hair
streamed wildly over them both. He'd brought her to pleasure, he knew. But even
while the certainty pleased him immensely, he could not ignore the twinge of
disappointment which dulled his own satisfaction. Just once, he longed to hear
her moan her joy aloud. Just once…

A long time later, while the fire in the hearth burned low and the fire in
their loins had cooled to embers, she spoke. "I heard Fraser speak of the
Campbells earlier today."

His fingers sifted idly through the length of shimmering, red-gold strands.
"Not singing their praises, I hope."

"Hardly." She tilted her head that they might see them. "Are they our
enemies, then?"

Our
enemies. Ian could not help but note her reference. It pleased
him—pleased him mightily.

"They steal our cattle," he said lightly. "We take it back."

"
Take
it back?" A slender brow quirked high. "Steal it back, more
like. You Highlanders bow to no law but your own."

He grinned. "That's the way of it here in the Highlands."

Her lips pursed, but he could tell she was not angry. "No wonder you have no
peace!"

He brought her hand to her lips and kissed it. "I would much rather have
peace between us." His eyes held hers immeasurably.

She made no answer. She could not answer, for indeed, Sabrina was caught in a
maze and knew not which way to turn—indeed, she knew not where her heart
lay!

Ian had only to come near and she was caught in a haze of conflicting
emotion. He had only to touch her and she went weak inside. Since the day of
their wager, there had been a softening in him. They'd talked and laughed about
the days when they were children. She’d been convinced he would never remember,
but he did… Did he truly think her beautiful? Nay. Surely not. 'Twas just a
trick—a trick to make her bend to his hand—to lure her more easily to his bed.
Yet what need was there for tender words and artifice? a voice inside scoffed.
She was his wife. 'Twas her duty to lie with him. To tend his hearth and
home.

In all truth, she could lie to herself no longer. She was coming to miss
Dunlevy less and less. Castle MacGregor, with its stark, austere exterior, was
peopled with those who radiated life and warmth and humor.

It was the next afternoon that Sabrina spotted Uncle Malcolm sitting alone
near the hearth. His thin shoulders shivered. He scooted his stool nearer the
fire.

Her skirts whirled as she spun toward the kitchen. Scant minutes later, she
pressed a cup of warm mulled wine into his hands. There were still days he did
not know her. She had come to recognize those times, for his eyes were dull and
vague.

But this day his regard was almost piercing. He bid her come closer.

Sabrina obliged. "What is it, Uncle?"

He nodded, as if to himself. "You look like her. That's why he married
you."

She frowned. "Who, Uncle?"

He misunderstood. "The lad, that's who! He loved her, y'know. All knew
it."

The lad
. Did he mean Ian? A tingle trickled down her spine. She
tried again. "I do not understand, Uncle. Who is it that I resemble? And who was
in love?"

He paid no heed. "Aye, there's the look of her about ye," he pronounced. "Ye
have the same hair, though yours has more flame… She took m' nephew to his
grave, y'know." He thumped his staff against the floor. "The Lord may strike me
down, but I am glad she is dead, wretched witch! And I thank the lad for sending
her to the devil, for that is where she belongs!"

Sabrina blanched. She resembled a dead woman? The thought was eerie. "Who,
Uncle? Who is dead?"

He looked at her then. "Fionna!" he stated forcefully.

The old man was in a state, that was keenly evident. With his fragile health,
Sabrina decided she dare not press him further. And indeed, she could not help
but wonder if perhaps he'd not been rambling a bit…

Alasdair. Alasdair would know.

She found him outside the smith's shed, polishing a dagger. He glanced up
when she spoke his name softly.

He stood immediately. "Sabrina! Are you looking for Ian, lass? I'm afraid
I've not seen him."

"In truth, I would speak with you." She linked her fingers before her.
"Alasdair, I wondered… who is Fionna?"

His smile withered. He looked at her sharply. "Where did you hear her
name?"

"Uncle Malcolm."

Alasdair sighed. "He did not tell you then? Ian has not told you." He glanced
around, grimaced, then took her hand. "Come. Let us go elsewhere. The
battlements, I think… yes, the battlements. We'll not be disturbed there."

High above the castle, the battlement was deserted. Sabrina turned to him the
instant they were alone.

"Why do I have the feeling I do not want to know?" she wondered aloud.

Alasdair clapped a hand on her shoulder. “`Tis not so bad as all that,
Sabrina! I merely thought this a matter best discussed in private."