A Promise Given (16 page)
"Thank you, Alasdair. You—you are very kind. But I am more curious than ever
to know about the mysterious Fionna."
"There is nothing mysterious about her, Sabrina." He sighed. "Fionna was wed
to David, Ian's father."
"His mother, then—"
He was shaking his head. "Nay. Ian's mother was Lenora. Fionna was David's
second wife. They wed when Ian and I were… oh, mayhap five-and-ten. She was much
younger than David, indeed, not so very many years older than the two of
us."
"Uncle said he loved her…'the lad loved her,' " she quoted. She had to force
the sound from her throat. "Did he mean Ian?"
Alasdair hesitated. She knew then…
she knew
.
Ian had been in love with his stepmother.
There was a painful squeeze of her heart. She turned and stared out where the
wind rippled the treetops. She had to struggle to concentrate on Alasdair's
voice.
"I cannot say for certain," he was saying. "Fionna was—an enchantress. Young
and lithe. Full of laughter and gaiety." He smiled slightly. "All the lads,
myself included, were a wee bit in love with her, I think."
She glanced at him. "Uncle said she was dead."
"Aye. Over a year now."
"He said she took his nephew to his grave." There was a small pause. "What
did he mean by that?"
Alasdair looked uncomfortable. "Ian should have told you. But I suppose there
is no point in hiding it. Sabrina… David took his own life. Ian’s father took
his own life."
She took a sharp breath. "After Fionna died?"
"Aye. In his grief over her death, he killed himself."
"Alasdair, how did she die? How did Fionna die?"
There was a hollow silence. "She was murdered."
Murdered
. Her blood seemed to congeal. "Dear God," she said faintly.
"How—"
"Strangled. In her bed."
"But who, Alasdair? Who killed her?"
"The killer was never found."
"Never found!" She was aghast. "Do you mean to say no one had any idea who
might have murdered her?"
His gaze flitted away. "There were suspicions, yes. And talk…" He paused,
then shook his head. "Sabrina, I do not think—"
"Tell me, Alasdair."
The wind was chill, but it was as nothing compared to the chill in her heart.
An eerie foreboding prickled her skin. For she knew, even before he spoke, what
he would say…
" 'Twas Ian who found Fionna," he said quietly. " 'Twas whispered he killed
her in a jealous rage."
Her lips parted. "No," she whispered. "
No
."
All at once her heart was pounding heavily. There was a dull buzzing in her
ears. Specks flashed in her vision. She blinked to clear her eyes, but it was no
use. She flung out a hand, aware that she was falling. She heard a shout, a
voice she dimly recognized as Ian's.
She caught but a glimpse of harshly carved features, the burning touch of
silver eyes, a mouth relentlessly thin. He was coming toward her! Dimly she
heard herself cry out—in terror or in shock, she knew not…
All at once strong hands were upon her, bearing her upward.
And then she knew no more.
Shadows of light and dark played upon the earth. Clouds shifted restlessly
across the night sky. The wind moaned a wistful song as a lone horseman wound
his way up a rocky hillside to the tiny cottage that was perched atop
it.
Once there, he entered the cottage. He peered through the darkness.
"Where are you?"
"Here. By the window."
He saw her then, seated on a chair, arms drawn around her legs as she gazed
into the distant night.
He made his way over to her. "Why do you not t the candles?"
She gave a throaty laugh. "I am not weak like her. I do not cower in the
dark."
Nonetheless, the man stopped to light several candles. The cottage slowly
filled with a yellow glow.
He went to her, gazing down at her, at the unfettered glory of hair that
tumbled to her waist, a cape of shimmering moonbeams. As always, he was struck
by her look of purity. He marveled. Whoever would have guessed…
"Are you glad I came?" she whispered.
"You know I am." His eyes burned hotly as he reached for her.
His mouth crushed hers. Within seconds their garments were cast aside and
they were naked. A muscle-thewed arm drew her up and into the valley of his
groin. His mouth feasted on the arch of her throat; her nails dug into his
arms.
"Now," she invited, parting her limbs wide for his entrance. "Come to me
now."
She was damp and hot. He turned and swiveled, spreading his legs wide and
bracing his back against the wall. His hands filled with succulent white flesh.
With a guttural sound deep in his throat, he lifted her and brought her down
upon his thickened lance. She screamed with pleasure as he rammed home then and
there, writhing upon him in a wild frenzy, as aroused as he.
Again and again he brought her down upon his hardened spear. The very walls
seemed to shiver and jump, for this was a mating that was as savage and fierce
as a northern gale. She cried out as her pleasure reached its zenith. His breath
harsh and rasping, twice more he brought her to climax before reaching the
pinnacle himself.
It was hours later that he propped himself up on his elbow beside her in
bed.
Trailing his fingers across the tips of her breasts, he spoke. "We do well
together, do we not?"
" 'Tis because we are much alike, you and I. We share the same heart. The
same soul. And there are none who know us for what we are…" Her eyes gleamed.
"Do you think they know we have been secretly meeting these many months?"
"How could they? We have hidden it well."
"Yes. I suppose you are right. Now tell me. What news do you bring?"
His laugh was grating. "They torment each other. She watches him when she
thinks he will not see her. And his eyes follow her as a hunter follows its
prey." He shook his head. " 'Tis the strangest thing. I do believe he sees me as
a rival."
"Careful, love, or you will make me jealous, and that would not be wise."
His smile reflected his satisfaction. "Oh, you need not worry on that
score."
"She must die, you know. We cannot take the chance that she might someday
discover what we have done. She would not understand." Her lip curled. "Indeed,
if she were to divulge our plot, all would be for naught."
“Aye," the man agreed. "Indeed, we can blame her death on him."
The woman smiled. "So tell me… does he love her, then?”
The man paused to consider. "I do not know. But he desires her, of that I
have no doubt."
“Ah. So he will miss her when she's gone?" The woman couldn't have sounded
more pleased. "Perhaps he will even fall in love with her."
"You may well be right.”
“He should never have married her." The woman’s laugh was trilling. " 'Twill
be the death of her."
"Aye, and the end of him." He paused. "I say we do it now."
She shook her head. "Nay," she whispered. "Not yet. We must be patient. It
will take time to accomplish what we must."
"I cannot help it. I wish for it to be over and done." His tone had gone
brooding.
"As do I. All you have longed for is within your grasp. But we cannot move
too fast, or it will arouse suspicion."
The man's jaw clenched hard. He said nothing.
But the woman knew just what to do. She trailed her fingers over the grid of
his belly. "It will all be over soon, I promise. And then we will finally be
together."
She smiled against his lips. Her fingers found his rod, still wet with his
seed—and her own hot nectar.
Within a heartbeat he was stiff and engorged once more.
But only the night heard his cry of pleasure. Only the night heard her scream
of ecstasy. And only the night bore witness as they plotted and schemed…
Consciousness returned slowly. Sabrina was hazily aware of the softness of a
bed beneath her limbs. The sweep of a hand upon her brow. A deep male voice
calling her name.
She opened her eyes, only to stare straight into Ian's darkly handsome
face.
Remembrance returned with a shattering rush
. 'Twas Ian who found her…
There were those who said he killed her in a jealous rage.
She lurched
upright. But her head seemed to spin and float. She felt wholly out of step.
Above her, Ian swore a vile oath. Hands cupping her shoulders, he guided her
back to the pillows.
"Sabrina! What is amiss?"
The gentleness of his hands was in stark contrast to the grimness of his
face. His mouth was a thin line. She shook her head, unable to speak.
“Are you ill?"
“Nay," she managed at last.
“Then why did you swoon? As I recall, you’re not given to such spells, are
you?"
“Nay," she said again. But her stomach was heaving. Nausea rose up in her
throat, threatening to choke her. "I- I do not know. My head feels
strange." She lay a hand on her belly.
"Here, too?"
He covered her hand, where it lay on her belly, with his own, completely
eclipsing hers. Alasdair's voice spun through her head anew.
She was
strangled in her bed.
Ian's fingers were lean and dark. She stared—in fear or fascination, she knew
not which. They were strong, as he was strong. Powerful… and potentially lethal.
He had only to reach out, wrap her fingers around her neck, and the life would
be forever crushed from her…
“Sabrina!”
Her eyes climbed to his. His expression was dark as a thundercloud. It came
as a shock to realize he'd spoken her name twice.
She swallowed. "Yes?"
"I asked if it is your time."
Lord, but she could hardly think. "My time?" she echoed blankly.
"Aye, your woman’s time!"
Belatedly she realized he meant her monthly flux. "Nay!" she gasped,
mortified beyond belief that he would speak of such a thing.
He rose. "Wait here," he commanded.
As if she would leave, she thought, a tinge of hysteria coloring her
thoughts—as if she could! Her head was pounding, her belly churning. Never in
her life had she felt so miserable!
He wasn't gone long. He returned bearing a small goblet. Lazy plumes of steam
wafted from the ceiling. When he sat beside her, she detected a faintly
minty odor.
A hard arm slid about her shoulders, bringing her upright. "Drink," was all
he said. She drank every last drop of the brew, partly because she was afraid
not to, partly because she had no strength to argue. When she was done, she
slipped back against the pillows.
Ian remained where he was.
Sabrina was rather vexed. She wished he would leave, that she might recover
her wits. ‘Twas shock, no doubt, that had caused her to swoon. Embarrassed by
her weakness, she opened her mouth to tell him, but all at once it seemed too
much effort.
She must have dozed, for when she opened her eyes again, the dusky haze of
twilight slanted through the windows.
It appeared Ian had not moved. His head was angled toward her. The lines
about his mouth had softened, but there lurked about him an air of tension.
"Better?" The graze of his knuckles skimmed her cheekbone.
She nodded. Slowly she pushed herself to a sitting position, shifting
slightly away so that her back rested against the wall.
She didn't notice the way his lips tightened.
"On the battlement, you cried out when you saw me, Sabrina. Even now you seek
to hide it, but you cower away from me." His eyes were the color of steel, and
just as unyielding. "I would know why."
"You—you were angry." She spoke unthinkingly, the first thing that popped
into her head.
'That I was. You were alone with my cousin. Would you have my clansmen
whisper that the two of you cuckold me under my very nose?"
She gasped. Indignation spurred her ire. "Why, that is
preposterous!"
"Indeed." His tone was cold as a winter wind. "Several saw you approach him.
Do you deny you sought him out? Did the two of you plan a secret
assignation?"
"A secret… but that is ludicrous. 'Twas not that at all! And if we did, we
would make certain that all did not see!'
"No? Then why were you with him? Why did the two of you seek to be
alone?"
Her chin carne up. "There was a need to be alone," she stressed.
"Indeed." He had no compunction about confronting her. "Why, pray tell?"
There was no escaping the determined glitter of his eyes. "I needed to speak
with him."
"On what matter?"
A mounting fury held her silent. She was not a child to answer his
dictates!
"Tell me, Sabrina. Or by the Cross, I'll—"
"You’ll what?" Outrage fired her courage. "You'll kill me in a jealous rage
the way you killed Fionna?"
She hadn’t meant to say that. God's wounds, but she hadn't! Only now it was
too late…
His face was a mask of stone. "So. He told you, didn’t he? Alasdair told
you."
Her anger drained as suddenly as it had erupted. She gestured vaguely. " 'Tis
not what you think. I- I asked him about her." She faltered. "You see, Uncle
said I looked like her. He said you—you married me because I looked like
her."
"You are nothing like her. Nothing."
An awful band of tightness crept around her breast. Of course she wasn't.
Fionna had been beautiful… and yet Ian almost sounded as if he hated her. Her
breath came fast, then slow. Her mind veered straight to Margaret. Ian had been
the first to find Fionna… the last to see Margaret alive… For the span of a
heartbeat, the notion winged through her mind that mayhap he'd killed both…
His eyes narrowed. "God's blood! Do not tell me you believe it!"
The breath she drew was deep and shuddering. "I- I do not want to," she
whispered.
His jaw clamped tight. "Have I not shown you every care—here in this very
bed?"
She couldn't tear her gaze from his face. "Aye," she heard herself say.
"Have I ever hurt you? Laid a hand on you in anger?"
Her eyes clung to his. "Nay," she said faintly.
"Nor would I—not you or any other woman. I despise those who would prey on
the weakness of women."
It was true. He'd never laid a hand on her that was anything but tender.
True, there was a harshness in him that had not been present as a lad. But was
he a murderer? She cringed from a thought too terrible to consider. Nay. She
could not believe it. She
would
not.
"I did not kill Fionna," he stated flatly. "You may choose to believe me or
not, Sabrina. The choice is yours. I will not beg forgiveness for that which I
did not do—not to God and not to you. Nor will I have my own wife going
behind my back, whispering about me to another! From now on, if you have
questions, come to me, not Alasdair. Do you understand, Sabrina?"
His command prickled her temper. "I did not go behind your back! I went to
Alasdair because I thought he would know… that he would tell me the truth—"
"And I would not?"
"I—I did not say that!" She floundered. Her heart and mind were all amuddle.
In fury and indignation, she jammed her fists against her thighs. "Oh, but you
twist my words to suit your own purpose!"
"I do not. I but hear what you speak."
Faith, but he was stubborn! "Then tell me this, Ian. That first night at
Dunlevy, I remember Papa said he'd heard there was strife in the clan upon the
death of your father. Is this why? Because there were those who thought you
murdered Fionna?"
For an instant she was certain he would refuse to answer. His expression was
close and guarded, as were the words he now spoke.
"That was but a part of it. Aye, there were a few—but none who dared say so
to my face. But if my clansmen believed it true, would I be chieftain? I think
not. I admit, 'twas a time of great unrest within the clan. Fionna had been
killed. My father's death was unexpected—and came but days afterward."
She longed to ask who killed Fionna, but Ian’s features were darkly
shuttered. The rigid cast of his jaw discouraged further questions.
Disheartened, she turned away as he disrobed, then crawled into bed beside
her.
He made no move to touch her that night. They lay with far more than just
distance between them. And it was then that a chilling thought etched itself
into her mind…
He'd said for her to come to him with questions. Could it be there was
something he did not wish her to know? A truth that others might tell her but he
would not? She shivered, recalling the fierceness of his rage when he'd caught
her with Jamie. Ali at once the man she'd married seemed to be a stranger.
Her sleep that night was fitful, not at all restful. She felt she'd just
closed her eyes when she dimly heard a knock on the door. The covers shifted;
she felt Ian rise. She was only dimly aware of low male voices conversing near
the door.
The next thing she knew there was a hand on her shoulder, jarring her into
wakefulness.
"Sabrina!"
She winced at the prod of his voice. He was still angry, she decided vaguely.
Would it always be so…? She rolled to her side and forced her eyes open.
Ian stood at the bedside, towering over her. He was fully dressed, she noted
hazily.
But his features were as grimly forbidding as ever.
"I must leave, Sabrina."
She gazed dumbly upward into eyes as gray as the northern skies. "Leave?" she
repeated, the huskiness of sleep still clinging to her voice. "To go where?"
“There is trouble elsewhere on my lands." He strapped his sword belt into
place.
The fog of sleep lifted, like a curtain being plucked high and away. She
pushed the blankets away and sat up, swinging her legs from the bed. The stone
was frigid as ice upon her feet, but she paid no heed. “Trouble?" she echoed.
"Of what sort?"
He shook his head. "I do not know. I received a message this morn, asking for
assistance."
“Is it the Campbells, do you think?"
“In all likelihood." Even as she reached for her clothes, he was striding for
the door.
Scant minutes later, Sabrina ran into the bailey.
Above the tower, the ceiling of the sky hung low and threatening, the clouds
dark and ominous. The damp air carried with it the bite of the coming winter. In
her haste, she'd forgotten a shawl. But her own comfort swiftly fled her mind as
she spied the body of mounted men that had assembled. There was such solemn
determination about the group that a spark of fear leaped high in her throat.
All were heavily armed. Clearly this was no hunting foray.
Ian stood engrossed in conversation with Fraser. Sabrina remained where she'd
stopped on the last step, patiently waiting. Ian glanced up once; their eyes
touched briefly. She summoned a semblance of a smile, not at all certain she'd
succeeded. But at least he knew she was there.
At last he finished. He clapped a hand on Fraser's shoulder then turned and
strode for his stallion. In one swift move, he swung up into the saddle. A
silent signal from him… and the group thundered toward the gate.
Her smile froze. He spared her no kiss, no second glance—not even a good-bye.
Raw pain splintered through her. Bleeding inside, she blinked back hot, foolish
tears.
Fraser made his way over to her. He did not ride with them, for he'd been
charged with staying to protect those here at the castle.
He mistook her tears. His voice reached her gently, all the more painful for
it came from such a great, hulking man. "Dinna worry, lass. They go to Kildurn.
No doubt they'll be back before dark."
"We can only hope." She struggled to keep the disappointment from her tone,
but there was no disguising the wrenching ache in her heart. Before she shamed
herself utterly, she turned and ran back into the hall.
In truth, Ian was no less shattered. He was bitterly stung, wounded by her
lack of faith. Did Sabrina truly think he had murdered Fionna? It mattered
little that his bitch of a stepmother had deserved her fate. He would never harm
any woman, no matter the provocation. But he had seen the way she trembled in
fear of him, as if he were a monster. Mother of God, in fear of him!
His thoughts tormented him. The seed of doubt had been planted. Would she
turn from him… into his cousin's arms? His mood was black as the mountains that
loomed ahead. Oh, but her smile ever abounded for Alasdair and not for
him. Never for him. She gazed upon his cousin with sunshine and warmth… would
she ever deign to look upon him in that way? It rankled that she had sought out
Alasdair, and not him, to ask about Fionna. That she trusted Alasdair .. as she
obviously did not trust him.
But the truth of Fionna's death must remain forever hidden. It was a secret
he would carry with him to the grave. He had promised himself that… and a
promise given was a promise kept.
It could be no other way.
They had been riding for perhaps an hour when Alasdair rode up alongside him.
Ian gritted his teeth. It was all he could do to speak to his cousin. "What is
it ?" he asked coolly.
Alasdair's eyes flickered. "I was worried when Sabrina did not come down to
supper last eve. How is she?”
“Sabrina is my concern, cousin, not yours.”
"And she is my friend," Alasdair said stiffly, "and so I would ask
again. Is she well?"
Ian stared straight ahead where the mountains rose sharp and stark against
the horizon. `Tis none of your concern—"
Alasdair's hand shot out and caught his bridle. "We tussled on occasion when
we were lads, Ian. It is not like us not to confront our anger. Let us have this
out now, shall we?"
His men began to rein in, clustering around them in a half circle. Ian
gestured with one hand. "Ride on," he shouted. "We will catch up."
The men dispersed. Once they were alone, Ian’s gaze, dark and burning, rested
on Alasdair.
