A Promise Given (17 page)
"Very well, then," he said curtly. "You had no right to tell her about
Fionna."
"Then you should have, cousin."
Ian chafed. Alasdair was right. He
should
have told her, just as he
should have known those foolish rumors would come back to haunt him. But it was
all in the past, and it was there he'd hoped they would remain.
He met his cousin’s gaze head-on. "You are right. It should have come from
me, and did not. But was it necessary to tell her that some whispered it was I
who murdered her?"
Alasdair did not back down. "She asked how Fionna died, Ian. I knew more
questions would follow. It would have come out sooner or later—since you
obviously had no intention of telling her, I merely thought it best if it came
from me. Have I not always stood at your side—in battle and otherwise?"
Ian was silent. Those who knew him had known he would never use his strength
to best one weaker than himself. Indeed, most of his clan had stood behind him,
even when the rumor was strongest. In time, it had dwindled away, when those who
doubted came to recognize that their new chieftain was a fair and just man.
"You are right," he said finally. "You have always rallied to my side,
Alasdair." A little of his tension eased. "Do you know, I was given to wonder if
you did not mean to turn Sabrina against me."
Alasdair cocked a brow. "That was why you bid Fraser to stay at the castle,
and not me, was it not?"
Ian chuckled. "You know me well, cousin."
"You act like a jealous husband."
"Perchance because I
am
a jealous husband."
"Ah, and I can see why, with a wife as comely as Sabrina." He sighed. "I envy
you, Ian."
“You have only to find a woman of your own, Alasdair. If you wish, I shall
find you one, lest you be as old as Uncle Malcolm on your wedding night."
"I think I shall do the finding myself, Ian, lest I find myself wed to a hag!
Indeed, what makes you think I've not already found my bonny lass? Think that
you know me so well?"
They turned their mounts toward the others, slipping into the banter that
usually marked their relationship. But while Ian's mood was considerably
lightened, it was not to stay so.
They reached their destination in late afternoon, descending into a narrow
valley. In summer, Ian knew, there was nowhere more peaceful than this place.
Flowers brightened the valley floor; the air was sweetly scented with their
perfume. But where before dozens of huts flanked the rushing stream, only a
handful remained. And now the acrid odor of smoke burned his nostrils. Silence
lay over all like a smothering fog.
Behind him carne a collective indrawn breath. "Jesu," one of his men
exclaimed. "Who did this?"
Just then a woman emerged from one of the huts. When she saw them, she
screamed and began to back away.
"Hold!" someone cried. “We mean you no harm!"
Only when she saw their plaid did she stop. An elder man joined her; a score
of others showed their faces as well. Small children clung to their mothers'
skirts, their eyes huge and frightened.
Ian was the first to dismount. He raised a hand. "You have naught to fear,"
he called out. "I am Ian the MacGregor."
The woman ran forward and seized his hands. "I am Donelda. Praise God you are
here." The white-haired man stepped up as well. "This is Fergus, my father."
Ian’s face was grim. "Fergus. Donelda. What happened here? Who did this?"
The old man shook his head. "We woke in the middle of the night to the smell
of fire. A score of men set the torch to all that would burn, then scattered our
cattle. Those who tried to stop them were struck down. Donelda lost her husband
and eldest son."
One of Ian’s men shook a clenched fist. "They were Campbells, weren't they?
Those thievin’—"
"They were not." The others had gathered in a half circle around them. "They
carne in the name of Comyn the Red," someone shouted. "To restore the Comyns to
the throne. The rightful rulers. 'Twas their battle cry."
Had this been in retaliation for his support of the Bruce? The Campbells had
pledged their support to the Bruce. In this, at least, they were united. He
could not help but think of Jamie MacDougaIl… Did he have a hand in all
this?
"The Bruce, my lord. Ye know him, do ye not?"
Ian nodded. "I do."
"He'll stop these blackguards, won't he?"
Ian hesitated. "Much has happened since summer. The English defeated his army
at Methven. Then Comyn's vengeful relatives attacked at Dalry as he attempted
passage over Loch Lomond. His party was forced to split up. His wife, daughter
Marjorie, and brother Neil were captured at Kildrummy and confined. Neil died as
traitor in October. The Bruce was forced into hiding."
Ian paused. "At present I do not know his whereabouts. I have no doubt that
soon he will return to set things aright. In the meantime, you need not fear. I
will send troops here to protect you and help rebuild."
He stared out where the wind rippled the grasses of the valley. He saw all
through a fiery mist of rage. A dark resolve slipped over him. “We will find the
fiends who did this." His voice carried with it an edge of steel. "I will not
rest until they are found."
Fergus thumped his fist on his chest. "We stand by you, my lord, as we stand
by the Bruce."
A young woman, jiggling a babe on her hip, stepped forward. "They rode to the
north and east, my lord. I saw them."
Ian strode to his stallion and mounted. A storm swirled within him, roiling
and growing stronger by the second. He ripped his sword from its scabbard and
raised it high. His eyes blazed with the heat of a lightning bolt.
"To the Bruce! And to vengeance!"
A cheer broke out. Mingling with the thunder of hooves on the earth was a
bloodcurdling battle cry.
A single day and night had passed—the longest of her life! Sabrina missed Ian
desperately. She felt the pain of separation keenly—that she'd not thought to
feel it at all only made it that much harder to bear! She missed the heat of his
body next to hers in the dark of the night, the strength of his arms hard about
her back, the comfort of his presence—odd that she'd become so quickly
accustomed to it!
She bitterly regretted the way they had parted. If she could, she would take
back all she had said, all the harshness that passed between them. She told
herself he cared naught for her. That it wasn't her he'd wanted, but it made no
difference.
She prayed fervently for his safety, for the day he would return.
It was early in the afternoon on the second day when she decided to ride
outside the castle. She was too agitated to work, too unsettled to rest.
She was headed toward the stable when she felt a tug on her hand. She glanced
down to see a small, dark-haired child beside her.
"Well, hello, there." She smiled down at the girl.
Dark eyes shone brightly. The girl crooked a finger and beckoned her close.
Curious, Sabrina knelt down.
"I've a secret," the girl whispered. "A secret I can tell only
you."
Sabrina's eyes softened. "Indeed," she murmured. "And what is this secret you
can tell only me?"
"A man bid me come to you. He wishes to meet you at the oak tree by the
spring. He said to tell no one but you."
Sabrina frowned. Was this a game the child played? She smiled encouragingly
at the girl. "Do you remember what this man looked like?"
"He was tall—with hair the color of ripe wheat."
Sabrina's heart leaped. Surely it was not…
"What is your name, lass? “
”I am Deanna."
"And where did you meet this man, Deanna?"
" 'Twas there, outside the gatehouse, where my sisters and I played."
Sabrina smoothed the child's dark curls. "Thank you, Deanna. 'Twill be our
secret, will it not?"
The child's head bobbed. "Aye, mistress."
"Good. Now then, you may go to the kitchens and ask the cook for a jellied
tart. Tell them I said 'twould be all right, for we've more than enough for
tonight's dinner, and they'd best not shoo you away."
The little girl beamed and ran off, for she'd gained the lady's favor.
Sabrina got to her feet and brushed the mud from her skirts. She decided to
forego her ride and walk instead. She headed through the gates, her steps firm
and purposeful.
The spring lay not far beyond the castle walls. There was a well within the
bailey, but Sabrina had learned that, in summer, the well occasionally ran low
and it was necessary to carry water from the spring.
The oak tree came into view, huge and towering, its limbs stripped bare of
its leaves. The north side of the trunk was covered in rich, velvet moss.
She halted. A frown creased her forehead, for there was no one about. She
glanced in all directions, wondering if mayhap someone had decided to play a
trick on her…
Strong fingers wrapped around her arm, whirling her around. Her startled cry
died in her throat as she stared upward into a face she’d thought never to see
again.
"Jamie," she gasped. "Saints, you frightened the wits out of me!"
In answer he laughed and swept her into his arms. His head swooped down and
his lips rested full upon her own. For an instant Sabrina was too stunned to
move. Her hands came up between them and she pushed herself away.
His arms fell to his sides. "What is this?" he demanded. "I thought you would
be glad to see me, Sabrina."
His censure sent a stab of guilt all through her. "I- I am," she said
quickly. "But—you should not be here, Jamie."
"I had to see you. I had to see for myself if it was true—that you'd married
him."
Him
. Ian. She winced.
“ 'Tis true," she confided, her voice very low. "I—I am wed to Ian."
His jaw tensed. The pain in his eyes cut her to the quick. The confession was
torturous for both of them.
"Why?" His expression was taut and harsh. "Dammit, how could you? He was to
marry Margaret—"
“Margaret is dead, Jamie."
Shock flooded his face. "How?"
"She drowned. Her mantle was found near the loch the day they were to wed. We
searched and searched"
She gestured vaguely. Her hand fell to her side. " 'Twas no use. We found no
trace of her.”
“And so
you
wed Ian in her place."
She flushed. He made it sound like a condemnation. "I had no choice,
Jamie."
For the longest time he said nothing. He stared at her, his angry hurt open
and glaring. The silence that lurked between them was as dark and heavy as a
moonless night. Then suddenly something changed.
"You are pale and wan, Sabrina. Has he been mistreating you?"
A wisp of a smile curled her lips. She shook her head. "I am fine, Jamie.
Truly. He—he treats me well. I spent a restless night, that is all."
Her smile faded. "What about you? Have you joined your uncle in the fight
against the Bruce?" “Aye." He stepped close, his regard somber. His gaze moved
over her features, one by one, as if devour her.
"Come with me, Sabrina." His voice was low and intense. "You need never see
him again. We can flee. To France perhaps." He seized her about the waist. “Come
with me now—"
She twisted away, evading the hands that reached for her still. "Jamie,
please! I- I can not. I cannot dishonor my father so."
Nor Ian.
But this was best left unsaid. Nor could she stand to
think
what it
would be like without Ian. This, too, was left unsaid… Faith, she could scarce
admit it even to herself!
“I love you, Sabrina."
The fervor she sensed in him sliced her in two. She despaired her wayward
heart. God above, she knew not what she felt! "Do not say that, Jamie! It cannot
be—ever!" With her eyes she beseeched him. With her voice she implored him. "Do
not make this harder—for either of us, Jamie."
He shook his head. "I cannot let go so easily."
"You must," she began. The drumming sound of footsteps in the muddied lane
behind them made them both look up, they'd been alone until then.
Her expression grew harried. "Jamie, please, you must go, for I cannot
guarantee your safety if you stay."
In answer he caught her against him. Sabrina did not have the heart to fight
him as he took her mouth in a swift, hard kiss.
"I will return," he said when at last he raised his head. His eyes burned
bright and intense as a summer sky.
Then he was gone, darting into the forest. Her gaze followed him until he was
lost from view.
"Take care, Jamie," she whispered. "Take care…"
When she was certain he'd made his escape safely, she turned and walked
toward the castle. She despised herself, for she knew she'd hurt him. The burden
of her guilt was one she must shoulder for a long time to come. Yet it was just
as she'd said. There had been no other choice.
Fraser met her just as she entered the hall. "You need not have worried,
Sabrina. They come within the hour."
Her lips parted. "They return? Ian returns?"
He grinned hugely. "Aye."
A joyous relief weakened her knees. Her prayers had been answered. She ran up
to the parapet where she could see them from afar. As soon as she spied group of
riders coming down the lane, she hurried down into the bailey to wait.
Before long the soldiers galloped through the gate. Sabrina searched the
riders one by one, but there was no sign of Ian.
Then she heard a shout. "Hurry! We need help here!"
Her gaze fixed in horror on the last straggling group to enter. A man's body
was draped across the saddle of one horse. Another horse carried two others.
Fraser and several others ran forward to lift the first body down. Her heart
lurched, for it seemed she had prayed for naught.
The man was none other than Ian.
“Lay him there."
Sabrina nodded toward the bed, then hurried to whisk back the sheet. Her
heart was pounding so that she could scarcely breathe; that she could muster
speech was a miracle.
Two of his soldiers deposited him on the mattress. "We did what we could,"
one of the men said quickly, “but he wouldn’t stop bleeding."
"When was he wounded?" The question carne from Fraser.
"This morn." Alasdair had just walked through the door. It was he who
answered.
"What happened?
'When we arrived at Kildurn, we found nearly all of the huts burned to the
ground."
Fraser erupted into a curse. "Those blackguard Campbells—"
"Not the Campbells, nor a band of reivers," Alasdair said grimly. His gaze
slid to Sabrina. "Comyn supporters."
Sabrina reeled. She felt his cold displeasure like the prick of a knife.
Jamie's image vaulted into her mind. Dear God, he'd joined forces with his
uncle. But was this what he was about? She felt suddenly sick.
But he had been here, she reminded herself. He couldn't have been a part of
this raid.
"We went after the raiders, and caught up to them this morn. They won’t be
raiding MacGregor land anymore, but we lost two men," Alasdair went on. "Pray
God we don 't lose Ian as well."
While he recounted the battle, Sabrina stepped to the bedside. Sheer
willpower prevented her from crying out. Ian’s face was bleached of all color,
as pale as moonlight. His shirt and plaid were soaked in blood. His eyes were
closed, shadowed so darkly they lay like blots of dark ink against his
cheeks.
"Have ye knowledge of healing, Sabrina?" Fraser's eyes sought hers.
Hers were wide and frightened. "A bit. My father was hurt in skirmishes now
and then."
Fraser stepped up beside her. "Let's just see what we have here, eh?"
Together they stripped him of his clothing. Sabrina was hazily aware that
Alasdair and the others had left them alone. Sensing her embarrassment, Fraser
quickly flipped the edge of the sheet over his loins. But his torso, front and
back, was smeared in blood—most of it still bright and crimson.
He lay so still and white. And there was so much blood. She pressed ice-cold
fingers to her lips and swayed, certain he was dead after all…
Fraser slid a steadying arm around her. "Keep yer head about ye, lass. It may
not be as bad as it looks. Besides"—he slanted her a lopsided smile—"I need ye
to tell this dim-witted fool what to do."
Mary had already slipped into the chamber with basins of hot water and clean
linen cloths. Sabrina began the task of wiping him clean, instinctively aware
her touch would be gentler than Fraser's. Her stomach heaved once as the
blood-soaked pile of cloths heaped ever higher, but she ignored it. Twice Ian
moaned, once when Fraser rolled him to his side so she could reach his back; the
other when she touched his left shoulder. Both times nearly sent her screaming
from the room.
At last she was finished. Together she and Fraser surveyed the damage. There
was a ragged, gaping hole in his left shoulder, adjacent to his armpit, still
another between his ribs. The whole of his left shoulder and side was one
monstrous bruise.
Blood still welled from both wounds, thick and dark. Fraser murmured that the
one in his shoulder was from a sword, the other from a dagger.
"Praise God 'tis not his sword arm," he added.
"We must bind the wounds tightly so the bleeding stops, Fraser. Then they
must be sewn closed."
They bound long, linen strips tightly around his shoulder and side. Fraser
looked horrified as she insisted he pull it tighter, but he did as she asked. It
seemed an eternity passed before the bleeding eased.
Her hands were shaking as she threaded her needle. It took three attempts to
pull the thread through the eye, but at last she was ready. After cleansing the
wounds anew, she began to work.
Her first stab through his flesh sent a jolt through her entire body, but Ian
moved nary a muscle. The second was easier, but it was nonetheless a slow,
painstaking task bringing the edges of the jagged wounds together. Sabrina
worked as quickly as she dared, giving a hearty prayer of thanks that Ian did
not awaken.
Her lungs were burning by the time she’d finished. She breathed a deep-seated
sigh of relief and glanced at Fraser. "There. ‘Tis done."
Ian’s lashes lifted. All the strength seemed to ebb from his limbs. Sabrina
stared straight into eyes the color of a clear mountain stream. 'Twas then she
heard his voice, more breath than sound. "You enjoyed that, didn’t you,
bratling?" As if the effort was more than he could bear, his eyes slid
closed.
Sabrina couldn't help it. She buried her face in her hands and cried.
He did not wake for three days.
Fever set in the following day, giving her and Fraser the fright of their
lives. Never had she seen a man so leeched of color! Sabrina bathed him
endlessly with cool water, for his skin was as hot as fire. He thrashed so
restlessly Fraser was forced to hold him down. Both watched the wounds carefully
for any sign of poisons.
The next day he was still ill with fever. Though now he only twitched
restlessly, the rise and fall of his chest was quick and shallow. Time and again
she bent her head close to assure herself that he yet lived. Fraser brought food
and drink, but her appetite was scant. She did not leave the chamber, for she
was possessed of the notion that if she left, he would surely die.
On the third day, exhausted and numb, she pulled up a stool beside the bed.
Color had begun to seep back into his skin, and he appeared to be resting
better. Though she tried to stop it, several times she felt her eyelids
drooping. Finally she let them close. She would rest, if only for a moment…
It was a slight tug on her scalp that woke her.
Opening her eyes, she saw lean fingers threading through the tangled silk of
her hair where it streamed over the bed. The sight jolted her upright. He was
awake—Ian was awake!
She laid a hand on his forehead. His skin was cool to the touch. "The fever
is gone, praise God," she breathed. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've done battle with Satan himself—and lost." His voice was as hoarse
and raspy as stale rushes.
Her smile was tremulous. His features were gaunt, but his eyes were alert
though tired.
He raised a hand. The back of his knuckles grazed her cheek. "I dreamed that
you cried for me, bratling.”
His whisper sped straight to her heart. She rubbed her cheek against his
hand. "You left without saying good-bye." That was not what she'd meant to say,
but now that she had, the sharpness of remembrance tore at her breast. Her
throat grew hot and aching. "Ian, when I first saw you… I- I thought you were
dead!"
The glimmer of a smile tugged at his lips. "Ah. And did you rejoice on
thinking yourself a widow?"
"Nay!" Sudden, startling tears swamped her vision. She ducked her head that
he might not see. "I- I would never wish you dead, Ian. Never!"
Her fervency wiped the smile clean from his lips.
And all at once her emotions lay scattered like leaves before a scouring
wind. She felt… what she'd never thought to feel for this man. There was a
painful catch at the corner of her heart. Ah, but did she dare trust her
feelings? She'd been so very certain she was in love with Jamie—but she'd felt
nothing when he'd kissed her, neither pleasure nor displeasure.
Did she love Ian?
She knew not.
She
dared
not.
His fingers still lay within hers, there on the coverlet between them. She
started to draw her hand away, but his grip tightened, surprisingly strong
despite his malaise.
His gaze captured hers. "I did not dream it, did I?"
Her eyes clung to his. She could not look away. Something flickered in those
clear gray depths, something that made her tremble inside. With her seated,
gazing down at him, she should have held the advantage. Yet never had she felt
so vulnerable and exposed!
Her lips parted. "Nay," she heard herself say.
All at once the air between them grew close and heated. He whispered her
name, and laced within the sound was an intensity she'd never before heard. He
started to rise, his intention obvious.
Her eyes flew wide in alarm. She pushed him back with a hand on his chest.
"Ian, no! You must be still!"
The effort made him growl with frustration. "Damnation!" he swore. "I am weak
as a mewling kitten." He grimaced. "Help me to rise, Sabrina. There's much to be
done. I must send soldiers and supplies back to the village—"
" 'Tis already done! Alasdair has seen to it." Her emotions well in hand now,
she got to her feet, planting her hands on her hips. "If you would gain your
strength back, you must rest—and do as I say."
He glared at her.
She smiled sweetly.
There was grumbling as he drank the broth she fetched for him. He was in the
mood for something far more hearty. On the morrow, she promised, if he continued
to improve.
She slept on a pallet near the bed where she'd spent the last few nights… and
woke to find him waiting—somewhat impatiently—for food to break his fast.
Despite the fact that he lay in bed, there was no denying the aura of
masculine power that clung to him. There was an odd little quiver in her belly.
Her fingers tingled with the urge to travel over his skin, to feel for herself
that it was as smooth and hard as it looked.
After he'd finished eating, she decided it was time to change his bandages.
The wounds looked better, she decided. She applied a healing salve and rewrapped
them in clean linen strips; she balanced a hand against his chest while she did
his shoulder. A shiver went through her, for her hand looked dainty and fair
against the dark, hair-roughened landscape of his chest.
She could feel the weight of his gaze on her as she worked. She braved a
glance at his face—no mockery dwelled there, but his scrutiny was oddly intense…
and wholly disturbing. Why did he stare at her so? she wondered frantically. Did
he compare her with Margaret? With Fionna? The thought was like a dagger
twisting inside her, but she betrayed none of her turmoil.
"I begin to see why the English wear armor," she said lightly.
His hands had come out to close on her waist. Their warmth burned clear
through her gown.
A roguish brow arose. "Weaklings, all," he proclaimed brashly, "for am I not
the mightiest warrior in all Scotland?"
"I believe you are the
luckiest
warrior in all Scotland."
The laughter faded from his features. His eyes pierced hers for the space of
a heartbeat. "Aye," he said quietly, "that I am."
His hands had yet to release her. A curious tension hummed between them.
Sabrina floundered, for she knew not what to say. Ian opened his mouth; she
sensed he was about to speak, but whatever it was, she would never know. The
spell was broken by a knock on the door.
Fraser strode in wearing a huge grin. "I told the lass here ye would be
fine," he announced, "but she dinna believe me. She fretted and stewed like a
hen with wee chicks."
"Did she now?"
"That she did," Fraser proclaimed. "Do ye know not once did she leave yer
side? Nay, not once! Why, I daresay she is a veritable saint!"
Sabrina blushed and turned aside. This time Ian said nothing, but she felt
the touch of his eyes on her profile as surely as she'd felt the touch of his
hand on her cheek last eve.
Ian was anxious to be up and about. Though Sabrina protested most vehemently,
her objections were turned aside by the two men. An arm about his waist, Fraser
got him to his feet. A few turns about the chamber and he was exhausted. He fell
back into bed, cursing at his lack of strength. She very nearly chided him for
pushing himself so hard, but held her tongue. Nonetheless, he insisted on rising
every few hours. Oddly, he did seem stronger every time he arose.
He dozed off and on throughout the day and evening. When darkness laid its
covering full upon the earth, Sabrina crept across the floor to prepare for bed.
The day had been long and tiring, but the awful fear that had clutched at her
these past days had fled. For the first time she knew that Fraser was right—that
Ian would heal and be as strong as ever.
Though she longed for the comfort of a long, hot bath, she would not risk
waking Ian. Instead she warmed water over the fire and poured it into a basin.
As she lowered the ewer to the table, her head began to spin. Spots danced
before her eyes, and the floor seemed to tilt sharply to and fro. Gripping the
edge of the table, she fought to remain standing. Mercifully, the world righted
itself.
She expelled a long, slow breath. Since the day Ian had been so angry when he
saw her with Alasdair, she’d had at least one such spell a day—it was unlike her
to feel so poorly of a sudden. She'd told herself it was fatigue, for this time
while she'd been tending Ian had been fraught with worry. But she was beginning
to wonder if the cause were something far different…
Stripping away her clothes, she laid them aside. She scrubbed herself
quickly, for the night air was cool against her naked skin.
Little did she realize the feast offered up for hungry, avid eyes that
watched from across the room as she loosened her hair. Slender arms lifted those
red-gold tresses high and away from her shoulders; they fell down her back, a
rippling waterfall of fire and honey. She bent and skimmed a wet linen cloth up
and down the length of her legs. The bounce and sway of rouge-tipped breasts
made Ian's mouth water with a yearning hunger that had naught to do with
food.
Her gaze skipped back over her shoulder. Their eyes locked for a long,
heart-stopping moment. She drew a white linen bed-gown over her head, her
movements shy and almost clumsy, for now she knew he surveyed her every
move.
