A Promise Given (6 page)

Two days later they knew it for certain. One of Margaret's slippers washed up
upon the shore of the loch. Only then did Papa allow a funeral mass to be said
for his beloved Margaret.

At mass the next day, Sabrina stood in the kirk, still and pale. Ian and
Alasdair were on the other side of the aisle. Papa stood next to her.

Though she was wrenched with grief inside, there were no tears. Certainly she
and Margaret had never been close; Margaret had always hidden her feelings
behind a facade of cool serenity. But Margaret was her only sister and now she
was gone.

The mass ended. Father Stewart came forward to offer solace. As he laid a
hand upon Papa's shoulder, Papa began to weep. The sound tore into Sabrina's
heart like a dagger twisting and turning.

Sabrina longed to comfort him, to offer what solace she could. Yet for what
purpose? He would only turn from her, for as always he wanted nothing from her…
Bitterness welled up in her breast. Why? her heart cried out. Why couldn't he
love her as he loved Margaret? Why couldn't he love her just a little? No doubt
he wished it was her and not Margaret who had died…

Her breath came fast, then slow. In that moment Sabrina hated herself. Such
thoughts were wicked… as she was wicked. Papa had always said so. And now she
knew for certain it was true.

Bile stung her throat. Her insides twisted into a sick, ugly knot. Blindly
she began to move through the maze of people gathered in the kirk toward the
entrance—most who had come for the wedding had stayed for the funeral. Outside,
the day was warm and cloudless. Her steps carried her forward, faster and
faster. Before she knew it, she was running—she knew not where nor did she care.
Branches stung her cheeks, but she cared not; neither did she hear the shout of
her name or the footsteps pounding behind her.

She ran until her lungs burned with fire and she could run no more.
Exhausted, she sank to her knees. Her stomach was churning. Specks of black and
gray floated before her eyes. Unable to stop herself, she began to retch
violently.

She was only dimly aware of someone kneeling beside her, a strong arm sliding
about her shoulders, of gentle fingers pulling her hair back.

Her head was still spinning as she saw that it was Ian. He guided her to a
fallen log and helped her sit. The stream was nearby. Dimly she heard him dip a
cloth into the rushing waters. He returned and sat beside her. He then proceeded
to wipe her face and neck. Sabrina turned into the damp coolness gratefully, too
weak to thank him.

When he had finished, she forced her eyes open. She braced herself inwardly,
for she was certain he might laugh, that he would taunt her anew for her
weakness. But he merely stared at her, his expression unreadable. Though she
longed to escape, her strength had deserted her.

She averted her face. "You may leave now."

"You are unwell."

Sabrina's throat worked convulsively. "God's blood! Can no one do as I
ask?"

"You should not be alone, Sabrina."

She began to rock back and forth. Guilt rode heavy on her heart. "You don 't
understand," she said dully. "It's my fault she's dead. It's my fault Margaret
is dead!"

"No, Sabrina. She fell in the loch and drowned. It was no one's fault. It was
an accident."

All at once she felt as if she were flying apart inside. Her breath came
jerkily. "He knows what we did, Ian. He knows."

Ian's gaze sharpened. "Who? Your father?"

She shook her head. Her arms came around herself, as if she were chilled to
the bone. "Nay," she said faintly. "God. God knows that you… that we…"

He gave an impatient gesture. “We did nothing! It was a kiss, no more."

"It was wrong," she whispered. She began to shake from head to toe. "He took
Margaret to—to punish me. Would that He had taken me now, but He means for me to
suffer through all eternity. He will see that I pay for all the evil things I've
done."

Ian swore beneath his breath. "Sabrina! You are not evil!"

"Papa said I was. Dear God, he still thinks I am! I remember… many a time did
he accuse me of being the devil's arm."

"Sabrina, he did not mean it—"

"He did!" she cried. Her eyes were half wild. "And now… I see the way he
looks at me—he wishes I had died instead of Margaret. And… God help me"—her
voice broke—"I cannot help but be glad that I yet live." Tears stung her eyes,
but she forced herself to go on. "So you see, I am evil. And Margaret died
because of my sin. I- I do not blame you, Ian. It’s the wickedness in me. I know
that you could not help yourself—"

His hands came down on her shoulders. Strong fingers curled around her arms.
He shook her until her head fell back and she looked at him, dazed.

Roughly he said, "I kissed you because I wanted it. It’s God's truth,
Sabrina.
I kissed you because I wanted it.”

At his declaration, the tears that burned the back of her throat broke loose.
Her mouth trembled as she fought to hold them back, but it was no use. A deep,
jagged sob escaped, and then another.

Ian could stand it no longer.

Her tears were his undoing. Slowly, his arms crept around her, bringing her
close. She turned her face into his neck and wept. Sensing she needed to purge
her grief, Ian held her until at last her tears were bled dry. She lay against
his chest, limp and drained. In one swift, decisive move, he gathered her in his
arms and rose to his feet; that she made no protest as he strode back to the
keep was but a sign of how shaken she was.

He paid no heed to the shocked glances that came his way. Just outside
Sabrina's chamber, he encountered Edna. The little maid's chin dropped.

"Your mistress is overcome," he said. "Tell me quick. Do you know a sleeping
potion?"

Edna's eyes were all agog, but her head bobbed eagerly up and down. "Cook
does," she said quickly. "I'll fetch it for ye."

"That's a good lass." He nodded toward the door. Edna obliged him by opening
it, then hurried on her way. Ian smiled dryly as he shouldered the door closed a
moment later. If only all women were blessed with the little maid's
intuition.

He crossed the floor and lowered her to the bed. She drew her knees to her
chest and curled away from him and into herself, her eyes squeezed shut. Ian
stood over her, his hands flexing and un-flexing. Did she know he was still
here? If so, he was surprised she did not demand he leave.

Edna returned shortly, a small cup in her hands. Tiny plumes of steam wafted
into the air. "Here, my lord. This should help her sleep. Have her drink all of
it."

Ian took it, sniffing gingerly. The brew carried a strange scent he did not
recognize, yet it was not unpleasant.

"Sabrina." He spoke her name. The mattress gave beneath his weight as he
sat.

Her eyes flicked open. She glanced across her shoulder. He held out the
cup.

"This will help you sleep." His tone was quiet but insistent. "All of it,
Sabrina."

Her eyes blazed fire for an instant, and he thought she would argue. Instead
she turned back to him and extended a hand. She made a face as she sipped it,
but she drained the cup before handing it back. With a weary sigh, she leaned
back against the pillows. Her eyes stayed upon him, half wary, half
watchful.

"There is no need for you to stay," she said after a moment.

"I'll remain until you sleep." He could be just as stubborn as she.

"Nay, not here." With a wave of her finger she indicated the room. "I mean…
here at Dunlevy. There will be no wedding. You should go back to the
Highlands."

"I will," he returned politely, "when I am ready."

It wasn’t long before the potion took effect. Her lids began to droop. Ian
saw her struggling to focus. But just when he was certain she would drift off
for good, her eyes snapped open.

She touched him then. A dainty fingertip reached out and traced the outline
of his mouth.

Ian had gone very still, both inside and out. For an instant, a curious
tension hummed between them. Her eyes, wide and unwavering, collided with his.
Ian caught his breath, for they were the color of fresh spring grass moist with
morning's dew. He could not help but wonder what went on behind those incredible
eyes, for she was careful to reveal nothing of her thoughts. But then, with the
very same fingertip, she touched her own lips.

And he knew they shared the very same thought… of the very same memory.

Desire cut through him, so strong it was almost a physical pain.

"Sleep; " he murmured.

Her lashes swept closed. She turned her head aside, but not before he
glimpsed the single tear that squeezed from beneath her closed eyelids.

Some nameless emotion swept through him. He let out a long, uneven breath. He
sat there for a long time, listening as her breathing grew deep and even. Her
guilt rent him in two. His conscience pricked at him.

Mayhap she was right. He should never have kissed her. It was wrong, for at
the time, he was bound to Margaret. And yet, it had happened. And God help him,
he didn't regret it. Indeed, some little known sense within him whispered that
it was somehow inevitable.

Gently he drew the back of his knuckles across her cheek. Her skin was like
the finest silk, her mouth soft and tremulous… and vulnerable. It seemed odd to
think of Sabrina as vulnerable… Sabrina, his feisty bratling…

But she was a woman full grown, and the proof of it lay before his very eyes.
Her breasts rose and fell with every breath, offering as temptation sweetly
rounded flesh he knew instinctively would fit his hands to perfection. A vision
soared high aloft in his mind. He saw her as she'd been that day at the pond,
her skin pale and creamy, sleek and glistening. Only now there was a
difference—her eyes were full upon him, smoky with longing as she beckoned for
him to join her..

He drew a deep, unsteady breath, aching with the need to kiss her anew, to
smother the protests he knew would follow and allow his passion free rein. He
clamped his jaw tight, battling a rush of molten desire. Reluctantly he drew his
hand away, resisting urge to linger.

He could lie to himself no longer. Since the day he’d  first returned,
he could scarcely take his eyes from her. He was drawn to her in a way he'd
never expected. She possessed a tantalizing enchantment he could not deny. Aye,
he enjoyed a lusty tumble with a wench as much as the next man. Were she any
other woman, he'd have been tempted to take her, to let his desire run full
measure and have done with it once and for all.

But this was Sabrina. Sabrina. Not a wench to be used and discarded.

Aye, she was a lovely, desirable woman, and he had no trouble understanding
Jamie MacDougall's desire for her. She was too beautiful and tempting for her
own good.

And he could no more stay his own desire for her than he could stop the
rising of the sun.

Anger tightened in his breast. A dark and bitter tempest brewed within him as
he thought of her father. His mouth thinned to a hard, straight line.

What would happen to her? How could he leave her with her father? Duncan
looked with disfavor upon his younger daughter, ever and always. He had loved
Margaret best. Indeed, Ian wondered harshly if he had ever loved Sabrina. The
last thing she needed was more guilt heaped upon her head; the wretch would do
precisely that. He would crush her spirit—leech the very life from her soul
little by little—indeed, he was surprised the bastard hadn't already done so.
And she fared little better than a servant—that, too, was something he feared
would never change.

A muscle tightened in his jaw. He tapped his fingers together before him, his
mind twisting and turning. She was not his responsibility, a voice inside
reminded him. He was not beholden to her. He owed her naught…

But she had no one else, still another voice chided.

And the issue was no longer clouded by his obligations to Margaret.

The shadows of night poured through the windows when at last Ian rose.
Resolve crystallized inside him. He knew what he must do…

And why.

Sabrina woke slowly the next morning. Something elusive danced within her
brain. She groped for the memory, her mind still befuddled with sleep. She had
slept deeply, more deeply than she had for ages—but no wonder. Her mouth was dry
as bone, no doubt from the sleeping potion Ian had…

Ian
. He had brought her here, to her chamber.

She remembered being lifted, borne upward and cradled against solid warmth,
and burying her face against his neck—it was a sensation that was distinctly
memorable—and distinctly pleasurable. His scent was clean and woodsy, his skin
had been smooth and warm. And later, she remembered him staring down at her. His
mouth was set sternly, yet she had sensed he was not angry.

She cringed inside. She had made a fool of herself. She had wept in his arms.
And yet—he had not made her feel foolish. He had brought her here, and taken
care of her, as no one else had ever done.

I kissed you because I wanted it.
Had he truly said that? Or had she
only imagined it?

She flung back the coverlet, suddenly impatient. God in heaven, why did it
matter? What was wrong with her? Oh, how she wished she could be indifferent to
him. Despite her every effort, she could not put him from her mind!

But she would, she vowed… aye, this very day!

To her utter consternation, she learned later that morn that Ian had still
not yet departed for the Highlands. Silently she fumed. The rogue! She could
almost believe he stayed on solely because he knew it would vex her!

It was late that afternoon when she encountered Alasdair lounging on a bench
in the great hall. He immediately came to his feet when he saw her.

"Sabrina!" he greeted her. “We missed you at the evening meal. I trust you’re
feeling better?"