Ian reined to a halt. Alasdair rose from his place near the fire. A grin
dallied about his mouth as he strode to meet him. "God above, man," he called.
"What kept the two of you—or need I ask?"
Ian grimaced. "English reivers. I was struck down shortly after you left.
They took Sabrina."
Alasdair's grin faded. His gaze swung sharply to Sabrina. "Sabrina! Are you
all right?"
She nodded. "I am fine," she said tonelessly.
Ian swung down and reached for Sabrina. She withdrew the very instant her
feet touched the ground. Ian's mouth tightened, but he said nothing. Alasdair
had already erected the tent. Ian gestured to it.
"Go along to bed," he suggested. "I'll be along in a moment." His expression
rife with quiet contemplation, his gaze did not leave her until she'd
disappeared inside the tent.
He turned to Alasdair, who waited tensely. Briefly he told him all that had
happened.
Alasdair swore softly. "So one of the ruffians remains at large."
"Aye, but I don't think he’ll be back." Ian recalled the way the man had
turned tail and run.
"Nonetheless, we'd best not give ourselves away." He turned toward the
fire.
Ian stopped him with a word. "Nay, Alasdair. Let it burn."
"But what if he should return? He might bring others—"
"Sabrina is afraid of the dark." He made the explanation curtly. "Let it
burn. If the fool returns, we will deal with it.”
"As you wish then." Alasdair returned to his bed.
Ian stepped within the tent. Sabrina, he saw, had made no attempt to sleep.
She sat huddled with her knees drawn tight to her chest.
Ian lowered himself beside her, close to, but not touching her. Her eyes met
his, then quickly shied away. He could see she was embarrassed, but he had to
know what prompted her fear of the dark. It was more than just this night, he
suspected, much more. Had she disguised it from him apurpose? Perhaps not, for
these past nights they had left the fire burn.
His mind quickly spanned the years. "You did not fear the dark as a child,"
he said aloud.
She made no reply, but merely tightened her arms about her knees.
"I would have an answer, Sabrina."
"I did," she said shortly. "I did fear the dark."
"Nay." He spoke with surety. "I would have remembered."
"Indeed," she stated coolly. "And do you remember the day you left Dunlevy
for good to return to the Highlands? Do you remember the promise you made?"
"I remember that day. You were in the stables, throwing dice. I- I made you
kiss Robert." A hint of a smile graced his lips. Then he shook his head. "But I
remember no promise—"
"Your memory ill serves you, Ian. A promise given is a promise kept,' " she
quoted. She looked at him then, a silent accusation simmering in the dark
emerald of her eyes. "You said that, Ian. You did!"
Ian had gone very still. "I remember," he recalled slowly. "You were to spend
the morn on your knees in the kirk. Instead you were in the stables…"
"Aye, and you promised you would not tell my father I was in the stables—that
I did not obey. But you told him, Ian. You told him!" The words were fairly
flung at him.
"Nay! I did not! By all that is holy, I swear I did not!" Bewildered by her
charge, his hands came down on her shoulders. He turned her so that she faced
him. She stiffened and would have pulled away, but his grip tightened
subtly.
The breath she drew was deep and racking. "He knew," was all she said.
"
He knew
…"
An awful feeling began to brew in his belly. "He punished you, didn't
he?"
She lowered her lids, refusing to look at him. But her lips trembled anew.
"Aye," was all she said. "
Aye
!"
Glittering light from the fire outside cast shadows on her pale face. He
could still see the telltale streaks of her tears. He cursed himself, even as he
demanded the answer he would have.
"What did he do to you, Sabrina? How did your father punish you?"
"He—he dragged me to a tiny chamber deep below the keep." Her lips barely
moved as she spoke.
"The gaol?"
She nodded. "It was cold there. There were no windows. No fire. I—I knew not
if it was day or night…" Her voice began to shake. She stopped, a long pause to
lend strength, he suspected.
"How long, Sabrina? How long did he keep you there?"
"Three days," she said with a shudder. "I—I thought he meant to let me die
there." She stopped. "Even now I sleep with a fire in the hearth to light my
chamber. In summer as well as winter, though all think me daft."
Ian suddenly understood… so very much. Her veiled hostility when he'd
encountered her again after all these years. She blamed him for this cursed fear
of the dark…
"I swear on the grave of my father, I did not tell him, Sabrina." The pitch
of his voice was low and fervent. "I did not betray you."
Her eyes closed. She turned her head aside. "It does not matter," she said
tonelessly.
Ian released her. She didn't believe him, but there was naught he could do to
convince her. He watched as she rolled slowly to her side, presenting him with
her back.
Even as his heart went out to her, a rage shook him, a rage as vile as any
he'd ever known.
More than ever, he longed to rob Duncan Kincaid of his life… as he had robbed
his daughter of her innocence.
He stripped, then lay down beside her, an arm cocked behind his head. It was
inevitable that his eyes be drawn to his wife. How was he to convince her he'd
not betrayed her? Anyone could have carried the truth to her father. One of the
lads in the stable. A servant. Yet he knew she would not readily believe him.
Faith, but she was stubborn!
Yet he could not deny he admired her spirit. In truth, he’d been furious when
she'd entered the kirk for their marriage ceremony, wearing that damnable rag
called a gown—like a banner flown proudly into the heat of battle! For the first
time he was sorely tempted to laugh. She was bold and brave and… and beautiful.
And that, too, he knew she would never believe were he to tell her so. She would
deny it… as she denied him.
Before long, her breathing began to even out. She slept. Ian’s mood softened.
He prayed the night's ordeal would not haunt her dreams.
But just as he was about to drift off into the netherworld, she began to stir
restlessly. She turned on her back. Her breathing hastened. Her head thrashed
from side to side. She began to whimper.
Ian reacted without conscious thought. He closed his arms about her form and
pulled her against him, pillowing her head on his shoulder. One hand drifted up
and down her back in wordless comfort, absently measuring the nip of her
waist.
Her eyes opened. He felt the brush of long, dark lashes against his skin.
"Ian?" His name was a husky, sleep-warm murmur.
"Here, lass." His voice was a low rumble in his breast. "Go back to sleep."
Her hair streamed wildly across his chest, tangled skeins of red and gold. Idly
he picked up a silken length and rubbed it between his fingers, marveling at its
texture.
She turned into him with a breathy little sigh. Her lashes fluttered
shut.
But now Ian lay fully awake. The scent of her was dizzying. He could feel the
trickle of her breath on his skin. The soft fullness of her breast pressed into
his side, warming him, heating his blood to fire, swelling his rod to an iron
pillar. His mind was filled with sensual images and sensations—her legs clasped
tight around his buttocks as he lay buried deep and hard within her. Her hair
skimming his belly… his thighs… her mouth soft and open on his skin as she
kissed her way down his chest… A cold sweat broke out on his brow.
All that stopped him was the sudden trust she yielded, the way she slept in
his arms.
But God save his soul, he had to have just a taste…
Her mouth was heaven. It clung to his, sweetly yearning. He trailed his
fingertips along the neckline of her gown, then strayed within. For the space of
a heartbeat, her breast lay warm and pliant in his palm; he teased the tip to
quivering erectness. He nearly groaned. His arms convulsed as he fought the need
to roll her to her back and let desire rule.
Reluctantly he loosened his embrace. He reminded himself that Alasdair slept
just outside. He must wait for the morrow, when Alasdair did not lay near. Aye,
tomorrow they would be home, and he could take all the time he wanted. It would
but make the moment all the more sweet.
But in the night she turned to him yet again. In the night she yielded all
she held back in the cold light of day…
It was the longest night he'd ever spent.
Sabrina woke alone the next morning, her body stiff and sore from her cramped
confinement in the cave. Ian was no longer abed. She could hear his deep voice
outside. She’d slept deeply, when she'd not thought to sleep at all. She
shivered in remembrance, then sifted slowly through the strand of memories which
followed. The sensation of being cocooned in strong, sheltering arms caught the
fringes of her mind… Odd, for she could have sworn that firm male lips had dwelt
sweet and warm upon hers…
She sat up abruptly. Nay. Nay, it wasn't so. That she would have
remembered.
She rose and stepped outside. The morning was cloudy and damp. A quick glance
revealed Ian already saddling the horses. After seeing to her personal needs,
she returned to find him waiting for her, ready to depart.
She glanced around curiously. "Where is Alasdair?"
"I sent him on ahead that all might be in readiness r our arrival." There was
a small silence. “And also another reason."
His pause made her uneasy. "What reason?" she murmured.
"My kinsmen expect me to return with Margaret as my bride. This way all will
know of Margaret's death—and why I return with you as my bride."
All at once there was a hard knot in the pit of her belly. What would Ian's
clansmen think of his new bride? Would they accept her in Margaret's place, or
would she be shunned? Besides the fact that she was not the bride they expected,
she was a Lowlander, an outsider. Life would be difficult enough without being
ostracized… She was suddenly besieged with doubt.
"There is no need to worry," he said quietly.
Too late she realized her distress must have shown. "I am not worried," she
denied quickly.
A black brow rose askance, but he made no further comment. Instead he
gestured to her mare. "Let us be off."
Sabrina stepped forward so he could help her mount. Her pulse quickened when
she laid her hand in his. But all at once he scowled and pushed up the wide
sleeve of her gown.
Sabrina glanced down quickly. He was staring at the chafed, red areas where
the cords had scraped her tender skin.
She flushed. “It is nothing," she said nervously. "I scarcely feel it."
His voice was gruff. "They did naught else to harm you?"
"Nay." To her dismay, there was a slight catch in her voice.
His frown did not ease. His gaze touched on her bruised cheek. "Praise Mary,
the bruise is almost gone, else my kinsmen would think I had to beat and bind
you before you would wed me."
She very nearly reminded him that while he had not, her father had. But
something in the tense line of his jaw made her hold her silence. The tender man
who had cradled her close might have been naught but a figment of her
imagination.
Ian set a hard pace when they departed. Sabrina knew he was anxious to be
home. The terrain had begun to change during their second day of travel, when
they left the gentle valleys of the Lowlands behind. Craggy mountains reared to
the north and west, and they were headed straight into them.
They stopped to rest the horses midmorning. Ian nudged his stallion next to
her mare; the animals stood almost chest to chest. He nodded toward the misty
peak that loomed just ahead, the summit steeped in clouds.
"Ben Ledi," he said. "Once we are through the pass we are in MacGregor
country."
It was a dangerous trail indeed. Sabrina's heart lodged high in her throat as
they traversed the narrow mountain pass. Far below, jagged rocks lunged upward,
like a giant mouth yawning to reveal gaping teeth. Yet she could not deny there
was a kind of stark beauty to the mountains of the Highlands. There lay before
her a land of steep valleys, swift and dangerous streams and shimmering, gemlike
lochs of sapphire. Yet Sabrina felt a distinct shiver up her spine as they began
to descend the valley between the mountains. She felt frail and small here
amidst such lonely grandeur.
They pressed on, twisting and turning, rising and plunging with the rhythm of
the land. The weather began to turn as well. A row of black clouds began
to gather on the horizon. Hours later, Ian reined to a halt. Sabrina sighed and
absently pressed a hand to the small of her back to massage away the ache
there.
"Sabrina."
The sound of her name drew her attention. Ian lifted a hand and pointed.
"Look there," he murmured.
Sabrina followed the direction of his hand. Rows of cottages crouched next to
the roadside, but she paid them no heed. Atop the next ridge a towering castle
jutted craggy and harsh, like a huge gray monster lifted from the earth. Square
and sprawling, four stone towers loomed in harsh silhouette against the evening
sky.
A tremor went through her. "That is Castle MacGregor?"
"Aye." Pride echoed richly in Ian’s voice.
She sought to smother her dismay. A heavy weight seemed to gather on her
chest. This was no sunbathed valley like Dunlevy Keep. The castle was dark and
imposing… much like its master, she thought helplessly.
Ian nudged his mount forward. Sabrina followed.
A wet drizzle began to fall from the leaden sky. A flash of lightning split
open the seething mass of clouds. Thunder rolled, an ominous threat.
A tiny little pain stabbed at her. She had but one thought…
It was indeed a cold, befitting arrival.
But long before they clattered across the drawbridge, a shout was heard.
"He returns! The MacGregor returns!"
By the time they entered the inner bailey, a crowd of men had formed a
straggly line that soon surrounded them. Sabrina blinked, for surely there must
have been a hundred or more. Despite the kilts which bared so much of their
legs, a fierce-looking lot they were—soldiers all—of dozens of shapes and sizes,
of varying age and rank.
"Is this your bride, Ian?" someone shouted.
All at once he was there beside her, so close their thighs brushed. A lean
hand swooped out to capture hers. He raised their joined hands high aloft.
"Sabrina," was all he called out. "My bride.”
A cheer went up, a cheer so deafening it surely shook the very ground beneath
their feet. The next thing she knew, she was plucked from her mare like a hen
from its nest… by a bearded red-haired giant with shoulders as broad as his
sword!
Despite the fact that he looked her up and down brash-as-you-please, he did
so with a ready, gap-toothed smile that was somehow engaging. A trifle of her
dread departed. She smiled back at him.
"Why, she's just a mite, Ian!"
Ian leaped to the ground with a lightness that betrayed his size. "Ah, but
the lass has a bite that would fell even the stoutest of men."
"But not you, eh, Ian?" The giant winked at his chieftain.
"Nay, Fraser. Not I."
What was this? A warning not to cross him? Sabrina's back went straight as a
lance. Two pair of eyes collided, one dark green and snapping, the other with a
decided glint.
Her smile remained firmly in place. "Indeed," she said airily, "mayhap
it’s time you were aware, husband, that if you thought to marry a lass as
spineless as a coward, you should have married elsewhere."
Ian’s mouth curled upward, but now there was a slight hardness in his eyes.
He clapped a hand on Fraser's shoulder and responded in kind. "You see what I’m
about?" he said lightly. "I must be ever on guard, for she wields her tongue
with an edge as cutting as a blade."
The giant waggled his brows. "Aye, and as deadly as any man!"
The pair was already striding off. Sabrina silently fumed. What was she to
do—entertain his soldiers? As if he'd suddenly remembered her existence, Ian
suddenly stopped. He glanced back over his shoulder and said mildly. "Coming,
love?"
Love?
Sabrina considered placing a well-aimed foot at his behind.
Instead she smiled sweetly. "As you wish, my lord."
This time he waited for her to precede him up the wide stone stairway that
led into the great hall. Sabrina wondered what he was about. Was he baiting her,
kindling her temper? Oh, no doubt he was waiting—hoping!—for her to play the
fool before his clansmen in order to show them he was her master!
Well, she would not oblige them. She would be gracious and pleasant, no
matter the cost.
The great hall was immense. A huge stone fireplace dominated the outer wall.
On the far wall a staircase led upward, then disappeared into another wall. Ian
had no sooner walked inside than he was surrounded by several men, for it seemed
there were urgent matters to attend.
Now that she was on her feet, it struck her ho~% dirty and disheveled she
was. She'd not had a bath in several days. She smelled of horse and leather. But
now she stood at Ian’s elbow, forgotten.
“Ian.”
If he heard he gave no sign of it.
She tried hard not to glare. Instead she cleared her throat and tried
again.
Still no response.
Straightening her shoulders, she wound her fingers firmly into his shirt and
tugged. "
Ian!"
Three pair of eyes swung to her. The silence that followed was glaring. She
hadn't meant to shout; not until then did she realize she had.
But she'd not apologize. She raised her chin and said clearly, "Could someone
please show me to my chamber? I should like to unpack. And I'd dearly like a
bath."
"Of course." He snapped his fingers. A small, dark-haired maid ran through a
tall arched doorway. "This is Mary," he said curtly. "She'll take you
above-stairs."
"Good evening to ye, mistress." Mary dipped into a shy, awkward curtsey. "If
you'll just come this way…"
Sabrina smiled tiredly at the little maid and started after her.
Ian spared her nary a glance. For some reason she could not imagine, Sabrina
felt a pinprick of hurt. She told herself staunchly it was simply because she
was tired. Besides, she much preferred his indifference to his enmity—even
worse, his whole-hearted attention!
The chamber Mary led her to was easily thrice the size of the one she'd
occupied at Dunlevy. She gazed longingly at the massive bed across from the
window… until she noticed the broadsword leaning against the wall next to
it.
A prickle of warning went through her. The chamber was Ian’s. She knew it
with every sense she possessed. Ian did not expect her to share the same
chamber—on that she was not mistaken, for he'd made it plain he harbored no
desire for her. She turned to tell Mary she'd erred, but two other servants had
already followed them in and placed a large wooden bath before the hearth.
She sighed. What did it matter that she bathed here? Ian was busy
below-stairs and there was time enough to find her bedchamber later. A quarter
hour later, she was leisurely soaking in a warm bath before the fire. Mary was
of an age with her, soft-spoken and shy. She reminded her a little of Edna, and
the remembrance made Sabrina's throat tighten. A wave of sadness battered her.
She would never see Edna again, nor Dunlevy.
Of a certainty she would never see Jamie again…
Rising, she dressed in a clean chemise and light woolen gown Mary had
retrieved from her pouch. Mary was brushing her hair dry before the fire when
she noticed the girl had started to unpack the rest of her gowns.
Mary noticed the direction of her glance. "Ye needn’t worry," the girl said
quickly. "I'll have the rest of yer things in the chest there"— with her chin
she indicated the chest next to the window—"by the time ye return from supper,
my lady."
"Oh, but I won’t be sleeping here, so you may as well wait." Sabrina
patiently stated the obvious. "I'd hate to put you to more work."
The brush stopped mid-stroke. Mary gazed at her as if she were daft. "Of
course ye will. Where else would ye sleep but with yer husband?"
Sabrina wasn't certain how to explain that not all husbands and wives shared
the same bedchamber. She knew her own parents had not, for her father had kept
her mother's chamber just as it was the day she'd died. But apparently in Mary's
family that wasn't the case. But before she could say a word, there was a knock
on the door.
"Supper awaits in the hall, my lady," called a male voice. "My lord asks that
you join him."
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she was indeed ravenous. Her hands
instinctively came up. She began separating the thick tresses in order to braid
it.
"Oh, don't bind it, mum," Mary cried softly. "It's lovely just as it is."
Sabrina's hand stilled. She bit her lip and gave a self-conscious laugh. "But
Mary—"
"Please, mum. I've never seen hair so thick and glorious in all my days. It’s
lovely. Truly."
The knock came again, this time more insistently. "My lady?"
Sabrina sighed. "Very well then," she murmured. Mary beamed and rushed to
open the door for her. A burly man-at-arms waited to escort her.
In the hall, he pointed to where Ian stood near the hearth, then went on his
way. Sabrina paused uncertainly near the foot of the stairs. Ian had his back to
her and was busy conversing with one of his men-at-arms.
The scene before her was riotous. Rowdy laughter and voices bounced from the
rafters. The hall was jammed with men and women. Sabrina was certain every
clansmen from here to the sea had crowded here this night. The scent of
roasted meat mingled with the smell of ale.
"You are Sabrina?"
A tall, white-haired man had stopped before her. Though his shoulders were
stooped with age and he supported himself with a staff of oak, she had to tilt
her head back that she might see his face. His cheeks and brow, she noted, were
deeply scored with wrinkles. Eyes like storm clouds swept the length of
her—Ian's eyes, she realized.
"Yes"—her tone was slightly breathless—"I am Sabrina."
"I am Uncle Malcolm, brother to Ian’s grandfather Fergus." Sunken lips curved
into a smile. "Och, but ye are a beauty if ever there was one. Ian is a lucky
laddie, to be sure… Welcome to the clan, lass."