A Promise Given (3 page)

Sabrina did not share the sentiment.

Back at the keep, she fled to her chamber. There she sank down upon the bed
and pressed cool hands to cheeks that were still flushed as if with fever. In
all her days, she'd never been so embarrassed. Sweet Mother Mary, if she had to
face him again, she would surely wither away in sheer mortification!

The memory rushed through her head again and again, like wind through the
trees; it would not be banished. Ian had seen her naked…
naked
! It was
even more shocking that he had stared at her with wholly unguarded appreciation.
Why? she wondered frantically. She was no beauty like Margaret. Or did he but
seek to mock her?

Seeking to regain her wits, she pulled up a stool before the fire which
burned in the hearth. There she led a comb through wavy tresses that were still
damp.

She could not help but recall his reminder that she had once seen him naked.
Aye, and it was true. While he swam in the stream one day, she had crept forward
unnoticed, snatched his clothes, and hidden them in the bushes. While he had
searched madly about for his clothing, she had watched from a tree—though she'd
never dreamed he'd been aware of her presence! In truth, it was mostly mischief
that had spawned the prank. But she had also harbored a young girl's curiosity
about what he wore beneath his kilt. And aye, about the nude male form…

Her mind gave her no peace. Why couldn't he have left her alone, to dress in
privacy? But alas, he had not, and so he'd left her with no choice. If only she
could have waited until darkness fell… if only she were not such a coward… But
the very thought of making her way back to the keep in the dark made her stomach
roil.

The soft lire of her lips compressed. Oh, but he had always been a
troublesome youth! And now he was a most odious man!

A knock on the door interrupted her reflections. It opened and Margaret
stepped within. She frowned at Sabrina's damp, rumpled gown.

"Sabrina, you must dress! Papa expects us below-stairs soon for the evening
meal."

"He is here?" Though she already knew the answer, Sabrina could not bring
herself to say his name.

"Aye. And his cousin Alasdair arrived this afternoon as well.”

“So you've seen him?"

"Aye," Margaret affirmed briskly. "Now come, Sabrina. Hurry and dress."

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse—to retort that if she never saw Ian
the MacGregor again in this lifetime, it would not be too soon. Yet Margaret had
already opened the chest which held her gowns.

"I am dressed," she grumbled.

"You cannot wear that," Margaret tossed over her shoulder. "It looks like
you've been running through forest."

Perhaps because I have
. Sabrina had to stop herself from blurting it
aloud.

Margaret turned, a gown in each band. "Which will you wear, Sabrina? The blue
wool?"

Sabrina pulled a face. "Nay, it’s too hot."

“What, then? The crimson velvet?" Margaret raised  the gown high, then
made a disapproving sound as she spied a rip in one of the seams. "Sabrina!
You've not vet mended this!"

Sabrina shrugged. Margaret was much more suited to such household tasks. She
held out her hand. Margaret sighed.

“You will look little better than a beggar!"

Sabrina smiled at her sister. "It matters little what I wear,”  she
teased. "All eyes will be upon you."

Margaret denied it, but Sabrina could see she was pleased. Acknowledging that
she could not hide away forever, she dressed as quickly as she was able, then
plaited her hair into a single fat braid and let it hang down her back. As the
heavy door swung shut behind her, she fell into step behind Margaret. For the
merest instant, she envied the smooth, sleek coils wound on each side of
Margaret's head.

The sounds of male voices soon reached their ears. Boisterous laughter could
be heard coming from the hall. As they drew ever nearer, Sabrina swallowed and
sought to ignore the cold lump of dread that lay like a stone in the pit of her
belly.

 Servants milled about, carrying platters of food to the table in the
center of the hall. Thick, fat candles set upon spikes in the walls cast
flickering shadows all about. A fire crackled and burned brightly in the hearth.
It was there that her father stood between Ian and the man she surmised was his
cousin Alasdair. Sabrina's eyes widened. Her father was not a small man, neither
in girth nor height, yet he seemed nearly dwarfed by the two Highlanders; they
towered over him, making him appear small, almost feeble.

Beside her, Margaret had glided to a halt. Lifting her pointed chin, she
cleared her throat.

It was all that was needed to divert the attention of the three men.

Margaret smiled and inclined her head in silent greeting.

Sabrina yearned to sink through the floor to the earth below. Instead she
took a deep, settling breath while the trio crossed to where they stood.

Ian murmured a greeting to Margaret—and then his gaze fastened on her.
"Sabrina! How good to see you again after so many years. You were… what?… but a
wee lass of twelve when last we saw each other, were you not?"

His warm, lilting burr did not fool her. She gritted her teeth, even as she
forced her lips into a semblance of a smile.

"Well, if it isn't the MacGregor himself." The bite in her tone was thinly
disguised. But by the saints above, she would not humble herself before him.

But when she would have turned away from him toward his cousin, she suddenly
found her hand seized in a relentless grip. "Oh, come now," he proclaimed
heartily. "Such formality between childhood friends. Will you not bestow on me
some token of affection? After all, we've not seen each other these many
years."

He mocked her—oh, but he mocked her most cruelly! His brashness sparked the
embers of her temper. She opened her mouth, only to catch Papa's scowl of
warning.

"Nay? Mayhap later, eh?" His gaze dipped to the rounded neckline of her gown.
He smiled. Despite her fury, Sabrina felt her cheeks flame scarlet. "Though I
must say, you’ve blossomed into quite a lovely young lady.”

Oh, but she could cheerfully murder the rogue before the night was out! She
tugged at her fingers; his grip tightened, as if he would refuse to release her…
yet in the end he did. And, thank heaven, there was no need to reply, for
Margaret laid her hand on his sleeve.

“Ian, you've neglected to introduce Alasdair. He and Sabrina have never
met."

“Yes. Well, I'm from the Highlands, you know. We’re not known for our
manners." His gaze held Sabrina's an instant longer, then he glanced at his
cousin." Alasdair, as you've no doubt guessed, this is Sabrina, Margaret's
younger sister. Sabrina, my cousin Alasdair, of the clan MacGregor."

Alasdair clasped her icy cold hands between his. Ian’s hair was black as a
raven's wing; his cousin's was shades lighter, a rich shade of russet brown. He
was not quite as tall as Ian, yet he was nonetheless an imposing figure. Still,
she liked the laughter lines that radiated outward from warm, brown eyes.

“Well, I begin to see the way of it"—Alasdair chuckled—"why you were
betrothed to Margaret, and not Sabrina. Indeed, mayhap I should stand betwixt
the two of you… or is it well away from the two of you?„

“There's no need for that, Alasdair." Ian's voice was mild. "Sabrina and I
are truly quite fond of each other. Aren't we, Sabrina?"

She couldn't back down from the challenge in his expression. "Quite," Sabrina
managed to agree.

Her eyes said quite the opposite.

Stepping forward, Alasdair clasped her hand between both of his. "Well, I've
heard much of you, Sabrina. And contrary to what you may believe, I've found
myself quite intrigued by the prospect of meeting you. Aye, and now that I'm
here, I'm certainly glad I came." He nodded toward the table. "I believe your
father awaits us at table. Shall we?"

Sabrina blinked as he proceeded to lead her away. She had the feeling he'd
just paid her a compliment, but flattery seldom came her way.

As usual, Papa took his place at the head of the table. He'd placed Ian to
his right, with Margaret next to him. Sabrina sat to Papa's left, with Alasdair
beside her. It was disconcerting to find herself directly across from Ian.
Though the width of the table separated them, he was far too close. And when his
gaze chanced to tangle with hers, she felt herself go hot all over.

Her hands clenched and unclenched in her lap. He'd said she had changed. But
he had changed too. He was bigger; beneath the fabric of his tunic, his
shoulders stretched wide as the horizon. His massive stature made her stomach
quiver oddly. All traces of boyhood had vanished. Nay, no smooth-cheeked scrawny
boy was he. Were she to think of a ferocious Highland warrior, her mind would
surely have conjured up a man such as this!

She could not help but note the servants' response to the pair. Edna and
another maid were helping in the kitchens this night. Both were visibly nervous.
Indeed, Edna was trembling as she offered tidbits of venison to Ian from the
huge wooden platter she carried. Ian took a steaming haunch, then murmured
something to the maid. Sabrina could almost hear her
whoosh
of relief
as Edna edged toward her father.

Gathering herself in hand, she turned her attention to his cousin. "Is this
your first visit to the Lowlands, Alasdair?"

"Aye, though I vow it will not be the last." A faint mischief sparkled in his
brown eyes—at last, a kindred spirit, Sabrina decided with delight.

“You are one of Ian's clansmen?"

“Aye. We're related by blood."

“Oh?" Sabrina eyed him curiously. To her knowledge, Ian had no siblings.

“Aye, my father was brother to Ian's father."

Were it not for Alasdair, the meal would have been endless. Surprisingly, she
soon felt herself relaxing, for Alasdair was quite the charmer.

It was while her wine goblet was being refilled that she heard her father
address Ian.

“We heard there was some strife in the clan upon the death of your
father."

Sabrina’s gaze slid to Ian. She was stunned when Ian’s expression underwent a
lightning transformation. All traces of pleasantness vanished as if it had never
been. He was sober and stern and unyielding. She sensed a hardness in him she'd
never have suspected… or perhaps she was not surprised at all. Indeed, after the
mean-spirited trick he'd pulled on her as a child… It wasn't so much that he’d
made her kiss Robert that long ago day in the stables. That she could have
accepted. But he'd told Papa…

His voice was like ice, so cold it made her shiver. "Indeed. And precisely
what did you hear?"

Duncan balked. Sabrina's chin nearly dropped. Not once in her life had she
seen a man who could make her father ill-at-ease—yet she had the unfamiliar
sensation Ian was doing exactly that!

"Only that… things were not as they were before. Duncan hesitated, spreading
his hands. "It’s only to be expected—the petty squabbles and such over who will
succeed as chieftain. It is the Scots way."

There was a slight edge to Ian's smile. "I hope you do not doubt my place as
chieftain."

"Nay… nay, not a whit!" Duncan was quick to reassure him. "You’re known
across the land as the fiercest of Highland warriors. And by God, I'd not let my
Margaret marry a weakling."

For the longest moment Ian said nothing. His expression was like the face of
a stone: impassive, revealing nothing of his thoughts. His head bowed ever so
slightly. He brought the tips of his fingers together on the table, tapping them
lightly together. Yet when he raised his head, whatever troubled him seemed to
have vanished.

He addressed her father. "I've heard rumors that there are supporters of the
Red Comyn who live near Dunlevy."

Her father's mouth turned down. "No doubt you mean the MacDougalls. They're
kin to the MacDougalls in the Hebrides. They live in the next valley. There's
one in particular who forever stirs the pot  to boiling…"

Sabrina held her breath. Sweet heaven, surely he did not 
know
…
?

"Jamie… that's who he is… aye, his name is Jamie!”

She very nearly choked on her wine.

Praise the saints, she recovered quickly and no one seemed to notice. By now
Papa had warmed to his subject. "For months now the young rascal seeks to rally
others to his cause."

Ian tipped his head to the side. "And what is his cause?”

Papa snorted. "To restore the Baliol line to the throne!"

Sabrina's heart sank like a weighted stone.

Across from her, Margaret pursed her lips. "How so?” she murmured. "Baliol
fled to Normandy when  he surrendered the crown, did he not?"

“Aye,”  Papa agreed. "But John, lord of Badenoch, the Black Comyn, was
once a contender for the throne. He married Baliol's sister and had a son— John,
the Red Comyn. As Baliol's nephew, his son John had a double claim to the
throne."

Sabrina listened intently to the discussion. Before her birth, Alexander,
King of Scots, had died in a fall one stormy spring night. His successor was his
three-year-old granddaughter Margaret, Maid of Norway. But when the Maid had
died en route to Scotland, Scotland was left with no clear heir to the
throne.

Shortly after Alexander's death, several guardians of Scotland were appointed
to govern the realm until such time as Margaret ascended her rightful place as
queen. But when the child died, various contenders soon appeared to lay claim to
the throne. The strongest of these were Robert the Bruce and John de Baliol;
both claimed by right of descent from David, Earl of Huntingdon, younger brother
of Malcolm IV. King Edward of England was called upon to settle the matter.

He decided in favor of Baliol, who promptly swore fealty to the English king.
After a time, when Edward demanded Baliol—and Scotland—join his invasion of
France, Baliol resisted. Instead he formed an alliance with France. King Edward
was furious. He laid siege to Dunbar Castle and there defeated the Scots troops.
Baliol was then stripped of his crown and exiled in France.