When she made no move toward him, he lost patience. Two steps brought him
before her. Sabrina gasped as she found herself seized and lifted bodily. There
was a brief sensation of weightlessness. The next thing she knew, she was atop
his steed. Before she could move, before she could even think, Ian swung up
behind her. One iron-thewed arm slid hard about her waist, imprisoning her
against the vast expanse of his chest.
She was not prepared for the feel of him, so hard and so warm—so undeniably
masculine. A jolt of mingled shock and panic tore through her. She strained away
from him, seeking only to distance herself from him—from the disturbing
sensation that rushed at her from all sides.
His arm tightened. His voice, low and vibrating, rushed past her ear. "Do not
try me, lest I lose patience. I warn you, I'll tolerate no more of your
tricks."
As he bent his head, she caught a glimpse of his eyes. His hold was like his
expression, utterly unyielding.
A bleak despair settled round her heart. It seemed impossible that he had
tracked her down, in the night, in the coming storm. Yet he had, and now she
railed inwardly that Providence chose to deal her such a cruel blow.
He whirled his horse around. Then with a touch of spurs they were off toward
Dunlevy. They maintained a frigid silence all the way back to the keep. Despite
his warning, Sabrina held herself stiffly away from him. Her muscles ached from
doing so by the time they reached the stable.
A cold drizzle had begun to fall. Ian leaped to the ground first, then held
out his hands to aid her. Her features mutinous, Sabrina longed to slap them
away. His eyes chilled, the promise of retribution swift indeed if she dared to
deny him, but she cared not that he knew of her reluctance. Gritting her teeth,
she placed her fingertips lightly on his shoulders as he swung her to the
ground.
He released her at the very instant she turned away, as if neither could bear
to touch the other. But to her vexation, his fingers wound around her arm as
they started toward the hall.
Sabrina whirled on him furiously. "I know the way!" she snapped.
His half-smile was maddening. "And so do I, my dear." He proceeded forward,
his stride so rapid she nearly had to run in order to keep pace with him.
The wind howled eerily as they wound their way up the stairs; a pummeling
rain lashed the walls. Sabrina's pride was sorely chafed by the time they
reached her chamber. Did he truly think her so meek and biddable that she would
bow low before him without question? Well, he would soon discover she was not so
tractable!
She wrenched herself free the instant she was inside her chamber. Somehow she
was not surprised when he closed the door and deliberately turned back to her.
His expression proclaimed his satisfaction.
"So now I am delivered safely back to Dunlevy." Her voice rang out clear as a
bell on a sunny summer morn. She damned him with her eyes, even as she damned
him with her tongue. "But do you truly think it ends here? Do you truly think it
ends now?"
An easy smile rimmed his lips. "Aye," he stated simply, "for on the morrow
you will be my bride."
“We are not yet wed, she reminded him through lips that barely moved. "You
cannot have what I do not want to give."
"Can't I?" He moved with a lithe quickness that nearly made her cry out. In
one swift move, strong arms imprisoned her, snatching her close—closer yet!—so
very close she could see the individual flecks of dark gray in his eyes.
Sabrina was stunned to find his smile wiped clean. "You should be glad it was
me and not your father who found you."
She shivered. She'd rather be beaten than locked away as he'd done when she
was a child. But she was determined that Ian would glimpse no weakness in
her.
She raised a brow, haughty and defiant. "What? Now you expect my thanks? I
think not!"
His eyes seared her. "Tell me true, Sabrina. Do you truly wish to stay here
with your father?" His gaze slid to the bruise that darkened her cheekbone.
She took his meaning immediately. "I need no one to protect me," she flung at
him. "Of a certainty I do not need you!"
"You may not need me. But you will have me… and have me you will"—the
twisting of his lips scarcely resembled a smile—"perchance this very night."
Her heart quaked. A feeling of sick dread clutched at her insides. "What do
you mean?" she whispered.
His gaze scraped over her, lingering for long, uninterrupted seconds on the
mounds of her breasts. Sabrina colored hotly, for it was as if he stripped her
naked.
His words fell like blows on her cheeks. "Only this, Sabrina. Make no
mistake," he said tightly. "You are mine now, as surely as you will be mine
tomorrow. There is none to stop me should I decide that you will be mine here
and now."
She gave an impotent cry of rage. "Why? Why do you insist on this
marriage?"
"I've told you. I will not dishonor my father's wish to see our clans
united."
"But you—you've never liked me!"
The feel of her body against his unleashed a flurry of emotions. His gaze
roved over her upturned features. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion. Her
lips were the color of ripe summer berries, moist and full. Ian felt the
unmistakable surge of desire in his loins.
"I begin to think I liked you too well," he growled. He released her, then
gave a curt gesture. "Undress," he ordered.
Sabrina gaped. "You cannot mean to—to…" Faith, but she could not even say
it.
Ian had no such qualms. "To bed you?"
Her jaw opened and closed. A nod was all she could manage. She was scarcely
able to tear her eyes from his face.
He was silent a moment, watching her with a critical detachment. "And if I
do? Would you object?"
"Aye!" she cried.
“Why?”
Her mind was spinning. She said the first thing that sprang into her head.
"Because we—we are not yet wed!"
He appeared to consider. "True. But what does a single night matter?" His
bland calm was somehow more frightening than anything else.
She had no answer and so she said nothing. He folded his arms across his
chest, nodding at her gown. A dark brow arched high. "You've yet to do as I ask,
Sabrina. I suggest you be quick about it, lest I do it for you."
Sabrina blanched. Looking at him now, she could well believe it. Never had
she seen a man so grim with purpose. He was right. There was no escaping him. No
escaping her fate…
Her hands were shaking as she brought them to the laces of her gown. It
galled her to remove her clothing before him. Twice now—saints above, twice
now!—he would see her naked. But yet again, he gave her no choice.
Nor did he turn his back as he had that time at the pond. Instead he
tormented her with the ceaseless touch of his eyes as he waited for her to obey.
Taking in a deep breath, she slid her gown from her shoulders; it pooled around
her ankles. Her movements jerky, she reached for the hem of her chemise and
tugged it over her head.
Now there was naught to shield her from the restless prowl of those steely
gray eyes. Sabrina flushed crimson as his gaze swept her from head to toe. She
could detect no approval on his face, nor did she wish any! Indeed, at that
moment, she prayed he found her repulsive beyond measure.
But then he smiled, a slow-growing smile that sent panic surging through her
anew. She whirled and dove to the bed, yanking the coverlet up to her chin.
Only then did her tardy mind realize what she'd done. She had sought refuge
in the very place she wished to avoid—the bed!
Swallowing hard, she raised her head. Her jaw dropped when she saw he was
ambling toward the door.
Her fists locked beneath her chin. "Wh-where are you going?"
At the threshold, he turned to face her, then gave a low, mocking bow. "I'll
spend the remainder of the night outside your door," he said smoothly.
Sabrina blinked. "But… why?"
"Why, you ask?" He gave a short, biting laugh. “Because I do not trust you
not to bolt."
Sabrina was silent a moment. He had brought her here, and she'd been certain
she would bear the consequences of his rage as surely as she'd ever done her
father's. Only now he was doing the one thing she never expected—he was going to
leave her alone. Sabrina didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Instead she did neither. "I-I will not bolt," she said at length, her voice
very low. "You have my word. My-my promise." The oath cost her much. But unlike
him, she thought bitterly, she would keep.
His smile did not quite reach his eyes. "You needn't bother, lass. However
much you might wish otherwise, I fear I don't find your word particularly
reassuring just now."
Sabrina's jaw snapped shut. She glared her ire and struggled to find a
suitable retort. But by the time she opened her mouth, he was gone.
That very same night a dark figure slipped unseen from the keep. He rode long
and hard to a tiny crofter's hut hidden deep in the forest. He dismounted, then
strode to the door. Testing it, he found it open. Throwing it wide, he stepped
boldly within.
His gaze veered to the bed pushed against the far wall. "You did not throw
the bolt," he stated without preamble.
A soft trill of femmine laughter filled the air. "Why bother? I knew you
would come."
"Nonetheless, I do not think it wise that you be so careless."
Moist red lips pouted. "Why? Did not all proceed as planned?"
His frown eased. "Aye," he said with a grating laugh. "But you will not
believe what else has happened… he is to marry Sabrina."
The woman in the bed rose to a sitting position. "What! When?"
"On the morrow," came his reply. "You realize this will make things more
difficult."
The woman rose from the bed. Her covers fell away, revealing her naked form
beneath.
"Nay," she said with a slow-growing smile. “It will only make things more
interesting."
"How so?"
Her laugh was gloating. "The two of them? Why, I daresay, they will kill each
other! Ha!" Her smile widened. "If only they would! It would save us the
trouble."
He was silent a moment. "Will you follow soon?"
"Aye. I must." Her eyes glinted in the firelight. She beckoned him close.
"Now come, my lusty stallion. Let us not think of them, but of us." She slipped
from the bed, heedless of her nudity. Instead she arched her breasts and touched
her nipples with her fingers, a silent invitation.
The man sucked in a harsh breath. She was the lusty one, for no matter how
fiercely they coupled, she was ever ready for more. Her dismissal of his worry
troubled him no further, for she was a clever one; this he knew well and
true.
His rod already stone-hard, he needed no further encouragement. He shed his
clothes and moved to join her. But when he reached for her, she stayed him with
a hand on his chest and a shake of her head.
Wordlessly she dropped down on her knees before him. And indeed, speech was
impossible, for in but an instant her fingers threaded through coarse dark
hairs. He groaned as she stroked and explored. And then her mouth was filled
with him…
Soft, sucking sounds mingled with the man's groan of pleasure.
Ian MacGregor was forgotten.
Sunlight bleached the sky when Sabrina awoke the next morn. At some point
during the night, with stark, painful clarity she came to the conclusion that
there was naught she could do to stop this marriage. inside she was secretly
devastated that her fate was no longer her own—wearily she acknowledged it had
never been her own.
You forget,
whispered a voice in her head,
it
was not Margaret's choice either to marry Ian.
A pang of guilt knifed through her. This was true, she admitted. But Margaret
had never been opposed to marrying Ian. She had not loved another…
Just then Edna burst inside. "My lady," she gushed. “Oh, you are still abed!
And it is your wedding day!" She clucked her disapproval. "Come now, up with
you! We must hurry, or you will never be ready by noontide."
Noontide
. Despair wrenched at her heart. To Sabrina, it might well
have been a pronouncement of her death sentence.
If not for Edna's presence, she would never have summoned the energy to rise
from the bed. Edna clapped her hands and several servants carried in the wooden
bath. While Sabrina soaked, Edna bustled around the room, readying her
clothing.
Edna had laid out her best gown of soft ivory velvet. Sabrina pursed her
lips, then shook her head. All at once she felt distinctly mutinous.
"I think I shall wear another," she said briskly. Aware that Edna's eyes had
grown wide as the moon, she strode to her chest and plucked out another. Moments
later she was clad in coarse brown wool, tattered about the sleeves and hem. It
was one she oft wore while assisting the laundress and doing other various
chores about the household.
Edna's mouth opened, then closed. She looked utterly perplexed.
Nor did she wear her hair loose and free, as many a bride was wont to do.
Instead she pulled it into a single braid, then curled it tightly about her
crown. She also shunned the circlet of fresh flowers Edna would have set upon
her head. Mayhap it was petty of her, but she would not celebrate this day in
any way.
Edna looked ready to cry. Sabrina had no wish to dismay the little maid, so
she smiled and gently kissed her on the cheek. "Do not fret, Edna. No one will
blame you."
There was a booming knock upon the door. "Out with ye, lassie!" shouted
Duncan. "The priest awaits!"
She called to him through the door. "I will be out in a moment, Papa."
"I'll be waiting in the kirk!" he shouted. His footsteps pounded down the
passageway.
She had been standing before the small mirror mounted on the wall. As she
turned her head, she glimpsed the ugly bruise on her cheekbone. The skin was
broken and slightly raised.
Edna touched her sleeve. "My lady," she murmured, "mayhap a bit of
powder—"
"Nay." Sabrina spoke with sudden, startling conviction. She squared her
shoulders. Her father had done this to her. Let him see it—let all see it—for
she would not hide the truth. Forcing a smile, she took a deep breath and patted
her hair. For the first time, she began to look forward to what was about to
unfold this day.
The kirk was tiny, situated near the northern tower. As Sabrina stepped
within, she saw a small group assembled below the altar. It was there that she
directed her steps. The soft pat-pat of her slippers gave away her presence even
before every eye turned to her. She came to a halt. Papa stood just to her left,
Ian and Alasdair to her right.
All was quiet as a tomb.
Father Stewart's eyes darted between her and Ian. Papa's gaze was snapping.
He looked ready to explode. For an instant, she feared he would do precisely
that, and she trembled to think of his rage. On the other hand, Alasdair's
expression was precious. At first he was startled. His eyes rounded, but then
she noted his struggle to suppress a smile.
Lastly, there was Ian.
He was resplendent in formal Highland dress, his plaid draped crisply over
his left shoulder. In one strong hand he held his Highland bonnet, decorated
with the MacGregor badge, a lion's head topped by an antique crown. At any other
time, she might have deemed him breathtakingly handsome. But now, the corners of
his mouth turned down as his eye ran over her. Sabrina secretly rejoiced—her
gown displeased him. Oh, no doubt he would have preferred an eager, blushing
bride. But he'd wanted this marriage, and by the saints, now he must live with
the consequences.
For Sabrina wanted no part of this marriage. She wanted no part of him, and
she cared not who knew it.
With a boldness she hadn’t known she possessed, she lifted her chin. "Shall
we proceed?"
Ian gave her a tight smile. “By all means." He held out his arm. Sabrina
hesitated a split second, then placed her hand upon it. Beneath her fingertips
she could feel the heat emanating from his body. The muscles of his forearm were
rigid. Together they stepped before Father Stewart.
The next minutes passed in a haze. For the first time it struck her that from
this day forth, she belonged to him—a possession, a pawn. He would not cherish
her tenderly, as Jamie would have, she thought with a pang. He would not love
her to the heavens and beyond, as Jamie did. She meant nothing to him, nothing
at all. He stood next to her, his features set in rigid lines, cold and austere
and formidable… as endlessly cold and formidable as her life would be from this
day on.
A hollow ache pierced her breast. Her heart cried out in anguish. She didn't
want this! She wanted love and happiness, a world of it. She longed to run from
the kirk, never to return. As if he sensed her every thought, Ian's grip
tightened ever so slightly on her hand. Sabrina could not help it—she stole a
glance at his profile.
Their eyes collided, steely gray with muted green. It gave her a start to see
herself the object of his regard. How long had he been watching her? she
wondered almost frantically. His eyes flickered then, and within those crystal
clear depths glimmered an unspoken challenge—a challenge her pride could not
ignore.
Her spine straightened, stiff as a lance. The remainder of the ceremony
proceeded without incident. Sabrina answered her vows in low, clear tones, Ian
in an unwavering baritone.
Then it was over. Dazed, Sabrina heard Father pronounce them man and wife.
Ian turned to her. A hard arm slid about her back. All at once Sabrina's nerves
were wound tight as a spool of yarn. She read his intent in the arrogant curl of
his smile. Her lips parted as she would have voiced her denial.
He would not allow it—he did not allow it. His arms snatched her close—close!
She had one shattering glimpse of his eyes, fiercely aglow, before his mouth
came down on hers.
His embrace was stark and plundering and raw, his kiss like a fiery brand—and
aye, that's what it was, a proclamation of ownership. She gleaned his triumphant
satisfaction in the instant he lifted his lips from hers.
Though Sabrina's cheeks burned painfully, she glared her displeasure. In that
moment she almost hated him for his power over her.
Alasdair cleared his throat. He clapped his cousin heartily on the back, then
turned to Sabrina. "Now I shall call you cousin as well," he teased.
Somehow she managed a stiff-lipped smile. Back in the great hall, a feast had
been prepared. Various kinsmen came up to offer their congratulations. Ian
remained at her side—a veritable leech, she decided— his arm locked about her
waist. It was all Sabrina could do not to thrust him from her and shout that it
was naught but a travesty. He laughed and talked with ease; one might have
believed this was an event he'd looked forward to for years.
But mingled with her ire was another, wholly different sensation. Ian was
tall and broad, overpowering and overwhelmingly male. He made her feel small and
helpless in a way she liked not at all.
She had little appetite, though Ian had no such problem. He ate and drank
freely. Seated next to him at the high table, her gaze strayed again and again
to his hands. An odd little tremor shot through her. His hands were like his
body, long and lean and strong looking. Silky-looking dark hair liberally coated
his forearms and the backs of his hands. Sabrina wondered frantically if the
same dense hair covered the whole of his body…
Her mind roamed where it would, and there was naught she could do to stop it.
For a time last eve she had feared that he would bed her. Then she had voiced
her protest that they were not yet wed. But now that obstacle was no more, and
he possessed every right to do whatever he wished.
He had seen her naked, aye—but he had never touched. But now he might caress
her wherever he pleased—whenever he pleased. She swallowed, her mouth dry as
dust. She could almost feel the heated strength of his fingers sliding over her
body. There was none to stop him; certainly he would never heed her most ardent
wish that he leave her be.
Her thoughts were colored with bleakness. She had not given herself to Jamie,
but oh! how she wished with all she possessed that she had. Her chest ached with
the force of emotion held fast in her breast.
A cold dread seeped along her veins. She had survived the ceremony… how would
she survive the night to come? Her breath came jerkily. She must find a way to
stop him. Somehow…
"Are you afraid of me, wife?"
Wife
. Sabrina confined her attention to the silver goblet before her
on the table. There was no tenderness in the word—nothing but arrogant mockery.
To him it was naught but a needle to prick her, a taunt to bring her low.
To her it was naught but a curse.
"Nay." She had to force the sound past the tightness in her throat.
"Then look at me."
His voice was abruptly harsh. Sabrina obeyed unthinkingly, only to regret it
immediately. His eyes were cool and remote. The slant of his mouth was hard and
unsmiling, his jaw square and unyielding. Her gaze skipped lower, only to note
his neck was thick and corded with muscle. A wiry tangle of hairs grew wild at
the base of his throat. She thought of all that lay hidden beneath his clothing…
and shivered with a fear she'd never before known—a fear of the unknown.
She lowered her eyes, determined not to reveal any further weakness. But all
at once she was burning inside. A saving anger flowed into her veins. She
resented him fiercely for bringing her to this pass. And she was suddenly
consumed with a fervid desire to wound him, to make him rue the day he wed
her.
Dark brows gathered over his nose. "What are you thinking?" he asked
gruffly.
"Methinks you do not want to know," she murmured.
"I do. Now tell me, Sabrina."
Slowly—guilelessly—she met his regard. "If you must know, I was thinking of
Jamie."
"Why?" His tone was curt.
"Because he is the one I should have wed." Through stringent effort, she kept
the bite from her statement.
"You would do well to forget him. He is no longer a part of your life."
Sabrina's eyes darkened. "I will never forget him. Never. Her voice rang low
and fervent.
Ian's fingers shone white on the stem of his goblet. Though he did not speak,
she knew she did not imagine his sudden tension.
"Had you wed Margaret, she stated daringly, "you would have wed a woman pure
as new-fallen snow." She smiled sweetly. "Does it bother you, Ian, that another
man has claimed what now belongs to you? Aye, I can see that it does. Perhaps
you should have taken me last night after all," she went on. "Ah, but it was
your choice. Still, then you’d have known for certain. Then you could have
spared us both." Inside, she held her breath. Indeed, she might still be spared.
If he was convinced she had lain with Jamie, he might not want her. An annulment
might be obtained…
His eyes narrowed. His voice was dangerously quiet. "So you admit you lay
with him?"
“Aye,” she said recklessly.
He was angry. She could see it in the tightness that suddenly appeared about
his mouth. She savored her victory…
For it was extremely short-lived.
In one fluid move he surged to his feet. "A kiss," he said suddenly. "I would
have from my wife a kiss."
Desperation filled her chest, for his eyes were all agleam. This was not what
she expected, not at all! "You can't," she cried. "Not again!”
“I can." Hands curled about her shoulders, he brought her upright. "And by
God, I will."
So help him, he did.
He cared not that all those present watched—and cheered. His kiss was not
borne of tenderness, or even desire, she thought bitterly. It was a punishment,
a stamp of searing possession and they both knew it. Had they been alone, she'd
have fought him with all she possessed. Indeed, he allowed no room for struggle.
His arms enveloped her. She was crushed against him from head to toe, so tightly
she could scarcely breathe.
His mouth was hotly devouring. She could do naught but endure the scouring
sweep of his tongue in her mouth. Foolish tears stung her eyes, for Jamie had
never kissed her as Ian kissed her now, in this blatant, shocking way. Her heart
cried out the injustice, for aye, even in this he mocked her.
By the time he released her, she was weak-kneed and gasping for air. Her
fingers were twined in the front of his shirt; it was the only way she could
remain standing. But she bowed her head low, for she refused to let him see how
shaken she really was.
But he had yet another blow to deliver.
Shouts and whistles broke out as he raised his head. He gave a triumphant
salute then glanced down at her. By now Sabrina had recovered sufficiently to
regard him with some measure of detachment.
He bent his head low. "It’s good that you are dresssed for travel"—his gaze
swept down to indicate her coarse brown wool—" that pleases me, for now there is
no need to wait while you change."
Sabrina blinked. "What?" she said faintly. "You are leaving?"