A Promise Given (2 page)

The chieftain of the clan MacGregor was in the prime of manhood, with muscles
hewn like a massive oak tree. Like his father, he stood tall as the mountains,
towering over his clansmen. Like his mother, he was sharp of wit and word, the
proud set of his shoulders disclosing the glory of his race.

He sat upon his steed, keen gray eyes surveying the valley before him. It
was, all in all, a most glorious day. Neither wind nor rain nor fog swept across
the rolling hills that surrounded Dunlevy Keep. Ripe fields of gold stretched
off to the south and west. Just ahead, the forest was a wild tangle of dark
green.

It was almost as if he'd never left… as if nothing had changed…

Worn leather creaked as he shifted in his saddle. His cousin Alasdair had
ridden on ahead; no doubt he was already at the keep. Ian was anxious for the
journey to be at an end. A warm meal, a horn of ale, and a soft bed would do
much to ease the ache in his joints.

In all truth, Ian could not say he was fond of Duncan Kincaid, for it was his
belief that Duncan was a man whose nature was not particularly warm nor wise nor
patient. Nor was he always fair or generous. But though the Kincaid was a man
ruled by his emotions, he was also a man with strongly held beliefs.

His father David had known the Kincaid in his youth, for his father's mother
had kinsmen in the Lowlands—the acquaintance had been carried into adulthood.
Ian's father David held that it was important to have allies beyond one's own
clan; that was why he'd been sent to foster at Dunlevy as a youth.

And why he and the Kincaid's daughter Margaret had been betrothed as
children.

His own father—David—had been a man to command honor and respect. Though he
was fierce when challenged, he was neither brutal nor ruthless. Oh, he could
thunder and roar and fight like so many of his fellow Scots. Blame and envy were
not his way; nor would such be Ian’s s way. From him, Ian had learned to value
honor and pride and strength.

Only once had his father bowed to weakness, to his own needs. Yet in the end,
it had cost him his happiness…

And aye, his very life.

God's bones, but it seemed a lifetime ago that he'd left this place! A weary
bleakness settled into his bones. Much had transpired since he'd left, much that
he'd never expected.

He remembered that day well. He'd been anxious to return to the Highlands, to
boast and strut his newly acquired knightly skills as all young boys did upon
passing one of life's most memorable seasons—from boyhood to manhood.

Instead he'd returned home to find his father remarried. Not that he'd
minded, for his mother was long since dead. He had adored his new stepmother,
for Fionna was young and gay and the loveliest woman he'd ever laid eyes
upon.

Fionna. A faint bitterness crept through him. But now she was dead…

And his father as well.

Ian had loved his father dearly. And so it was that he would honor his
father's wishes, which was why he returned to Dunlevy. To marry Duncan's eldest
daughter Margaret.

Odd, that he felt no kindling of excitement at the prospect of seeing his
bride-to-be again, beauteous though she was. In all honesty, he’d never harbored
any great affection for Margaret. Indeed, he was surprised that Duncan had not
demanded he and Margaret marry long ago. Nay, there had been no haste in
marrying, especially since Duncan had not pressed the issue. And so Ian had
curbed the restlessness in his soul—and aye, his manly appetite—but he knew that
the time had come to honor the agreement.

The hardness of his mouth softened ever so slightly. In all the time he'd
been gone, he could not think of Dunlevy without remembering eyes as green as
the misty hills that surrounded this place.

A faint smile etched one corner of his mouth. Lord, he almost hated to admit
it, but… he’d missed the bratling. He'd missed her…

Sabrina.

All at once he found himself beset with memories. He suspected Margaret had
altered very little, for he'd seen her but two summers past; no doubt she was as
comely as ever. But Sabrina…

He'd often marveled that the two were sisters. There was scant resemblance
between them; Margaret was blond, as cool and serene as her perfectly formed
features and hair, while Sabrina was flame-haired with a mouth that knew not
when to close. He nearly laughed aloud as he recalled the time she'd stolen his
sword and hacked off her skirts to resemble his kilt. She had then marched full
tilt into the hall for the evening meal like the veriest soldier swaggering into
battle.

He hadn't been quite so amused then.

Nor had her father been pleased.

A smile of remembrance on his face, Ian nudged his horse forward through the
forest. The rich, pungent scent of trees and damp earth filled his senses, yet
his mind remained otherwise engaged. What mischief was the imp into these days?
Faith, but she had plagued him endlessly with her pranks and her prattle! She'd
incited his ire, and on occasion, his sympathy, though he'd never let the little
minx know it. Never had he understood why Duncan had let his youngest daughter
run wild as she did, dirty and with no regard for authority, save a switch on
her behind from her father's hand. He chuckled anew, just thinking about the
little witch.

The sound of a sudden splash snared his attention. Curious, he followed the
sound toward its source—a small, sparkling pond hidden beneath a leafy green
bower.

The splash came again. What he saw brought him up short, for here was a sight
that wrenched all thought of the bratling from his mind in aught but the blink
of an eye.

Now here was a woman… aye, and one who could turn many a man's head—and no
doubt had! She walked to a rocky ledge, her body naked in all its splendor,
angled slightly away from him. Her hair was a dark, wet rope twined over one
shoulder; it hung well past her buttocks.

Ian's mouth grew dry. Why, she might have been a wood nymph sprung from some
secret glade solely to pleasure his eyes—and his other senses. Indeed, he'd much
rather gaze on this sweetly formed lass than dwell on the troublesome little
sprite who had so tormented his youth.

He dismounted, his gaze never leaving her. She was small in stature, yet
unusually beguiling. Her skin gleamed with the luster of a pearl. Her breasts
were surprisingly full, tipped by rose-hued nipples that peaked hard and tight
from the coolness of the water. Below the narrow indentation of her waist, her
hips flared in sweet enticement. She raised one hand to her hair, sweeping back
an errant lock and displaying the generous curve of one full breast before
diving cleanly into the water. She broke the surface with a tiny splash, then
swam toward the shore. Rivers of water sluiced from her body as her feet found
purchase. She moved forward, coming closer to where he now crouched at the base
of a stout oak… ever closer.

All that was male within him surged to the fore. Desire unchecked simmered in
his veins. Bold gray eyes roamed avid and hot, for she had yet to glean his
presence. His mind consumed by blatantly erotic fancies, he longed to attach a
face, for the profile she presented foretold a beauty exquisite, a sweetness and
youth he could only imagine. All he sought was but  a glimpse. Ah, if she
would only turn her head…

She did, shaking the water from her hair, her eyes squeezed shut.

Her face was small and oval. Her mouth was damp and dewy, the exact shade of
pink as her nipples. The arch of slanted  brows lent her a look that was
almost elfish. An odd feeling knotted his belly, for she  seemed faintly
familiar.

Her lashes lifted. Suddenly he felt he'd been struck in the chest with the
butt of a lance. He stared into eyes as misty green as…

As the hills of Dunlevy.

Yet his mind balked. Nay, he thought numbly. It could not be…

Their eyes locked endlessly. For one horrified moment, neither could move,
nor speak.

It was she who broke the spell, and it appeared she had no such lapse where
his identity was concerned. She scrambled backward, dropping to her bottom as
soon as the water reached her thighs. Swiftly she dragged her knees to her chest
and scowled at him.

Little did she realize she still afforded him a most tantalizing view.

"You-you rogue!" she sputtered. "What the devil do you think you're
doing?"

He spread his hands wide, feigning affront. "What! I but enjoy the beauty of
the day. And indeed"—he gave an exaggerated leer—"there's much to be seen."

He 'd shocked her. He could tell by the way her eyes flew wide.

He sighed. "I know you, lass;” he remarked mildly. "You're angry."

Her shock had begun to wane. If her glare could have blistered, he would be
naught but a pile of ash.

"Of course I'm angry! You were spying on me!"

He gave a slight inclination of his head. "Why, thank you, madam. I'm pleased
to note I did not frighten you."

She let loose with a scathing denunciation that left no doubt as to her
opinion of him. Ian paid no heed. Boldly he strode forward. Bending low, he
scooped her clothes from the bank and flung them over his shoulder.

Her tirade ceased midstream. "Ian! Wh-what are you doing?" She lurched
forward, only to remember her state of undress. She plopped back down in the
water.

His gaze lingered on the bareness of her shoulders. Remembering himself, he
gave a low, gallant bow. "I but return the favor from so many years ago."

Her face turned the color of the dawn.

He continued. "Surely you've not forgotten the time you watched me running
naked from the stream, searching all about for my clothes."

Her voice was but a whisper. "You—you knew?"

Ian gave a robust laugh. "I knew, lass, though I was far less amused then
than I am now. But I've often wondered… did you like what you saw?"

Her eyes flashed. "As I recall, there was little to see," she retorted
sweetly.

Ian laughed even more gustily. "No doubt you're right," he agreed
good-naturedly. "I was but a lad—a bony one, at that. And coming from a cold
stream as it were, no doubt that which you sought to see was but a shriveled
little carrot."

His regard dropped to her breasts, hidden behind the shield of her arms. "But
you, Sabrina," he said softly, "ah, lass, you've grown a bounty I'd not
expected.”

“And you are still as insolent as ever!"

"And you, I see, are still the bonny bratling."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "You'd best come out. Your lips are
turning blue. I will act as your maid."

Her mouth opened, then closed. "You will not!" she managed at last.

He braced his legs wide apart and raised a brow.

Thus began a contest of wills. He meant it to be a joke, to tease her, but
her regard flamed hotter than a blazing sun in the desert.

"You are a jackass!"

He inclined his head. "Indeed."

"A wretched beast. The most loathsome creature ever to walk this land—"

"I've no objection to waiting all night, if need be." His tone was as smooth
as oil.

She fell silent. The minutes dragged, one into another. Her teeth began to
chatter. Ian was faintly irritated at her stubbornness when at last she
spoke.

"Turn your back."

It spun through his mind to refuse, for her tone was no less than a demand.
One dark brow came up. But she must have gleaned his intent, for she made a
faint choked sound.

"P-please." She blinked, those brilliant green eyes suspiciously bright.

Ian stared. Tears? From the bonny bratling? He scoffed. Nay, not Sabrina.

He heard the long, ragged breath she drew in. "Ian—"

"Just a moment." His tone was gruff. Abruptly he turned his back. Yet some
devil had seized hold of him, for he did not leave, nor did he remove her
clothes from his shoulder. Instead he remained where he was.

Behind him, water splashed.

He could feel her directly behind him. Her linen chemise was snatched from
his shoulder as if she feared he would turn at any instant. And indeed, he was
tempted—mightily tempted. Deep within him, he was startled by that temptation.
Yet another part of him was appalled. Oh, he could not deny he enjoyed a
beauteous face and form as much as the next man. But this was Sabrina, his bonny
bratling…

"All right. I’m finished." Her voice was slightly breathless.

Ian turned, only to behold a stare as frigid as the lochs of the Highlands.
So this is how it would be, eh?
he thought. She was still as feisty as
ever.

He whistled to his horse, who was lazily grazing on lush green grass. He
gestured grandly as the animal trotted up. "Shall we be off?"

Her chin tipped high. "I cannot return with you."

The challenge in her eye grated. "And why not?"

"It would not be proper," she informed him loftily.

"Proper? And when were you ever proper, I ask?"

"It’s obvious where I've been! What would everyone think? If they knew you'd
come upon me n—" All at once she stopped.

His grin was utterly wicked. "Naked?" he supplied.

Her chin snapped shut. "You must go first," was all she would say.

Ian ran a callused fingertip down her nose. She looked as if she’d like to
bite it off. "I suppose you're right, lass." But he would have the last word
after all, by God. He allowed his gaze to wander, a blatantly thorough
inspection of her form, lingering with flagrant interest on her breasts.

Ian couldn't help it. The merest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. He had
but one thought. Foolishly, he'd somehow imagined Sabrina still a child. Oh, but
he'd been wrong, for there was a difference—a vast difference. Aye, there was
grace where before there had been only a gangly clumsiness. A supple ripeness
where before had been breasts as fiat as a washboard.

"I must say, lass," he drawled. "You've changed. And quite delightfully
so."