A Promise Given (24 page)
The thunder of riders shook the earth. "Not so fast now, laddie!" came a
shout.
Ian swayed. His heart sank as blue eyes met gray. God above, he had tried.
But it was too late…
The Bruce himself was among the men who rode in to the village a short time
later.
And it was the Bruce himself who passed sentence.
Jamie MacDougall was to hang at dawn.
It was while Fraser bandaged his wound that Ian pondered how he was to tell
Sabrina.
The door creaked on its hinges. A whisper of skirts and the sweet scent of
lavender announced her presence.
She came straight to the chair where he sat. Ian did not see the silent,
questioning glance bestowed on Fraser. Fraser offered a reassuring smile.
"He will heal quickly this time, lass." With a low bow he left husband and
wife alone.
There was a protracted silence. No words passed between them. Ian felt the
touch of her eyes on profile.
His insides coiled. What was she thinking? Ah, no doubt she blamed him. No
doubt she condemned him.
He could not look at her as he spoke. "It was not I who captured him,
Sabrina."
Tensely he waited… waited endlessly it seemed. Then he felt the veriest touch
skim the linen bandages that circled his shoulder.
"Did he do this?"
Her voice was more breath than sound. Ian shook his head. How it happened no
longer mattered. Later be would tell her the truth. Later…
He heard her sigh, a skittering rush of relief.
Slowly Ian raised his head—meeting her gaze was the hardest thing he'd ever
done. He would far rather be deep in the thick of battle than here now, in this
room.
"The Bruce has passed sentence," he said very quietly. "He is to hang at
dawn."
Her eyes filled with tears.
Ian's heart squeezed.
She sank down on her knees before him. Her head bowed low. Her hands came out
to clutch at his. When at last she raised her face to him, her lips were
quivering.
"Please, Ian. You cannot let him die. You cannot!"
“He is guarded by a dozen men, Sabrina. I risk my own neck if I free him."
Everything inside him tightened into a knot. His mood was suddenly black. But
mayhap she didn't care, he thought bitterly. Mayhap she preferred his own death
to Jamie's. Aye, for Jamie was the one she loved…
“I—I would not ask that of you. But Ian, you could go to the Bruce. Plead for
his life. I—I know the Bruce will not free him, but must he die? Ian, I beg you…
you are the only one who can save him now… the only one… " The threat of
spilled tears bled through to her voice.
Ian had offered the Bruce and his party chambers for the night. Even now,
they awaited him below-stairs.
Ian could not help it. If he refused, she might well despise him for the
remainder of their days. Yet neither was it wise for him to make an enemy of the
Bruce by asking that he spare Jamie's life.
His silence was stifling… for both of them.
Sabrina gave a choked little cry. "What, Ian! You cannot? Or
will
not?"
Slowly he rose to his full height. He pulled his hand from her grasp. Sabrina
remained where she was on her knees, her features imploring.
"Very well. I will ask. But I warn you, Sabrina, hold out little hope that
the Bruce will relent."
Gratitude flooded her eyes. "I… thank you, Ian.” Her lips quivered.
"
Thank you."
Ian departed, saying nothing. He could not, for a world of turmoil resided in
his breast. He was not a man without compassion, yet at this moment, a dark
cloud of bitterness had slipped over him. He could not help but wonder… if
he
were the one destined to hang at dawn, would his lovely wife have
begged for
his
life?
He had no answer, and the knowledge was like a stake through the heart.
He supped with the Bruce, awaiting the right moment. As they ate, he could
not help but think that Edward of England might well regret engaging a man such
as Robert the Bruce, for the Bruce was a man of powerful presence—and relentless
determination.
When the last dish had been offered and served, Robert dismissed his men and
turned to him.
"Something is troubling you, Ian."
Ian smiled faintly. "Aye, sire. There is no point in dallying longer." His
smile faded. "It concerns the prisoner, Jamie MacDougall."
"What of him?
“I pray you'll not hold this against me, sire, for in no way do I question
your judgment. And I pray you'll not question my loyalty, for it is ever
yours."
Robert clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You’ve fought for me long and well,
Ian, and I'll not forget that. So speak plainly, man."
"Very well, sire. My wife Sabrina is a Lowlander, from the clan Kincaid. She
and Jamie MacDougall were once very nearly betrothed. She deeply regrets that he
must die. For her sake, I do not ask that you free him, but that you spare his
life."
"The MacDougalls have been a thorn in my side for many a month, Ian."
"I am aware of that, sire. Were it not for the tender feelings of my wife, I
would not ask."
Robert nodded. Leaning back, he stared into the wavering light of the candle
and stroked his bearded chin.
Finally he shook his head. "I do not consider your request lightly, Ian. But
I cannot rule with a weak hand. If I show myself to be feeble and indecisive, I
will ever be perceived as such. If I am to be Scotland's leader, defender of the
land, defender of its people—then I must govern as one. If my enemies within my
own borders—the Comyns and the MacDougalls—see that they will be dealt with
harshly, perhaps they will realize further insurrection is futile." His tone was
very grave. "My decision stands. Jamie MacDougall will hang at dawn."
With that, Robert bid him good night. Ian sat, his mood as heavy as his
heart. The minutes dragged, one into another.
A faint sound alerted him to another presence. He glanced up and saw Sabrina
standing there, one hand on the roundness of her belly. Outwardly she was calm,
yet Ian was not deceived. Mutely she gazed at him, her eyes wide and dark and
questioning.
Ian's throat was raw. The words would not come. His expression as frozen as
his tongue, he gave a single shake of his head.
She stared at him, her skin bloodless. Her lips formed a silent "no"…
Ian was on his feet before he knew it. When he would have reached for her,
she spun away with a dry sob… a cry that resounded in the very chambers of his
soul.
His hand fell to his side. He watched her flee up the stairs, chiding himself
bitterly. He did not follow, for he knew she would want no comfort from him.
Nay, she wanted nothing from him…
He felt like slamming his fist through the wall. Instead he made his way
toward the hearth. His shoulders slumped as if he were old as the stars.
It was there he spent the night.
The shrillness of a cock's cry heralded a new day.
A crowd of onlookers had already begun to gather below the bluff where the
gallows had been erected A long rope dangled from the crossbeam.
In their excitement, no one noticed the woman, heavily laden with child; with
head bowed low and downcast eyes she made her way to the edge of the crowd.
"Let it begin!" came a strident call.
A heavy-jowled man gleefully rubbed his hands together. "Aye, let's get on
with it!" he shouted. "On with the hanging of the traitor!"
"Aye," chimed in another. " 'Tis dawn and we await!"
A gentle morning breeze washed away the last traces of the night's mist. The
eastern sky was streaked with pale pink and amber-gold. Beyond, the mountains
rose in jagged splendor.
'Twould be a beautiful, glorious day…
Sabrina's insides twisted. The villagers' lust for what was about to take
place made her sick at heart, sick to the depths of her being. Yet she could not
hate them. To them, Jamie MacDougall was not a flesh-and-blood man, a man they
had known and touched, laughed with and trusted…
He was but a symbol of the enemy, a traitor to the man who now stood as their
king.
"Here he comes!" someone shouted.
Aye, and there he was, towering over his gaoler by half a head. His tawny
hair glinted in the sunlight, a halo of gold. Though his hands were bound behind
his back, he neither cowered nor faltered. His step was bold and sure; the set
of his shoulders, noble and straight; the angle of his head, brave and
proud.
He faced death as he had faced life. Undaunted and fearless.
Her heart cried out. Jamie, she thought piercingly. Oh, Jamie… may God be
with you…
He stepped upon the stool. The noose was draped around his neck; she could
almost feel the hemp rough against her skin. She could feel the sun warm upon
her face, the morning breeze fresh with dew swirling all about. Overhead the sky
was a deep shade of blue.
Aye, she thought achingly. A wondrous day…
A priest stepped forward, bestowing a last blessing. He retreated, and a
hooded executioner took his place. He asked if the victim had any last
words.
Jamie's gaze swept the crowd. "Aye!" he shouted. "Long live Scotland!"
Sabrina's heart was throbbing. Her teeth dug into her lip; she could feel the
taste of her own blood. The crowd had gone silent, a hush that seemed to spread
across the entire world.
The stool was kicked away. She heard the sound—'twas like the slash of a
sword-point ripping through her…
His body jerked. To the right of her someone sneered, "Look at the laddie
dance now!"
The cheers of the onlookers blurred. Her insides churned. Nausea roiled up
within her like a boiling sea.
She had little awareness of the tall spare figure that had suddenly appeared
beside her. Ian's expression was wild. A taut arm encircled her shoulder. He
sought to press her face against his chest.
"Do not look," he cried hoarsely. "
Do not look
!"
She fought him. She fought him with all of her strength, though she made no
sound. Her head twisted. Her gaze, huge and unblinking, was transfixed on the
gallows.
At last he succeeded in turning her face into his shoulder, but in the very
next heartbeat, Jamie ceased his struggle…
A roar went up from the crowd.
He felt the rush of air she expelled… as if her last breath had left her,
too.
Ian could have screamed his pain aloud.
She turned her face into his neck. She made nary a sound, but he felt the
scalding wetness of tears against his skin… tears that rent him in two.
He bent and swept her high in his arms. "Move aside!" he shouted. "Move
aside!"
She made no outcry—would that she had! Would that she had cried. Raged.
Screamed…
She was far stronger than he realized. Far stronger than he dreamed…
For she only clung to him, her fingers twisted in the front of his shirt. He
could feel the great jagged breaths she drew.
In their chamber he went straight to the bed. The instant his embrace
loosened, she curled away from him and averted her face. "Leave me," she said in
a choked little voice. "Please leave me."
Ian stiffened. His mouth thinned to a hard, straight line. His hands curled
into fists at his sides. Her dismissal cut bone deep. He was suddenly seething.
Damn her
, he thought furiously. Damn her for turning from him! She
would share nothing with him, not even her pain.
He whirled and strode from the room.
In the hall he found solace in a horn of ale.
It was a long time later that a shadow fell over him. He glanced up to see
Uncle Malcolm standing above him.
He gestured to the bench across from him. "Sit, uncle.”
The old man obliged, but he peered at him oddly.
Not knowing what to say, Ian murmured, " 'Tis good to see you risen from your
sickbed, Uncle."
"You're the one looks like ye should be on a sickbed, lad. Or is it a
sickness of the heart that afflicts ye?"
Ian smiled slightly. Ah, but the old man's sight was a trifle too keen at
times.
"The man captured by the Bruce's troops yesterday—Jamie MacDougall—was hung
this morn, Uncle." His tone was very quiet. "None are privy to this… but Jamie
and Sabrina once planned to wed."
Shaggy brows shot upward. "They did!" He frowned suddenly. "And the lass is
sad now, eh?"
"To be sure, Uncle." The ale had loosened his tongue, Ian thought vaguely.
"She still loves him."
"Nae, lad, ye're wrong.”
“ ‘Tis true, Uncle—"
Malcolm thumped his fist on the table. "Can ye not see for yersel', lad? Are
ye blind, then?"
Ian’s lips twisted. "What is to see, Uncle? She is above-stairs even now,
grieving for the man she loves."
Malcolm glowered at his nephew. "And mayhap she but grieves for a friend now
lost. What is wrong with that, I ask? Ye're the one she loves, lad. And it's
with yer wife ye should be, not here swilling ale like the young fool ye
are!"
Out of respect for his elder, Ian said nothing. Yet he could not help but
reflect derisively that Malcolm was the one whose sight failed him, for Ian knew
his wife wanted no part of him.
"Her lass—the girl Edna—told me when I sickened that Sabrina tended me one
day. 'Tis strange, for when first she came here I thought how much like Fionna
she was. And aye, Edna told me I shouted and raged at her that day, for I was
convinced it was Fionna who tended me. I remember it not, but indeed, whole days
go by that I dinna remember." The old man's gaze grew intent. "But she is
not like Fionna, and if anyone should know it, 'tis you, lad, for you are not
the fool your father was." He glared at him. "Or mayhap ye are, if ye dinna know
she loves ye!"
Uncle Malcolm departed, leaving him to his thoughts—and his ale. And it must
have been the ale that made him wonder… was Uncle right? Did Sabrina love him?
Or was it naught but an old man's whimsy?
The next thing he knew, he was standing at the door of his chamber. With one
hand he eased it open and peered inside, but Sabrina did not lie abed, as he
expected. Instead she stood in the center of the chamber, her expression
confused. She was gazing down at her gown, which clung wetly to the outline of
her legs.
Slowly her head turned. But just as she saw him, her eyes flew wide. One hand
crept to her belly. She bent slightly, her lovely features twisting in a
grimace.
"Ian," she gasped, "your son is coming."
For an instant he stood stock-still. His heart seemed beat in slow-motion.
The babe, he realized dumbly. The babe was coming…
He bolted for the passageway. "Edna," he bellowed, "send for the
midwife!"
He rushed back to Sabrina. Her frightened expression pierced him to the
quick. Before he could reach her, Edna rushed in. "I sent Marcus for the
midwife!" she cried. As only a woman could, in but an instant she'd taken charge
of the situation. "Here, my lady, let me get you a dry gown and then we must get
you back to bed."
Ian stood by, feeling awkward and bungling. When Sabrina was installed in bed
once more, he went to her and snared her hand. Her fingers lay ice-cold in
his.
Seeking to reassure her, he asked if she wished him to stay.
"Stay! Nay," she gasped out. "Nay! Go!"
His smile froze. "As you wish," he said tautly.
His elbows braced on the table, his posture wooden, he resumed his place in
the hall… and called for more ale.
Alasdair and several others joined him, but he was not inclined to talk. He
sat in silence, his spirits darkly somber and brooding.
In her he'd found all he sought, all he ever wanted, all he'd never known he
wanted… only to lose her anew to Jamie. Oh, he'd thought she had come to care
for him, but aye, it was Jamie she loved. Ever and always…
But it was
his
child she carried beneath her heart.
He slammed down his ale, a sizzle of anger heating his blood. His jaw thrust
out. By God, he would not be barred from his son's birth—the child was his,
too!
His mood fierce, he took the stairs two at a time.
The door crashed open. He swayed slightly, filling the doorway, catching his
hands on the frame to steady himself. Edna gasped but said nothing.
Meredith the midwife, red-cheeked and capable, planted her hands on
cabbage-round hips. "A birthing is no place for a man," she snapped, "be he
chieftain or otherwise! Now out with ye!"
An arrogant black brow climbed high. "This is my castle, lady, and I'll not
be ousted from any part of it!"
Her mouth turned down. "Then be silent and do not interfere!" she advised
blackly.
Ian scowled at her, but he paid no heed. Four strides took him to the
bedside. The sight he confronted there nearly brought him to his knees.
Sabrina lay against the pillows, looking small and frail, her skin as pale as
bleached linen. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow pants. As he scraped a
chair next to the bedside, her lashes fluttered open.
"Ian," she whispered. "You should not be here."
His heart contracted. The emerald green of her eyes was the only splash of
color in her face.
"Ah," he said gravely. "But I promised you I would. And a promise given is a
promise kept, is it not?"
She tried to smile, but her smile turned to a spasm of pain as she was
wrenched by a contraction. Her gasp turned to a low moan by the time it
ended.
Ian leaned forward. He reached for a linen cloth draped over the side of a
basin, wiping the sweat from her brow.
"Do not hold your breath, sweet," he murmured. “It but makes the pain
worse." He knew it was so, not only from his own experience, but from tending
those who had suffered wounds in battle. Laying the cloth aside, his hands
locked around hers, warm and reassuring.
"Here, sweet, take my hands." He spoke with calm encouragement. "The next
time the pain comes, squeeze as hard as you like."
Meredith glanced at Edna in startled surprise. Could it be this man would not
be a hindrance after all?
He had no sooner finished speaking than another contraction knotted her womb.
They were coming closer and closer, almost constant now. Though she did not
scream, her lips were tom and bloodied as she held her pain tight inside. Ian
was shaken to the depths of his being; he considered for the first time that he
might lose her, for he could not imagine she could endure such pain and
survive.
His face was pale as he whispered encouragement. He could see her weakening,
her strength waning, squeezing her breath from her. Yet her labor grew ever
intense, ever more painful. Another spasm gripped her, longer and harder than
all that had gone before. When it ebbed, she fell back against the pillows, limp
and exhausted.
Trying to hide his fear from Sabrina, he turned shocked eyes at Meredith.
"God's teeth! Will it never be over?" It was a prayer, a plea.
Stationed at the end of the bed, Meredith peered beneath the sheet. To his
amazement, she gave a wheezing laugh. "Oh, but you worry for naught, my lord!
Even now, the head appears!" To Sabrina she urged, "There now, lass, 'tis almost
done. The next time you must push hard, for yer babe is suddenly most anxious to
arrive!"
Anxious? Ian shook his head, dazed. There was none more anxious than
he—except mayhap Sabrina—and both for the pain to merely be at an end!
He did not know that a colossal pressure had built there between her legs. A
racking pain fringed the world with blackness. Though she tried to withhold it,
a cry of anguish broke from her lips.
Ian went white. His grip on her hands was fierce. "Sabrina—" he began
raggedly.
But then she heard Meredith's voice, sharply commanding: "Aye, that's the
way, lass! Bear down, for your babe is almost here!"
Summoning her last vestige of strength, Sabrina lowered her head. She was
only half-aware of Ian beside her, grim-visaged and unsmiling. Squeezing her
eyes shut, she arched her back and strained mightily. Her nails dug into his
palms.
The babe slid from her. In the next instant, a high, wavering cry filled the
air. Sabrina collapsed back upon the pillows, so weak she was shaking from
it.
Ian rose, numb as never before. He could only comprehend that it was over,
that Sabrina was all right, that he'd not lost her.
There was a tug on his elbow. Edna stood there, beaming. "A beauty, my lord!"
She gave a half-sob. "Aye, a beauty!" She pressed a swaddled bundle into the
curve of his elbow.
Dazed, Ian looked down. He beheld a solemn little face with miniature little
brows set over a wee nose. There was not an abundance of hair, but what was
there was dark as midnight—dark as his own.
He swallowed. A rush of emotion poured through him, making him tremble.
Christ, to think that it had once crossed his mind the babe might not be
his…
He unwrapped the swaddling that he might peer at the child more closely, and
then he could only stare in utter amazement.
"Ian… Ian, please…"
Sabrina gazed at him imploringly. Deep circles shadowed her eyes, but he
could see she longed to see the babe. He moved to the bedside, sitting so that
she might see for herself the wondrous miracle they'd created.
She sniffed. An expression of horror flitted across her features. "Ian, you
are… sotted!"
He chuckled. "That I am, sweet. But not so sotted that I cannot tell lad from
lassie!"
Her lips parted. "What!" she said faintly. "You mean—"
"The son you were so certain you carried, sweet… is not a son at all!"
"A girl!" she cried out in distress. "Oh, but I was so sure we would have a
son!"
Just then the babe let out a wail.
Ian laughed gustily. Sabrina turned pleading eyes to his. "Ian, may I… hold
her?"
His eyes softened. He twisted slightly, then with his free arm lifted her so
that she rested against him. He eased his precious bundle into her waiting
arms.
"Aye," he said softly, "a wee bonny bratling…" He bent and pressed his lips
to the soft down on that tiny little head.
Tears sprang to her eyes, for there was a father's pride in that telling
caress. Her hand stole to the swaddling, and she uncovered that tiny little body
that she might see for herself. A sigh of contentment shook her, and she smiled,
a bright golden smile that sent joy winging all through him.
"Oh, Ian, she is sweet, isn't she?"
"Aye," he said huskily. "That she is." His arms engulfed both mother and
daughter, cradling them both, for they were more precious to him than life
itself. A powerful tide of emotion surged within his chest, but alas, his joy
was tinged with a bittersweet pain. He was struck by a bitter irony.
Aye, she smiled now, but what of the days to come? Jamie MacDougall was dead.
And their child had been born on the day he'd been robbed of his life. Would she
ever forgive him? Would she ever forget…?
His arms tightened. A fierce possessiveness swept over him. She had to. She
had
to. For she was his wife. His
wife
…
And if it took him forever, he would make her love him.
The days that followed were far from easy. Sabrina regained her strength
quickly, and for that she was heartily glad. But there were times when a
melancholy sadness slipped over her and it was all she could do to shake free of
it.
It was at those times that she thought mast of Jamie. She mourned him deeply,
and raged that Providence had been so cruel—to steal away his chance at life and
happiness. Were it not for the babe, her days would have been unbearable. She
saw Ian only at mealtimes, for since the babe's birth, he had taken to sleeping
in a chamber down the hall. His manner was polite and restrained, but the
intimacy was gone.
They had named the babe Elizabeth—Ian had taken to calling her his bonny
little Beth. He took pleasure in his daughter, for he came to see her daily,
holding her and laughing softly as she puckered her rosebud mouth or lifted tiny
dark brows over eyes he predicted would be green as her mother's. An unguarded
tenderness lurked in his own at those times, a tenderness that both filled her
with joy and made her ache inside.
Her memory of Elizabeth's birth was one she would hold inside her forever—oh,
not because of the pain, for that was quickly forgotten. Nay, she would hold in
her heart forever the way Ian had cradled her close, both her and the babe. Oh,
but he had been so tender and sweet, and it was the most wondrous moment of her
life.
And now… now she wanted it all back, but she knew not how… She missed their
closeness, the warmth of his body against her own in the dead of night; the
steady drone of his heart beneath her ear, and everything within her cried out
her heartache. What had happened? Why was he so distant and remote?
