A Promise for Tomorrow

by Michele Paige Holmes

  Their tune was melancholy, a wailing lament, and the deep vibrations seemed to come from their chests.

  Alistair crouched beside me. “We’ve not the pipes anymore, so this is the best the men can do.”

  Their combined efforts did sound pipe-like, and though they were MacDonalds and I knew none of them, I felt grateful Collin was getting a proper tribute.

  The last of the mourners arrived— all MacDonalds, save Mary, Alistair, and myself.

  The keening ceased, and the blessing and rain began in earnest. I curled my fingers around the edge of the chair and hung on, wanting it to be over, wanting to wake up.

  “The sins of man do visit him in death,” Father Rey began. “He is punished, who dared disrupt what was foreordained of God, that these sinful people be swept from the land and the earth cleansed with fire in their place.”

  “That’s not true,” I cried, struggling to rise from my chair.

  Father Rey paused, sending a withering look my direction.

  “It is the vengeance of Heaven come upon him, and you, his wife, will suffer as well.”

  “God does not intend these people to be homeless.” I took a faltering step toward him. “Collin was a good man, honorable and brave.”

  “Well said.” Ian moved to stand beside Father Rey near the open grave. “Perhaps you could start the service again. I believe the lady would like to hear something more— hopeful.”

  “I speak only truth,” the priest said. “I warned them at their arrival. Damnation to any who presume to resist God’s will. You have been warned now as well.”

  “Consider yourself the same.” Ian clapped a hand on Father Rey’s shoulder. “One warning is more than many are granted. But, as you’re a man of the cloth, I’ll be lenient.” With a sudden shove, Ian sent him sprawling forward, headlong into the open grave.

  My gasp echoed with others around me. Ian turned away from the shouting and cries for help from below.

  “Now then,” he said, looking around at those who’d gathered. “Is there anyone else who would like to say something about my brother?”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Alone. Finally. I stared at the door Bridget had just exited, grateful Ian had been so demanding of her the past days that I was at last by myself, left to rest without anyone to watch over me. Alone. I raised my head to better see the table at the foot of the bed, near the fireplace. My heart raced with anticipation.

  Bridget had left both the tray and teapot containing her poppy seed tea.

  She’d given me a dose already, a bit more than the previous day, as I’d told her I required more to sleep now. I had gone from dreading the concoction to needing it desperately. Sleep was the only place I found escape from grief, the one pain I couldn’t seem to tolerate.

  With great effort I pulled myself from the bed. The reward will be worth the temporary pain. I crossed the room, eased into a chair, and reached for the kettle, careful not to tip it as I poured. If a spoonful or two made me sleep for a few hours, what might an entire cup do? Eternal sleep? It was worth the attempt. I brought it to my lips and drank.

  * * *

  Rhythmic steps fading in and out slowly lured me to wakefulness. I groaned, wanting to stay where I was, in a deep cocoon of non-existence.

  “She’s stirring.”

  The steps paused, then grew louder, marching, practically running. “Has she opened her eyes?”

  Collin?

  “Not yet.”

  “Leave us.”

  More footsteps, these lighter, just as quick. I listened, hovering between two worlds, one in which I felt nothing. One in which—

  “Katherine.”

  My eyelids were peeled back and I stared up into a face I’d hoped never to see again. Ian hovered above me, his one eye roving over my face, the other hidden beneath the black patch. I felt an absurd desire to reach up and pluck it from his face. What was under there? Had he lost the eyeball itself? Or was it merely injured?

  Instead I attempted to lift my hand, to move his from me, but my arm felt too heavy, and I’d no control over it. Ian took my unresponsive hand and pressed it to his lips in both a rough and tender manner. Gaelic rolled from his tongue as he looked heavenward, his eyes glistening. My confusion multiplied.

  I took a deep breath to clear the mist from my mind and instead became reacquainted with the severe discomfort of my bound ribs, the return to reality shocking in more ways than one.

  “Do you hurt?” Ian asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” His expression of prayerful gratitude slid into a scowl. “That means you’re alive.” He dropped my hand and pushed away from the bed with a jerk that caused another spasm in my chest.

  “How dare you try to kill yourself, when my brother gave his life for you.” Ian’s voice vibrated with quiet anger, so threatening that I almost wished he would shout instead. He towered over me, the hands that had been so tender a moment before now clenching and unclenching, causing fresh blood to seep from the edge of the bandages on them.

  “Your week is up. You will get out of that bed, get dressed, and be in the hall at 5:00 tonight.”

  * * *

  I sat in a stupor, shivering in a chair before the fire, awaiting the bath water that was to be brought up. It would do me little good. I would never feel warm or clean or whole again. Constant fear chilled my heart. Guilt ate at me and infused self-loathing. Grief’s shadow was my constant companion.

  My one chance at escape from all of it had failed.

  I’d spoken truthfully when I had told Collin I could not see a way forward without him. Time had ceased from the moment I’d laid eyes on his casket. Nothing that happened now mattered. I hated myself and my circumstances. To feel, to breathe, to exist was to hurt, and I was weary of the ache.

  Ian had said he was responsible for Collin’s death. Yet, was I not as well? My incomplete vision led to his being taken. I’d failed at what Grandfather had expected of me, almost before I had begun.

  And Collin... All those years he had waited faithfully to keep his promise. And it had ended with him bound and being led away, like a beast being taken to auction— or slaughter.

  If only I hadn’t told him of Liusaidh. Guilt twisted inside me. Collin’s death was my fault, and perhaps Liusaidh’s was as well. If I had known sooner...

  What good was seeing something terrible was to happen only an hour before it did? And then, only knowing part of it? My sight was no gift, but the worst kind of curse.

  The door opened, but I didn’t bother to look up. Staring into the fire for endless hours seemed a much better pastime than acknowledging anything having to do with reality.

  “He’s sent a gown you’re to wear from among your mother’s things. Bit old fashioned, but quite pretty.” Bridget’s voice was falsely chipper as she bustled into the room. “He means to have a lovely bride.”

  He has invaded the wrong castle then. “I don’t need a dress. Only more tea.” My hand shook a little just thinking of it. It would dull my senses, the only way I could cope tonight. What I’d had yesterday hadn’t been strong enough. Perhaps if she brewed another—

  “Looking for this?”

  My head raised at the sound of Ian’s voice. He strode in the room behind Bridget, the familiar kettle in hand. He held it in front of me, tempting as he swirled the liquid around inside. A different kind of thirst clawed at my throat. I reached for it. “If you have any mercy at all—”

  Ian snatched it away, walked to the fireplace and tossed it in, pot and all. The porcelain and its contents exploded in a brief, brilliant blaze of color.

  “Next time just ask for your maid’s head on a platter. It would be much simpler.” He cast a withering look Bridget’s direction. “Never touch a single plant in that garden again— or any other plant meant to harm.”

  “I didn’t intend her to take so much. A little can be—”

  “Leave us,” Ian ordered. “Do not return here unless summoned specifically b
y me.”

  Bridget dropped the dress where she stood and hurried from the room, head lowered as if she truly feared his threat. I’d no doubt she did. The past week had seen a string of Ian’s temper tantrums, which had moved from the initial destruction wrought in my chamber to the use of force when necessary. I had heard that one Campbell had been beaten, resulting in the entire upheaval of the castle and courtyard beyond.

  Ian’s booming tone was oft heard echoing through the castle, issuing orders followed by threats if his demands were not met.

  “Does my brother’s life mean so little to you, that you would throw yours away?” He moved to stand in front of me, to tower over me, once more. “You’ve no idea what he—” Ian brought a fist to his mouth and turned away, head bowed. It was another of those rare moments that had me questioning. Did he care for Collin? Or would he have shot him that night in the clearing, had I not intervened?

  “You’re right. I have no idea, none at all what happened to my husband.” I clasped my trembling hands in my lap, hating that they shook not because of Ian’s presence, but because of something I had done. Ian’s words had struck true. Collin would be both angry and distressed if he knew what I had attempted.

  “Collin meant a great deal to me. I loved him very much.” I love him still. Death had not changed that.

  “Show that, then, by honoring his name given to you. A MacDonald does not stop fighting. A MacDonald does not give in, even when it seems everything is against him— or her.”

  “You never wanted me to be a MacDonald. You only wanted my dowry. Why have you changed your mind?”

  “My brother gave his life to spare mine and in so doing caused that I should be in his debt. As are you,” Ian added. “And a man— or woman— of honor does not go against his word.”

  So I had learned from Collin already. I would not have believed Ian a man of honor.

  What did I really know of him? What had I promised that was left to be done? I’d married Collin, come to Scotland, laid claim to this castle and all the authority it entitled me to. Then I had lost Collin, this castle, and probably the good will of this people as well. I doubted very much they found living with MacDonalds much better than being burned out of their homes.

  “How is it that he gave his life for yours?” How had they even come to be together, when Collin had been a captive of the English?

  “I promise to tell you all of it, in time,” Ian said.

  “But not today,” I snapped. Baiting him was foolish, but I didn’t care. He had been angry with me numerous times over the past week and had yet to hurt me. Perhaps that made me recklessly brave. I did not feel there was much left to lose, or much that he would not take anyway, regardless.

  “He has suffered, has done his part, and now we’re going to fix the mess that our clans have become.” Ian’s hand swept the room, catching the still-open door and slamming it. “And we are going to do it together.”

  His favorite theme. I’d heard it more times than I could count the past few days, since his proclamation, as he’d stood near Collin’s casket that late night. Ian had acted as if he wished to take me into his confidence, to share with me something important, and foolishly, I had leaned toward trusting him.

  I reminded myself that I must not trust him, that I must constantly keep my guard up, not knowing which Ian would appear next. The calm, seemingly rational man who inquired after my health several times each day, or the lunatic who’d beaten a man found to have loyalties to Brann? I never knew which one to expect, and so my nerves had stretched taut as the days wore on.

  Until we reached yesterday afternoon, when Ian had declared that together would be more than a threat. I would be required to give my word, a vow of marriage, to him.

  I thought it possible my ancestors would understand my attempted escape— the only one I could think of. Would being dead not be better than being forced to another’s will?

  But now there would be no escape and no help dulling either the physical pain or the emotional agony the future promised. My body felt slightly better for its week-long rest, but my soul remained shattered, the fragments scattered throughout me. It hurt to breathe, to swallow, to blink, to exist. And tonight everything only promised to get worse.

  “Have your maid help you into this dress after your bath.” Ian bent to the floor and picked up the discarded gown. He looked just as disheveled as he’d been when I’d met him outside the castle over a week ago, still wearing a repulsive, filthy cloth on his head and a patch over his left eye. Only now he held a gown draped over his arm. The sight was so incongruous that I nearly laughed. Hysteria. No doubt I’d giggle and sob my way through the evening.

  I met his gaze head on. “Bridget is not my maid. She runs this castle. If you’ve any hope of keeping everyone fed and sheltered, you’ll treat her kindly. And I will not marry you.” Courage came easily when there was nothing to lose. Was Ian to threaten me at the river’s edge again, I would gladly jump.

  Yet again his reaction was not what I expected. Instead of showing anger at my refusal, he crossed the room, placed the gown at the foot of the bed and took the chair opposite me near the fire. “Are your loyalties so fickle that you would refuse me? Have you decided already that your people mean so little?” His uncovered eye pierced my armor, but only a bit.

  “Do you not realize that harmful actions against any member of my clan will only hurt your cause? If you truly need us and our resources to survive the coming months, why would you jeopardize our cooperation with needless violence?”

  “There need not be violence if we join forces.”

  It was a poor attempt at avoiding an answer to my question, and when I looked at Ian, I realized he knew that and saw that I did as well. He was toying with me as he had the first evening I’d known him, when he’d told me, at the inn, that Collin didn’t want me. He’d been wrong then, and I wanted him to be wrong now. He was most definitely wrong in believing I could be easily persuaded.

  “You cannot expect me to marry again when my husband is not even one week in the grave.” We had buried him three days ago. Speaking of Collin like this, acknowledging the truth that he no longer lived, felt like a knife thrust in an already raw wound.

  Ian flinched as if it pained him as well. “I didn’t kill Collin. I tried to save my brother. And I gave my word that I would protect you. That is best accomplished if we are wed.”

  That isn’t true, hovered on my lips, but before I could speak I saw— felt— that he was being honest with me. More than that, Ian was hurt by my rejection.

  The devil has feelings.

  I stared at him, confused by what I read in his anguished expression. Not only had he not harmed Collin, he felt remorse for what had befallen his brother— which was... Ian’s thoughts closed suddenly, almost as if he’d sealed them off from me.

  Strange. It had been only Collin’s mind I could sometimes decipher, as a child and again shortly before his death, as we’d grown closer. I had no desire to have a similar connection with Ian, to be closer to him in any way.

  “I cannot marry you, Ian.” My voice was gentler this time, absurd given the monster before me. No doubt this was some treachery of his to make me feel sorry for him.

  “It is the only way I see to make this work.” His voice was quiet now, almost pleading. “Your clan will follow you. Mine will follow me. Together they will follow us both. The Campbells can keep the MacDonalds from starving this winter. In return, we can protect you and your people from Brann and those with him. We must do this— for Collin.”

  No. Not for Collin. He would never want this. How many times had he told me to stay away from his brother? Were you to add horns to Ian’s head...

  But Collin had also believed that Ian might be ready to be a good leader. What if he’d been right? How could he be, given Ian’s irrational behavior on our journey? His erratic behavior here? I brought a hand to my head as it began to pound.

  Ian rose from his chair with swift movement, as
if he meant to mask both his physical discomfort and inner turmoil. I noted them anyway and felt no sympathy. This is Ian, I reminded myself again.

  He was mad to think I’d agree to marriage. It was mad enough that we were having this conversation. How had the world turned so upside down? What could be done to right it again? To make at least something better? To help my people. The answer stuck in my throat.

  “Bloody Scotsmen and their promises,” I muttered beneath my breath.

  Ian chuckled. Surprised, I stared at him. His brow arched and lip curled in a victorious, knowing way. It seemed I wasn’t the only one who could read minds here.

  “Wear that gown tonight,” he demanded in his usual, terse voice. Oddly, it almost comforted me, having him act and speak as I expected.

  “I tire of seeing you in your night clothes,” he threw over his shoulder as he reached the door.

  “If I am to be expected to wear finery, the least you could do is wash your hair,” I shot back, ashamed at my state of undress. I’d not even a wrap over my thin nightgown. What had I been thinking to allow him in my room? What choice did I have? “Your hair looks as though it hasn’t seen a comb in weeks. Who knows what might be living in it.”

  Ian gave a surprising bark of laughter. “You object to my hair?” He fingered the long, greasy strands hanging over his shoulder. “When we first met, you were wont to stare as if you fancied it.”

  I felt my face flush red, embarrassed that he had noticed. Had Collin seen me staring at his brother as well? Ian’s hair had been fine to look at then, a source of pride for its owner, or so it had seemed the way he wore it, sleek and smooth, hanging straight down his back. He hadn’t looked as many of the other MacDonalds did— with shaggy beards and roughly shorn locks. I supposed it was a testament to the trauma of whatever had happened with Collin and the English patrol that Ian had neglected grooming these many days.

  “I do not fancy it, or anything about you. Just because I agree to dress properly and come downstairs this evening does not mean I will marry you.”