A Promise for Tomorrow

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “Fool bandages don’t help,” he muttered.

  “What happened to them— your hands?” When our tricolor of wraps had been undone after the handfast, it was to find that the first, the white one, was bright with spots of his blood. Ian’s soft voice and eloquent words had belied the pain he must have felt during the ceremony, but his white face and set jaw revealed it fully afterward.

  “Wasn’t it obvious when you saw my hand tonight?” Ian asked. “They’ve been burned.”

  I rolled my eyes, exasperated with his response. “Yes, but how?”

  “Fire,” he said in a droll tone. “It’s very hot.”

  I attempted to glare at him over my shoulder before remembering my ribs and their aversion to movement. Fine. I would play along. If nothing else, his annoying banter was keeping me from being completely flustered. Perhaps it would prolong the inevitable as well.

  “Let me guess... You were cooking over a fire and in your ravenous state forgot that the kettle was hot. The aroma of stewing oats became too much, and you clasped your hands around the base, scalded them terribly, and sent a pot full of mush skyward.”

  “That’s better than the truth.” He paused, then quieter. “I like you— Katherine. I am looking forward to many lively conversations.”

  “Don’t,” I warned. “No platitudes or niceties. We know each other too well for that already. I am the means to an end for you. That’s all. Nothing more.”

  “What end would that be?” he asked, all humor gone from his voice.

  “Revenge. Conquer. Taking what is ours and making it yours.” I shrugged.

  “If this was about revenge, why did I not simply remove or murder the Campbells that remained when we came?”

  “With your army of women and children?” I scoffed. “You are fortunate the Campbells did not do away with you.”

  “Possibly. Though I choose to believe they did not fight because I brought hope. Is it not better now that Brann and his followers have gone? Or would you prefer I leave and allow them to return?”

  I didn’t answer. What was I to say? What I truly wanted I could not have.

  “All done.” Ian braced his hands on my shoulders.

  I tensed and clutched the front of my gown.

  “Believe what you will,” he said. “Time will prove you right or wrong.” Ian stepped away. “Hurry and finish now before you catch your death of cold.”

  I waited, listening to his retreating footsteps and the sound of wine being poured into two glasses.

  The dress slid from my shoulders and, with a bit of tugging to get the sleeve over my splint, fell in a silent heap on the floor. It was all I could do not to follow. Our polite, almost friendly conversation unnerved me more than his angry ultimatums. His kindness confused and left me even more wary.

  I stepped from the petticoats and leaned forward, letting the corset drop on top of those. The nightgown he’d placed over my head slid in place to cover me with little effort on my part, and I felt the slightest bit of gratitude at his small courtesy. With nothing more to delay me, I stepped from behind the screen.

  Ian crouched by the fireplace, a pained look upon his face as he carefully picked up wood, one piece at a time, and added it to the fire. “Come warm yourself.”

  A chair by the fire being an obviously safer choice over the bed, I complied with his suggestion and slid into the closest one. There were two again now, the one he’d broken having been replaced sometime during my sleeping episodes.

  With a groan Ian stood then backed into the other chair. He took one glass for himself and handed me the other. Looking at me, he held his aloft. “To Mrs. and Mr. MacDonald, lady and laird of the Campbell keep.”

  “To peace between our clans,” I added, not quite agreeing with the titles he’d assigned us.

  Our glasses clinked briefly before we brought them to our lips. Ian drank deeply while I took only the tiniest sip. It had been one thing for me to seek refuge in sleep, but it seemed quite another to not be in possession of all my faculties for the night ahead.

  I stared at the fire for some time, aware that Ian studied me instead, until I could ignore him no longer.

  “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you that it is rude to stare?”

  “Is it?” He poured more wine into his glass and swirled it around. “I thought it rather complimentary. At all costs, you avoid looking at me, hideous as I am with these scars and bruises. But I cannot seem to keep my eyes from feasting on you. Your hair, your face— the effort it takes you to stay angry, the intensity in your eyes when you are, the way your lips pucker and your eyes squint when you are puzzling something out. I find you utterly fascinating.”

  “Pity the feeling is not returned,” I said coldly. “I avoid looking at you in attempt to forget your face as it was at the river, when you nearly ended my life.” I slammed my glass on the table and stood more quickly than I should have. Spots swam in my vision, and my first step away was unsure.

  He was at my side instantly, one hand on my arm, the other at my back to catch me if I fell. Silently I cursed my bruised ribs and my own foolishness with the tea.

  “You can let go of me,” I said after my vision had cleared and the room steadied. “I’m not going to fall.”

  “You’re right,” Ian said. “I won’t let you. Don’t move.” He released me, then crouched down, reaching for a folded blanket on the floor near the fire.

  “You’re still cold.” He shook the quilt open and draped it over my shoulders, then proceeded to wrap me snuggly in it. “Better?”

  I nodded, unable to deny the soothing effects of warmth. He startled me then when he stepped closer, close enough to put his arms around me. Too late I realized mine were pinned helplessly beneath the blanket. Panicking, I tried to squirm away.

  “Shh,” Ian said as if he was soothing a little child. “I only want to get you warm. You’ve had a terrible week. Give yourself a moment. Just one. To be comforted.” With a gentleness reminiscent of his brother, Ian pulled me gradually closer.

  I stood stiff and unmoving, more off balance than when I’d stood too quickly. What were his motives?

  “A minute of comfort. That is all.” His hushed voice sounded so like Collin’s. A wave of anguish broke over me, tears falling before I’d felt them gather. Grief-filled sobs wracked my fragile body. Ian cradled my face against his chest, and I allowed it. He held me tightly against him, a solid block of warmth in the chill night. I felt powerless to leave his grasp and more powerless yet to cease my wailing. Anyone listening outside our door would either think me the greatest coward or that Ian was torturing me— possibly both. But I had no care for others or Ian or even myself.

  “Cry it out,” he whispered. “You’ll feel better for it tomorrow.”

  I wouldn’t. Not ever again would there be a better day. Not with Collin gone. I couldn’t bear it. With my eyes squeezed shut, I imagined it was his heart beating in my ear. Collin telling me that everything would be all right. Collin holding me in his arms. Collin...

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Good morning to you.” Bridget waltzed into the room in seeming good cheer, or better than I’d seen since Ian’s arrival. She set a bowl on the table near the fireplace and went to the window to pull back the curtains and open the shutters.

  Squinting against the sunlight, I turned my head away and saw with relief that Ian was gone. How long? Had he even stayed the night here with me? I vaguely remembered him sitting on the bed beside me, after my minute of comfort had turned into a half hour. And then?

  The quilt he’d warmed near the fire was still wrapped around me, my sleeping gown entirely intact beneath. I pondered my curious good fortune at having survived the night unscathed, as well as not having to face him this morning. Maybe he really would be true to the promise given Alistair.

  Bridget bustled about the room, filling my basin and laying out clothes.

  “Thank you,” I said, not wishing to seem ungrateful. “But I would prefer to sl
eep longer. Would you mind coming back in a few hours to help me dress?”

  “I wouldn’t mind, but I daresay the MacDonald would.”

  “Oh?” I followed her with my eyes as she laid out stockings and a sensible pair of shoes I’d not seen before. “Has he other duties for you?”

  “Not me.” Bridget arrived at the side of the bed and looked curiously at the quilt rolled around me. “That’s one way to keep a man out, though I’d not count on it to work for long. I hear there was a fair amount of wailing coming from this room late last night.”

  “You hear?” Had she, or someone else, been eavesdropping in the hall outside my door?

  “Not me, personally, but—” She pressed her lips together. “Never mind. Isn’t any of my business.”

  It wasn’t, and though I was fond of Bridget, I didn’t feel the need to confide any of what had and had not happened last night. Ian the monster hadn’t swallowed me whole or murdered me in my sleep. That much was apparent. What wasn’t, and what I wisely deemed no one else should know, was Ian’s temporary show of compassion. For both his reputation and mine, that would remain our secret.

  “He wants you up and about now. You’ve been assigned to help in the shearing shed.”

  “What?” I cringed as she helped me sit up and unwrap myself from the quilt.

  “Everyone has been assigned a task,” she explained. “Yours is to carry the wool from the shearing to those who will be washing it. When you’ve finished that in a week or so, you’ll be carrying it from the wash room to those who are carding. And when that is done, you’re to bring the carded wool to the castle for spinning.” She helped me out of my nightgown. “Everyone’s to have a task— the MacDonald’s orders.”

  “I don’t suppose there is one involving a paintbrush,” I asked, my voice muffled as I pulled a clean shift over my head.

  “What?” Bridget helped me into a petticoat.

  “Nothing.” I hadn’t painted in so long I worried I had forgotten how. My arm wasn’t healed enough yet. What if I never had the chance again?

  “The wool should be fine for you,” Bridget said, as she fastened my simple frock. “You’re mending well and look a fair sight better than your man.”

  “He isn’t my man.” Collin is— was.

  “Aye, well, think what you like, but after last night, he most assuredly is. And if you set yourself to one task in the coming weeks, it ought to be keepin’ him content. I’ve a feeling much depends upon that.”

  It wasn’t the speech I wanted to hear first thing in the morning, but I held my peace, knowing Bridget was probably right. I wandered over to the table, feeling more of an appetite than I had in days. Maybe all that crying had done a little good.

  “Did you bring him oatmeal as well?” I asked, scrunching my nose in distaste as I noted the contents of the bowl.

  “That I did. Beginning today, a half dipper of oats is the ration for breakfast— man, woman, or child. Unless you’re carrying a bairn, then you get a bit more. Are you?” Bridget asked casually. “If so, I’ll have another portion sent up.”

  “I most certainly am not.” I spoke as though offended at the suggestion, but the truth was that I would have been happy to be carrying Collin’s child, to have something of him to continue with me.

  “Not yet, anyway.” Bridget said, with a sideways glance.

  It was so near to what Eithne had said about Collin the day we had visited and helped with the soap that I felt like I’d been struck. I stepped backward and sank heavily into the nearest chair. To have that day back again. I would willingly suffer what I had since all over again, if only to have one day more, another hour even, with Collin.

  As if one poignant reminder was not enough this morning, the singular aroma of steaming oatmeal wafted toward me, an assault on my already struggling senses. The scent spoke of Collin and his infernal supply of raw oats. Memories of our days spent alone in the Highlands, struggling to stay alive, enjoying the pleasures of budding friendship and becoming acquainted with one another, filled my mind and tore at the raw wound on my heart. My eyes responded with their usual course, flooding with their seemingly endless reserve of tears. I pushed the bowl across the table.

  “Take it away, please. I can’t eat it.”

  “Are you certain you’re not with child?” Bridget’s speculative gaze roved over me. “It could be too early to tell proper.”

  I shook my head angrily and angled my body away. “Leave me.”

  Bridget did as I asked, taking the offensive oatmeal with her. As soon as the door had closed behind her, I fell apart, allowing the tears to fall freely, head held in my hand as my not-so-silent sobs filled the otherwise quiet room.

  My respite did not last long. Bridget’s voice returned, accompanied by Ian’s.

  Tattletale, I thought crossly.

  Their footsteps stopped outside my door, and a hushed conversation I could not decipher ensued. I briefly considered rising to secure the bar but desisted. Angering Ian first thing probably wasn’t the best idea.

  The door opened a few seconds later, and he entered, bowl in hand. I stared past him, at the dying fire, until he pulled the other chair opposite me, sat, and blocked my view.

  “Is starving yourself your next course of action?” His tone was neither angry nor amused, but a forced calm I sensed would not last long.

  “I have an aversion to oats. I can’t eat them without being ill.”

  “Bridget believes you might be with child. Is that possible? Were you telling me the truth when we spoke about Brann?”

  I finally looked at him. “Why should that matter to you?”

  “Because he would have— will have?” Ian’s voice slipped “—taken something from you that was not his to take.”

  Because it’s yours now? “There is no child. It is impossible. No man has touched me.” I admitted to him what I’d feared would come to light last night. I feared it, not only for what Ian might do, but because I felt he would take some absurd delight in the fact that it would be he, not Collin, who had the privilege.

  Ian leaned back, hand moving across the stubble along his chin as he considered me.

  Debating whether I’ve told the truth?

  “Thank you for telling me,” he said at last. “We’ll not speak of it again. Now, then.” He scooted the chair closer and took a spoon from the table. “I’ve tasks aplenty to do this morning, but if you’ll not eat on your own, I’ll see that you do.”

  “I’ll have something else,” I said. “One of Bridget’s bannocks or—”

  “Flour is precious. It is no longer to be used for breakfast, but for a ration of bread with our main meal. If we are not wise with our resources, they’ll not last the winter.” He held a spoonful of oats out to me. “Parritch is a fine breakfast. It will stick to your ribs, and yours could use some paste, aye?” A corner of his mouth lifted. Mine remained closed tight.

  He changed tactics. “Would your grandfather want you starving yourself? Would Collin?”

  Would Collin want me to be here, with his pirate brother? I glanced briefly at Ian, the brow of his visible eye arched in a question I didn’t want to answer.

  I vow you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my wine. Marriage vows Collin had taken seriously, though it had been the first cup of spring water and the first bite of fish— or oats— for most of our brief marriage. He had kept me safe, and then given his life.

  I gave a sigh of defeat, closed my eyes, and reached for the spoon. Ian handed it over. I closed my eyes and parted my lips. The texture and flavor of cooked oats transported me back to a forest glen as I knew they would, and it was with some difficulty that I swallowed.

  Ian handed me a cup of water, which washed the taste away, though not the memory.

  “There’s a good lass,” he said, treating me as a child.

  I held my hand out for the spoon. “I can feed myself.”

  “Promise that you will?” He placed it in my hand but did not let go. />
  “Yes.”

  With that he stood and left the room. I ate my ration quickly, trying to be grateful for it, guessing I would need my strength for the day to come.

  * * *

  “Ian is having me watched?” I faced off with a man I’d never seen before who stepped in beside me in the upstairs corridor after giving the brief explanation that he was to accompany me wherever I went today.

  “Not watched so much, as watching out for those who would do you harm.”

  Like many of the other MacDonalds I’d seen, this man’s eyes were hollow, his frame gaunt. He stared at me with as wary a look as I likely cast at him. He appeared to be near Earnan’s age, which I had guessed to be close to my own.

  “Name’s Gordon.” He stuck his left hand out. I had only my right hand, my good one, to offer in return, which made a handshake impossible. Gordon covered the awkward moment by taking my hand and bending over it with a brief kiss. He released me and stepped immediately back, to my vast relief.

  “I’ll see to it that no harm comes to you, my lady.”

  “Oh, good,” I said with false cheerfulness. You’ll keep me safe from Ian then. Ignoring my unwanted escort as best I could, I swept toward the stairs while taking in the room below where a great deal of activity was already underway. The tables had all been pushed to the side, and several women were vigorously scrubbing the floor. Buckets and barrels were lined up on the benches, and children carrying baskets overflowing with vegetables came in through the front doors and headed toward the kitchen. An elderly woman marched up the stairs, her arms laden with bedding.

  She stopped before us and sank into a curtsy. “My lady.” Beneath her burden her gnarled hand reached out to mine, grasping it briefly. “Thank you for your sacrifice.”

  “You’re welcome?” I said, bewildered at her greeting.

  With a nod she continued up the stairs.

  “Your grandfather’s rooms and most of the rest have been taken o’er by the MacDonald widows,” Gordon explained. “More bedding is being brought up for them.”