A Promise for Tomorrow

by Michele Paige Holmes

  I had not heard that part of the story before and realized, with some consternation, that if Ian spoke the truth, then my Campbell relations had purposely omitted it.

  “As for Bridget, her mistake was grievous. Had there been but a little more of her brew, you would not be here now, but beneath the ground. Again, I believe I curbed my anger and expressed my displeasure in a rather contained manner, given the circumstances.”

  “Be that as it may, there are still the incidences before your arrival,” I reminded him and myself as well. A good man does not force someone into a river at knifepoint.

  “You mention only my faults,” Ian argued. “How about acknowledging the good I’ve done here and that a man can change?”

  “Once broken, trust is difficult to repair.”

  “But not impossible?” There was a small bit of hope and a great deal of uncertainty in the question.

  Two months ago I would have said with surety that it was impossible Ian MacDonald might ever be considered trustworthy, least of all by me. A month ago we wouldn’t have been having this conversation. But now... I was either the biggest fool for starting to believe in him, or perhaps a man really could change.

  He was asking me to give him hope, yet to do so seemed it would only walk me that much closer to the edge of the cliff. And if I fell, I wasn’t certain whether he would catch me or laugh as he watched me tumble to my death.

  “Earning my trust will take at least another nine months, and even then it’s doubtful.” More in question was whether I could continue that long in these strained circumstances. If, after only two months, I found it increasingly difficult to reconcile the two Ian’s, how was I to feel when three or six months had passed? A year? Was I handfast to the pistol and knife-wielding Ian, or the Ian who, this very day, had stopped to lift a crying child from the mud and carry her to her mother? I wasn’t certain who he was anymore. And worse, he made me uncertain who I was and what I wanted.

  To believe in him, to trust him and begin to care for him, felt like betrayal to Collin. We might have had only three weeks together, but a promise of nearly fifteen years had bound us, its pull stronger than anything earthly. There was no such promise with Ian, no otherworldly forces binding us together. But what if Collin had trusted Ian in the end?

  “Katherine.” Ian’s touch was light on my shoulder. I gave a little jump anyway. Since the night we had tended to one another’s hands, we had gone out of our way— or I’d gone out of mine— to avoid touching each other, so it was unnerving when we did. He removed his hand, then crouched beside my chair so that we were nearly eye level. “We can’t go on like this. I need your forgiveness— your understanding. I can’t bear to see you still grieving so. The things I’ve done— they’re eating me inside. I need to tell you—” He broke off suddenly at the sound of angry voices outside our door.

  Ian stood and walked over to it, pressing his ear to the wood. His face drained of color, followed at once by a hardening of his jaw. “Impossible.” His whispered words sounded shocked— and fearful. He turned a quick circle, scanning the room, his eye lingering a moment on my dressing screen before settling on the bed.

  “Get into bed,” he ordered,

  I held my ground. “What? Why? Who is out there?”

  “Quiet.” Two strides and he was before me again, then scooping me from the chair. I shrieked as he walked to the bed and practically threw me on it. The voices outside were louder now, accompanied by pounding on the door. I scrambled away as Ian pulled a knife from his discarded boot and stuck it in the back of his belt. “Cover yourself as best you can. Don’t speak. If you’ve the chance to get out, take it. Find Alistair or Gordon— Earnan. Anyone who will protect you.”

  “From who? What is going on, Ian?”

  “Katie.” He gripped my shoulder so hard that it hurt. “Trust me and do as I say.” More than his words or the threat in his touch, it was his pleading expression before he turned away that convinced me.

  A woman’s scream on the other side of the door made my hair stand on end.

  “I know you’re in there, Ian!”

  I scrambled beneath the quilt a second before Ian undid the bar and lock. He jumped back as the door flew open, the heavy wood stopping only when Ian’s hand shot out to catch it. Mhairi appeared in the doorway, her head wrenched back by the man behind her.

  I gasped. Ian’s accomplice from the river stood only a few paces from our bed. He took his attention from Ian long enough to look over at me. Recollection sparked in his eyes and flared his nostrils.

  “I’m sorry,” Mhairi cried. “He threatened to kill Greta’s bairn if I didn’t take you to him.”

  “It’s all right,” Ian said in a soothing tone. “You did well.”

  “It’s true.” Niall’s gaze flickered between me and Ian. “You’ve really done it— taken your brother’s bride and her clan.”

  “Their laird left them in a poor state,” Ian said nonchalantly, not quite bragging, yet neither clarifying the particulars of the arrangement and the tenuous peace he’d worked to establish between MacDonalds and Campbells.

  Where are his pretty words now?

  Niall’s gaze slid toward me once more. “And with Collin out of the way—”

  “Aye.” Ian cut him off. “What do you want, Niall? I’m a bit busy.” He inclined his head toward our bed.

  “Seems we both are.” Niall sniggered, the same menacing laugh he’d had at the river’s edge when his knife had been pointed at me. Holding Mhairi by the hair, he forced her to face him, then pulled her close against the length of his body.

  “Let her go,” Ian’s voice was deceptively calm, while his stance was as a wild cat ready to spring. The muscles in his neck stood taut, his scar bulging beneath his new growth of hair. “Your quarrel is with me, not her.”

  My eyes flickered to Mhairi. I must help her.

  “True.” Niall released Mhairi, then slapped her face, rocking her head to the side. “But she is a family friend, no?” In a flash of steel Niall’s blade was out and slashing the air in front of Ian’s face.

  Ian ducked to the side just in time, pushing Mhairi out of the way. He reached behind him, and then his own knife was raised, matching blow for blow with Niall’s.

  I clutched the covers, thinking madly what I must do. What would Collin have done?“You deceived me.” Niall stabbed the air, only narrowly missing Ian’s shoulder. “Left me for dead.”

  “Should have made certain you were.” Ian attempted an undercut, but Niall moved faster, slicing the tip of his knife across Ian’s forearm. Ian gave a shout as blood trickled down his arm and the fight continued.

  Mhairi scooted her way toward the door, but Niall was still close enough that he might reach her. I gave a slight nod as I caught her attention, then grabbed the pitcher on the night table and slowly raised to a standing position on the bed.

  “Suppose you thought you’d enjoy the spoils here on your own without me.” Niall struck again, barely missing Ian once more. I screamed as loud as I could. Both men turned toward me, giving Mhairi precious seconds to flee.

  “S’alright,” Niall said, catching sight of her. “I’m more interested in you,” he said to me. “I’ll have my turn in a minute.” He grinned, showing off an array of filthy teeth.

  I threw the pitcher at him, and he ducked easily, the porcelain shattering on the floor behind him. Niall’s blade met Ian’s flesh again. The fighting continued, far more barbaric than sword play, at such close contact.

  I leapt from the bed, but kept pressed against the wall, looking about for anything that might be used as a weapon.

  Niall surged forward, backing Ian toward the chairs and fire. I shoved the one I’d sat in out of the way just in time to keep him from tripping over it.

  “Get out of here, Katie,” he yelled.

  “Aye. Run and hide.” Niall sneered. “Makes the game that much more fun.”

  I backed toward the fire, banked now for the night. Hands behind me,
I grabbed the poker just as Niall leapt, shoving Ian backward against the wall and sending his knife spinning across the room. I swung the poker as hard as I could, slamming it into the back of Niall’s neck instead of his head as I’d intended.

  He shouted, looked over, and missed Ian’s fist coming at him. Ian’s aim was better than mine, and Niall stumbled backward, tripping when I caught him behind the legs with the poker.

  Ian pounced, straddling Niall’s torso, fist already raised. He brought it down savagely, pummeling Niall’s face. By the second punch blood spurted from Niall’s nose.

  “You ruined my brother— nearly destroyed him!” Ian lifted Niall by his shoulders, then slammed him back onto the floor repeatedly. “If not for you, he’d be here. He’d be alive.”

  If not for— What did Niall have to do with—

  He shoved Ian from him, and they rolled across the floor. I jumped back. Ian gained the advantage again, shaking Niall, as the latter slowly raised his arm, knife poised.

  “Ian!” I lunged forward as Ian shifted his weight, not a second too soon. In a fluid movement he jumped up, stepped on Niall’s arm, then wrested the knife from him. Instead of throwing it away, he raised it above Niall’s chest.

  I turned away, but not quickly enough to miss Ian lunge, the blade sinking into Niall’s chest. The man’s brief scream blended with mine as I felt myself sliding to the floor. I backed away, curling myself into the corner.

  Ian jerked the knife from Niall’s body and raised it to strike again.

  Bile rose in my throat as I half sobbed, half gagged. Ian turned toward me, his expression murderous. Our eyes met, his bulging with fury. He jerked back, as if surprised to see me there, then threw the knife aside and stepped away from Niall’s lifeless body.

  “Katie—” He held bloody hands out to me, pleading.

  I shook my head and tried to make myself smaller. “Stay away.”

  He stared at me a long second, anguish contorting his face. Running footsteps pounded in the hall. Alistair burst into the room, Mhairi and two other men close behind.

  “What have you done?” Alistair’s eyes were huge as he looked from the body to Ian.

  “Murderer,” another man, also a Campbell, said.

  “Aye.” Ian turned from me and faced them. “I am a murderer. You would do well not to forget.” He poked at Niall’s corpse with his foot. “And not to cross me.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  A late October wind swept me along as I held my shawl tight and hurried toward the castle. Earnan, my guard today, was unaware of my errand, and I needed to be back before he or anyone else noticed my absence. It had been my good fortune to be sewing with the other women in the solar when the midwife had joined us, requesting hazel and bog myrtle from Mary, who lived outside the gates. I had eagerly volunteered to fetch the herbs, the opportunity to be outside and to enjoy a visit with Mary too good to pass up and well worth the risk of being caught.

  In the month since Niall’s death, Ian had not allowed me to leave the castle at all, and I felt near to going mad with confinement. He claimed it was for my safety, that he didn’t know how many others out there might be our enemies and only too eager to harm me. I felt the real reason was that he feared I would try to escape, interfering with his grand scheme to control the Campbells.

  He needn’t have worried. As much as I wished to be free of his company, I suffered no illusions about my abilities to survive on my own. At the least, venturing far would only be an invitation for Brann to find me. He was out there— somewhere. I’d dreamt of him twice, seeing him each time near the old rowan I’d sat beneath in the kirkyard when we’d buried Collin.

  I wasn’t certain of the dream’s significance and had mentioned it to no one. Would I meet Brann there? Did it mean he was soon to die?

  The smell of woodsmoke filled the chill air at the end of the newly completed row houses, simple squares all connected to one another, built in a row along the castle wall.

  They had been Ian’s idea, requiring the least lumber possible, as close to the castle as possible, and housing as many families as possible. The wall behind them, he had explained, would offer protection from the elements. And were we to be attacked, those living there would be able to quickly come inside the gates for additional protection.

  His plan had been presented in one of many nightly meetings, for both Campbell and MacDonald leaders and open to anyone else who wished to attend. My presence was always required. And on that occasion Ian had added, with a pointed look my direction, that I, with my abilities, would be able to alert the families in plenty of time before any attack.

  “Katherine will know,” he’d stated vehemently. I’d not disagreed. I didn’t dare. We’d barely spoken at all the past weeks, since Niall’s violent death. His body had been removed, his blood scrubbed from the floor that very night. But I could not forget Ian towering over him, first viciously beating him and then plunging his knife into Niall’s chest. I dreaded being in my room and dreaded Ian all the more. The only consolation was that he had not slept beside me since the incident. He slept on the floor now, or didn’t come to bed at all.

  I could only feel grateful that I hadn’t succumbed to any of my doubts concerning him. I’d almost believed he was changed, that he was not the same man who had so violently threatened both Collin and me last summer. But seeing Ian’s transformation when fighting Niall was a reminder of his true nature. To cross him was to die. And yet...

  I still saw glimpses of humanity. He knew I was afraid of him and stayed away. When it came time to slaughter the sheep, he’d spared the youngest of the flocks. Over half of the MacDonald barley had been ground for flour instead of all being taken to the new distillery to be made into malt. He’d been solicitous in all his behaviors since that dreadful evening. So much so that I felt myself wanting to trust him again. At least enough for the two of us to have a conversation.

  There were things I wanted to ask. What, specifically, had Ian sought my forgiveness for the night of Niall’s murder, and what had been his and Niall’s involvement in Collin’s death? It was time I knew, and I had deemed tonight, my twentieth birthday, the night for answers.

  It was nothing I looked forward to, and there had been little to find joy in the past weeks as we all worked toward sustaining our fragile existence. But this afternoon, beneath the blue sky and amidst the trees boasting red and gold, I felt a bit of freedom and happiness and determined to treasure both as long as possible. It was all I could do without canvas, paints, or brush to capture and preserve the memory.

  Near the last row house closest to the gates, a group of children stood around a fire, each with an apple on a stick roasting over the low flames. A woman pulled laundry from the line, and a man lifted his hand in a friendly wave as he rolled past with a wagon of firewood. To any passerby the scene might have appeared completely ordinary.

  They would not have known that every other house sheltered a MacDonald family and those between a Campbell. They would not have realized that both Campbell and MacDonald children stood at the same fire, laughing and talking together as any children might. I realized all this and appreciated it for the miracle it was. My grandfather truly had been a seer, his vision come to pass regardless that those he’d expected to carry it out had failed.

  I stepped through the open gates, onto the hard-packed road that led directly to the front doors. The mud that had met Collin and me in July had been scraped away, along with the scraps and debris that had lined the paths. On either side of me people hurried to and fro, engaged purposefully in work of all sorts. I felt the heat of the blacksmith’s bellows as I passed, while only a short distance farther a group of young boys worked together rewiring a large pen of swine. The last of the MacDonalds and their livestock had safely arrived a few days before.

  There were now more cows for milking, an additional three wagons of chickens, and numerous other animals added to the barns and sheds. Still not enough, Ian had mused. But better than
what we’d had before.

  I reached the castle and entered, sorry my hour of freedom was over. I stopped briefly to speak with Bridget and ask that water for a bath be sent to my room. Then I headed directly for the stairs, eager to divest of the evidence in the basket over my arm. When I knocked on Grandfather’s door— as I still thought of it— a young girl answered. She appeared troubled, and the moans of agony from within left no doubt as to why. A woman was birthing here. MacDonald or Campbell? It might be either, as we’d only the one midwife between us, a MacDonald. The Campbell midwife had been one of those run off the land the previous year.

  I handed the girl my basket of herbs and made a hasty exit, saying a silent prayer for the mother and thinking of Anna. I’d posted a letter shortly after Collin and I had arrived at the Campbell keep. A few days ago one had arrived in return. It had included a drawing from Timothy and a note from my mother telling me, among other things, that Anna was with child.

  Better her than me. My troubling dream of bearing Ian’s child had not returned, and I could only feel grateful for that and our increased distance since Niall’s death.

  Telling myself yet again that Niall’s ghost did not haunt here, I entered my room slowly and stood just beyond the doorway listening. Foolish, I silently berated myself. But I could not help the ripple of fear every time I came into the room. Death had visited here— unexpected, violent death. Whether a spirit lurked here or not, the events of that night replayed frequently in my mind.

  I rubbed my arms, warding off the chill that had little to do with temperature and everything to do with my imagination, taking flight now as my shadow danced along the wall. Some seer I am, afraid of my own shadow.

  In the dim light I also made out the tub set before the fire, already partly filled with water so warm steam rose from it. Bless you, Bridget.

  I dared not bathe in the evenings anymore, lest Ian come to our room. And in the mornings I was expected to be up and at my tasks at first light, along with everyone else. This left only the occasional afternoon, when my work was finished early, to delight in the pleasure of soaking in a warm tub.