A Promise for Tomorrow

by Michele Paige Holmes

  We might even find Brann.

  Maybe then Ian would deem it safe for me to enjoy the freedoms granted to a normal person.

  Some hours later my back ached— though I had no intention of stopping. My door opened. A shadow fell across my work, and I knew without looking up that it was Ian. His footfall sounded different from others, as he slightly favored his right foot since the incident with the horse. The length of his shadow, uniform and rigid, save for the bottle hanging from his fingertips, stretched to the wall.

  Come with apologies, has he? I didn’t much care. Once started on the painting, I’d found I worked with a fever. Whether from being so long denied my passion or whether it was because this tree truly was important, I didn’t know. Only that I must finish it.

  “Gordon said you wished to see me.”

  “He was mistaken.” I still didn’t look up but dipped the brush in the lighter of the paints for shading. Painting may have soothed in other ways, but it had not taken away the anger I felt toward Ian.

  He set the bottle on the table and crossed the room. “What are you painting?”

  “If you cannot tell, there’s no point in—”

  “Why are you painting a tree?” He stepped over the sheet to grab my arm and haul me to my feet.

  “What does it matter to you?” I met his one-eyed gaze and felt all the emotion of the last week rush forth. “What does anything matter to you? Is painting against the rules? Will you have me lashed for ruining the sheet?”

  “Earnan put your life in danger. He deserved his punishment— worse actually. It was only the thought of your tender emotions that kept mine in check.”

  “I’m so flattered.” I pulled myself from his grasp and walked away. “And I suppose I deserve being locked in this room the rest of my life.”

  “If that’s the only way to keep you safe, then yes.”

  I whirled to face him. “I took a walk to see Mary, to fetch some medicines for the midwife. The castle was in view the entire time.”

  “In view isn’t good enough.” Ian stepped around the rest of the painted sheet and moved close to me once more.

  With the bed behind me and the wall to the side, I had no choice but to stand my ground and face him.

  “Brann has had the castle in sight too. He’s been spotted no less than three times in the past two months, all within little more than a stone’s throw from here.”

  “I wasn’t truly alone,” I argued. “There were always other people around.”

  “And would they stand up to you against Brann?” Ian edged closer. “Would you have had even a chance if he’d seen you?”

  “How do you know he didn’t?” I lifted my chin higher in an attempt at indifference when, really, I felt shaken by the knowledge that Brann had been so close. Gone from sight, gone from mind may not have been working so well in helping me to adjust to life after Collin, but it appeared to have been working with regards to Brann. I’d mostly succeeded in blocking him from my thoughts and had all but convinced myself that he was somewhere far away now and would not bother me again.

  “You wouldn’t be here if he’d seen you.” Ian pulled me near enough that I could feel his breath on my face. “I’ve kept you locked up all week to teach you a lesson. But apparently a week isn’t long enough. So we’ll revisit this conversation in a month.”

  He released me and turned to go.

  “I hate you,” I said, equally hating the tears that sprang to my eyes.

  He paused, then slowly pivoted to face me again. His expression was no longer angry as it had been just seconds before, but a challenge hovered there. “No you don’t— hate me.”

  “I do—”

  He grabbed both my arms this time and wrenched me toward him. I looked up a second before his lips covered mine, silencing my protest before it could begin.

  There was nothing tender in his action, the way his mouth moved over mine, punishing, dominating, and somehow insinuating that I should be pleased.

  I wasn’t and tried to move away, when suddenly he changed tactics. His grip lessened and his arm slid around me, resting his hand in the small of my back. His other hand moved behind my neck, his fingers playing in my hair.

  The fierce possessiveness of his mouth yielded to a softer approach. His lips moved over mine, searching and teasing their way. I could have easily bitten him. My eyes fluttered shut in a second of indecision. Hate melted into need. And what I needed was him.

  Perhaps sensing this, Ian’s hand at my waist tightened, pulling me closer. My hands were on his chest now. Perfect for pushing him away. Instead I slid them up around the back of his neck and pulled his head closer to mine to deepen our kiss. His lips were surprisingly soft.

  And warm. Warmth radiated off his entire body onto mine. I couldn’t decide if I liked that the best or his hand caressing my neck, or the way he murmured my name when at last we broke apart.

  Breathing heavily, I lay my head against his chest, feeling only comforted and safe as he held me. Long seconds passed. I began emerging from my kissing-induced coma and sensed repercussions on the horizon.

  “You don’t kiss like a woman who hates me.” Ian chuckled, sounding only amused, not evil as I’d thought so many of his other laughs were.

  “I hate you all the more for that,” I said quietly, still not moving— loath to leave the comfort of his embrace. “I hate that you can make me desire you. But that is all that this is. Nothing more. I will never feel for you as I did for Collin.”

  Ian stiffened, releasing me as if I’d the plague. With a wince he stepped away. I wondered if he had a new injury.

  If so, deserved, no doubt. I rubbed my arms, feeling a definite chill, denied the warmth and comfort I’d felt in his arms.

  “I don’t believe you.” His gaze still challenged.

  “You should.” Never mind that I wasn’t entirely convinced either. I dug deep for the words and emotion I’d kept bottled all week. “Where Collin was kind, you are cruel. He showed compassion; you are unsympathetic. He was loving, and you are harsh. Where he was tender, you are cold.” I paused for effect. “He was handsome. You— are hideous.” I regretted the words the moment they fled my mouth.

  Ian’s lips pressed together, and raw hurt flickered in the depth of his eye.

  I didn’t mean it, I wanted to say, but those words, the good ones, stuck in my throat. What I had said wasn’t even true. His bruises and cuts had healed, and his hair was growing back and mostly covered the scar across his head. Save for his eye patch, physically he might have passed for Collin.

  But there was no stopping what I had started. Ian had been correct. I didn’t truly hate him. But I’d no doubt he wanted nothing to do with me now. I added my final barb with vengeance. “I know the color of your heart. It is black and does not bleed. And for that I will never, ever care for you.”

  Wordlessly, he turned from me and made his way across the room, still taking care not to step on my painting.

  It was a hollow victory. The words I’d rehearsed in my mind and waited so long to say were finally out, and I felt worse instead of better for having said them.

  He reached the door. “I can never be Collin.” He sounded both sad and weary and as if he had just reached that conclusion.

  “Exactly.” My tone held no sympathy, though his had wavered between resigned and pleading. “You shouldn’t bother trying. It won’t work. Not with me. Not for us.”

  “Collin was too soft, too weak to ever accomplish what I’ve done here. We— none of us— would have had a chance.” He reached inside his coat, and I waited, breathless, expecting a weapon. Instead he withdrew a folded paper and tossed it at me.

  “Keep this, then. Remember Collin on that pedestal all you want, though it was he who left you here, unprotected, to suffer at Brann’s whim, while it was I who saved you— and countless others. Believe me, it would have been far easier not to. But we MacDonalds keep our promises. I’d been led to believe that the Campbells did too.” />
  Chapter Thirty-four

  I hugged my arms to myself to ward off the chill in the room. It was silent, frighteningly so, since Ian’s abrupt departure.

  I knelt to pick up the paper he had tossed to the floor. Though I already knew what it was, with a trembling hand I opened it and pressed it flat across my lap.

  Collin stared up at me, with the same, serious expression I’d witnessed the night I’d sketched this— our wedding night. I recognized that expression now. It belonged to a man who carried the weight of the world— or at least a clan or two— on his shoulders. It belonged to Ian.

  We MacDonalds keep our promises. I’d been led to believe that Campbells did too. What had Collin told him about me? That I would be loyal and perhaps eventually loving? That I would do my part, as I had tried to when Collin was alive, to search out answers and solutions and work with Ian— together? That I would try to use my gift to help, that I would listen and take seriously what he said? I leaned against the wall, drew my knees up to my chest, and pressed my forehead to them, ashamed.

  The parallel of my life and Collin’s seemed suddenly clear. Had he once not been in a similar situation? With a father who had given up his life for his son, and a foreign clan— enemies— with which to live and adapt to?

  Collin had not wasted many days doubting or hating. He had embraced his new life—including me— and had lived up to his promises, until it was he giving up a life.

  But that was where our similarities ended. I had spent the past months doubting Ian, even when both instinct and evidence proved him a changed man. I had not embraced anything, but remained curled tightly within myself, seeking any excuse to remain there, and away from the man who had taken his brother’s place as my protector. I had ignored his requests and my own visions. I had not helped but hurt him repeatedly.

  My eyes were too dry for tears, my self-loathing too complete for any sympathy— particularly my own. There was no fixing what I had done tonight. My words had been too cruel, too final, striking Ian where I knew him to be most vulnerable. No doubt it would be him now, counting down the months until the period of our handfast was over.

  A feeling of utter helplessness prevailed. There was nothing I could do to make this better. Not one thing.

  Except paint.

  I looked over at the sheet and the partially completed rowan tree. What secrets was it hiding? I closed my eyes, reaching out to the future, practically begging my gift to work. What is it I am meant to see? Show me.

  I crawled across the floor toward my brushes and leaned forward, reaching for one. The floorboard beneath my hand flipped up suddenly, nearly hitting me in the face. Stunned, I sat back, then leaned forward, more carefully this time, and pushed.

  It raised slowly, revealing a hole beneath the floor that was too dark to see into clearly. I jumped up to retrieve a candle, heartbeat skipping, wondering if my dowry had been hidden right beneath us all this time. I carried the candle over to the hole and peered inside. The space was empty, save for one very dusty pistol.

  Wary of spiders, I reached in and retrieved the weapon. Had I found this earlier, I might have used it on Ian, I’d been so angry with him. Or so I had believed.

  I blew some of the dust off the barrel, wondering how long the gun had been there. Were there other loose floorboards? Had I perhaps stumbled onto something that might lead me to the missing dowry?

  And if by chance I had, would its discovery be enough to earn Ian’s forgiveness?

  Carefully, I slid the pistol back into its hiding place and replaced the board. Showing it to Ian would not change anything; neither would finding my dowry. Money was good for only so many things in this world, and absolution was not one of them.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  I returned to spinning wool. A guard escorted me to the solar each morning, and another to my room each evening, where I took my meals alone, while listening to voices and even laughter from the hall below. The latter intrigued me, and so I found myself inquiring, during a spinning session, about the general state of affairs between clans.

  “How are the Campbells faring these days?” I asked Ellen one morning when we found ourselves side by side at the large wheels. I’d taken care that it should be so earlier, when I’d chosen my seat in the circle. I knew she was one who would talk freely.

  Ellen lifted an eyebrow at me as she looked down her nose. “Wouldn’t have to ask if you’d come amongst us once in a while.”

  “It is not my choice to stay inside,” I said, reminding her of what I’d told the others already, minus the particulars of my disagreement with Ian. Others knowing the extent of our discord would likely only cause trouble.

  “Leave her be, Ellen. Laird keeps her in so she can see her visions. Without them we wouldn’t be safe,” Aila, the eldest of the women, said.

  “What do you mean?” I looked past Ellen to Aila.

  She frowned. “Hasn’t he told you how much your suggestions have helped? Moving those living on outlying crofts closer, building the enormous sheds to house all the animals together— your ideas that have saved lives. At least one family has been spared, and who knows how much livestock. Brann and his council cannot hurt us when you’re one step ahead of them.”

  “Oh,” I said, taken aback by both the news that Ian gave me credit for his preventions, and that Brann was not only lurking about, but apparently still attempting harm as well.

  “Ian didn’t tell you?” Mhairi looked suddenly suspicious.

  “Don’t suppose he would,” Aila said. “Seeing what is to come requires a clear mind. You cannot have that when it’s filled with troubles. Isn’t that right, Katherine?”

  “Aye.” I answered with more enthusiasm than I felt. What was Ian playing at here? Why had he told these women— and presumably others— that I was having visions? I wanted to tell them the truth and set matters straight but sensed that might do more harm than good. Certainly I would have to speak to Ian about this.

  If he ever chose to speak with me again.

  “You see why I ask after the Campbells— and MacDonalds,” I added, for the benefit of those women seated across the room. There was still a definite separation between the women of each clan, yet it seemed to me the conversation flowed more freely between them now.

  “Campbells are becoming accustomed to the arrangement, though I can’t say we favor it,” Ellen said.

  “Most of us are grateful,” Aila corrected her. “Seeing how we’ve no more fear of being burned in our beds, and our children have roofs over their heads, food in their bellies, and even shoes on their feet.”

  “My lad’s wearing a pair of shoes cut from the MacDonald laird’s own boots,” another Campbell woman added.

  I recalled the many nights Ian had labored over tiny pairs of shoes— and led me to believe they were all for MacDonald children. I raised my foot and let the spinning wheel slow, then turned to the other side of the room. “And what of the MacDonalds? How are the lot of you feeling and faring?”

  “About our laird? Well enough,” one of them answered curtly, with a pointed look at me.

  “And what of the kinsman Ian killed?” I pressed, anxious to know if that event bred resentment or discord.

  “Niall wasn’t a kinsman; he was an animal,” Mhairi declared. The other MacDonald women around her added their agreement. “Ian saved at least your life and mine that night. No one faults him that.”

  “And Earnan? How is he?” I looked to Mhairi again.

  “He is healing well,” she said.

  “He feels badly he let you out in harm’s way. Hasn’t forgotten how you were when he found you belowstairs, near death yourself.” Ellen reached over and tapped on my wheel, as if to chastise me for slowing it. “The laird did fair by him.”

  “There is no lasting harm,” Mhairi added.

  “Niall was a disgrace to the name MacDonald,” the woman who’d spoken a moment ago said. “He deserved what became of him. As for the one beaten— we don’t blam
e the laird none for that. We blame you. Had you done as you ought and not left the castle alone, there would have been no thrashing. We were only glad to know you had yours as well. Though it was rather cowardly, staying shut up in your room all week to recover from it.”

  I opened my mouth to correct her, to explain that Ian hadn’t laid so much as a finger on me— only lips— then changed my mind and returned to spinning, head down as I focused on feeding the fleece. My face warmed as I recalled our kiss, my pink cheeks no doubt confirming I had indeed been beaten. I tried not to think about the kiss, and what all these lies from Ian meant. My foot found a good rhythm and was soon whirring as steadily as my mind.

  The Campbells were coming to think of Ian as their champion. The MacDonalds thought well of him too. But neither clan realized that I was not the woman they believed me to be. Ian had been giving me credit for what he had done. He had made me out to be better than I was.

  Lies. All of it.

  Lies that sooner or later, I felt certain, would be revealed for what they were.

  * * *

  A full week after Ian’s visit I had not seen him again, but routine broke when four jars were delivered along with my evening meal. Curious, I opened them as soon as the shy maid had taken her leave. I hadn’t seen Bridget at all in the past two weeks, not since my exile from the hall. My spinning sisters, as I’d come to think of them, assured me she was well, and I consoled myself with that at least.

  The jars opened somewhat easily, and I could not contain my cry of delight as I looked down at them, lined up on the tray, a different color contained within each. More paint! I clasped my hands like a child being handed a particularly delightful toy. Beside the silverware were two brushes, one medium-sized and which appeared to be made from horse hair. The other was more fine, the bristles softer and smaller. The hair forming each had been carefully trimmed and shaped before being lashed to a smoothly carved stick.

  I held each in turn, then brought the softer of the two to my face, stroking my cheek with the fine hairs. Ian did this. I closed my eyes and imagined— or perhaps saw— him laboring over mortar and pestle, grinding plants for the colors, then mixing those carefully with animal fat. I envisioned him shaving the rough edges from the sticks that formed the brush handles and patiently grooming the hairs that would top them.