“I was looking at Sir Fergus,” Cecily said.
“Ah, aye, a fine figure of a mon. He will do ye proud.”
Cecily very much doubted it but just nodded.
“And I expect ye to be a good wife to the mon. I ken I have told ye this before, but it bears repeating, especially since ye have always shown a tendency to forget things and e’en behave most poorly. A good wife heeds her husband’s commands. ’Tis her duty to please her husband in all things, to be submissive, genteel, and gracious.”
Marriage was going to be a pure torment, Cecily mused.
“Ye must run his household efficiently, keeping all in the best of order. Meals on time and weel prepared, linens clean and fresh, and servants weel trained and obedient.”
That could prove difficult, for Anabel had never trained her to run a household, but Cecily bit the inside of her cheek to stop those words from escaping her mouth. Through punishments and long observation, she actually had a very good idea of what was needed to run a household. In truth, the many punishments she had endured had given her some housekeeping skills she doubted any other fine lady could lay claim to. Cecily inwardly frowned as she glanced at Sir Fergus. Instinct told her that the man was not one who would appreciate such skills, would actually be appalled to discover that his new wife knew how to scrub linens and muck out stalls.
“A good wife tolerates her husband’s weaknesses,” continued Anabel.
Cecily suspected Sir Fergus had a lot of weaknesses, then scolded herself for such unkind thoughts. She would be married to the man soon. It was time to find something good about her betrothed. There had to be something. She had probably just been too busy feeling sorry for herself and convincing herself to meekly accept her fate to notice.
“A good wife ignores her husband’s wanderings, his other women—”
“Other women? What other women?” Cecily was startled into asking. This was a new twist in this oft-repeated lecture that she did not like the sound of at all.
Anabel sighed and rolled her eyes, big blue eyes that she was extremely vain about. “Men are lusty beasts, child. ’Tis their way to rut with any woman who catches their eye. A wife must learn to ignore such things.”
“I dinnae see why she should. Her husband took a vow before God just as she did. ’Tis his duty to honor vows spoken.”
After looking around to make sure they were alone, Anabel grabbed Cecily by the arm and tugged her backward, a little closer to the wall and even farther away from the others gathered in the great hall. “Dinnae be such a fool. Men care naught for such things. They consider it their right to bed whomever they wish to.”
“My father was faithful to my mother.”
“How would ye ken that, eh? Ye were naught but a bairn. Trust me in this, ye will be glad the mon slakes his lust elsewhere and troubles ye with it only rarely. ’Tis a disgusting business that only men get any pleasure out of. Let the peasant lasses deal with it. Since men feel they must have a quiverful of sons, ye will be burdened with the chore of taking him into your bed often enough to heartily welcome such respites.”
“Take him into my bed? Willnae he be sleeping there every night anyway?”
“Where did ye get such a strange idea?”
“My mother and father shared a bed. And, aye, I was just a wee child, but I do ken that.”
“How verra odd,” Anabel murmured, then shrugged. “Probably some strange practice from the Highlands. They are all barbarians up there, ye ken. Ye, however, have been raised amongst civilized people and ’tis past time ye cast aside such thoughts and beliefs.”
Cecily hastily swallowed her instinctive urge to defend her mother’s people. She had learned long ago that it did no good. All such defense accomplished was to anger Anabel and get Cecily sentenced to some menial, exhausting, and often filthy chore as a penance for speaking out. She had the feeling Anabel said such things to her on purpose. At times it almost seemed that Anabel hated the long-dead Moira Donaldson, although Cecily had no idea why the woman should do so or what her sweet mother could have done to earn such enmity. The woman often derided her father as well. Cecily did not understand Anabel’s apparent animosity for her late parents and, sadly, did not think she would ever get Anabel to explain it.
The thought of her lost family brought on a wave of grief and Cecily stared at her feet as she fought back her tears. It would soon be her wedding day, the most important day for a woman, and she was surrounded by strangers and people who did not truly care for her. If Old Meg managed to slip inside the chapel or a few of the gatherings, Cecily would at least know that one person who loved her was close at hand, but she could not be sure Old Meg could do so. If Anabel even glimpsed the woman in the room, she would swiftly send Old Meg away, far away. She knew her family was with her in spirit, in her heart, and in her memories, but she dearly wished she had them at her side.
“Will ye smile?” hissed Anabel. “Wheesht, ye look ready to weep. Best not let Sir Fergus catch that look upon your face. He will think ye arenae pleased to have him as your husband.”
There was a tone to Anabel’s voice that told Cecily that that was the very last thing the woman wanted. If it happened, punishment would be swift and harsh. Although Cecily doubted she could produce a credible smile, she did her best to hide her sorrow. When she felt she had accomplished that, she looked at Anabel, only to find the woman was gaping at the doorway to the great hall. A quick glance around revealed that everyone else was doing the same thing, and Cecily became sharply aware of how quiet it had become in the hall.
Although the sight of so many silent, wide-eyed, open-mouthed people was fascinating, curiosity forced Cecily to look toward the doorway of the great hall as well. It was only a sudden attack of pride that kept her from mimicking the others when she saw the man standing there. He was very tall and leanly muscular. His long black hair hung down past his broad shoulders, a thin braid on either side of his stunningly handsome face. He wore a plaid, the dark green crossed with black and yellow lines. He also wore deerskin boots and a white linen shirt, both dusty from travel. From behind his head she could see the hilt of a broadsword. He wore another sword at his side, and she could see a dagger sheathed inside his left boot.
Cecily was rather glad she had not been in the midst of a hearty defense of Highlanders at that precise moment. This man did look gloriously barbaric. That appearance was only enhanced by what he held. Grasped by the front of their jupons and dangling several inches off the floor, the Highlander held two of her cousins’ men-at-arms. The men did not seem to be struggling much, she thought with a touch of amusement, nor did their captor seem overly burdened by the weight he held in each hand. Deciding that someone had to do something, Cecily took a deep breath to steady herself and began to walk toward the man.
Chapter 3
Artan scowled at the people in the great hall, all of whom were gaping at him. He struggled to rein in his temper, but it was difficult. From the moment he had crossed into the Lowlands, his journey had become arduous. He had been watched, sneered at, fled from, and insulted every step of the way. Even knocking a few heads together here and there along the way had done little to soften his bad humor. Being refused entry into the Donaldson manor had been the last straw, or so he had thought. Being gaped at by all the people he now faced was rapidly surpassing that.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone move and he tensed. Glancing more fully in that direction, he watched a small, slender woman with dark red hair walk toward him. He felt an odd quickening in his heart as he studied her. She moved with an easy grace, her slim hips swaying gently with each step. The blue gown she wore was cut low enough to reveal the softly rounded tops of her breasts. Those breasts were not the heavy, bountiful sort he usually lusted after, but they were full enough to catch his eye.
When she was only a few steps away, he saw that her wide, heavily lashed eyes were a deep, rich green and he felt his pulse increase. She had an oval face, her skin clear and pale.
Her lips were full enough to invite kisses, her small nose was straight and lightly freckled, and her chin held a distinct hint of a stubborn nature. If this was Angus’s niece, Artan thus far had no objection at all to marrying her.
“Sir? Mayhap ye should release those men. I think they are having trouble breathing.”
Such was the enticement of her low, husky voice it took Artan a moment to understand what she said. He looked at the two men he held and grunted softly. They did appear to be choking. He shrugged and tossed them aside, then scowled at the people who gasped and moved farther away from him.
“Thank ye, sir,” Cecily said, struggling not to laugh. “May we ken who ye are and why ye have come to our home?” When he looked at her with his silvery blue eyes Cecily felt oddly lightheaded and quickly stiffened her spine. She was not sure what he was doing to her or how he could make her feel so breathless with just a glance, but she would reveal to him only a calm civility.
“I am Sir Artan Murray,” he replied and bowed slightly. “I have come on behalf of Sir Angus MacReith of Glascreag.”
“Uncle Angus sent ye?” Cecily wondered why the sudden thought that this man could be a close relative should upset her so.
“Ah, so ye are Lady Cecily Donaldson?” Artan had to strongly resist the urge to rub his hands together in glee.
Cecily nodded and curtsied almost absently as she asked, “What does my uncle want?”
“He wants ye to come to Glascreag. The mon is ill and wishes to see ye before he dies.” Artan did not really believe Angus was in danger of dying, but if the slight exaggeration got this woman to come to Glascreag with him, he saw no real harm in it.
“Nay!” screeched Anabel, suddenly shaking free of her shock and rushing to Cecily’s side.
Wincing when Anabel grabbed her tightly by the arm, Cecily said, “But if my uncle is dying—”
“Ye can go to see him after the wedding,” said Anabel.
“Wedding? What wedding?” Artan demanded.
“Cecily’s wedding,” replied Anabel.
“Angus wasnae told about any wedding.”
“Why should he be told?”
“Because he is her closest living kin.”
“Weel, we are her family, too, her guardians. I am Lady Anabel Donaldson and there is my husband, Sir Edmund, coming toward us. It was our decision to make, nay his.”
Artan studied the woman clutching Cecily’s arm in what looked to be a painful hold. The woman was pleasing to look at with her fair hair and blue eyes, but those eyes were cold. Her voluptuous body was well displayed in a deep red gown, but he suspected such bounty was wasted on this woman, her blood being as cold as her eyes. There was the hint of desperation in her stance and her voice. Artan immediately wondered what she gained from Cecily’s marriage.
He looked at Cecily next. There was a faint pinch of pain her expression, and Artan had to fight the urge to pry Lady Anabel’s heavily ringed hand off Cecily’s slender arm. There was also no hint of joy or anticipation in Cecily’s expression, no sign of a bride’s pleasure. He hoped he was not fooling himself, but he could not shake the feeling that this marriage was not of her choosing.
“Who are ye marrying, Sile?” he asked, using the Gaelic form of her name.
“Me.”
One look was all it took for Artan to decide that he neither liked nor trusted the man who stepped up on the other side of Lady Anabel and laid claim to Cecily. Artan made a great show of looking down at the man who was nearly a head shorter and enjoyed the light flush of anger that flared upon the man’s pale cheeks. He looked like one of those whining, grasping bootlickers who constantly danced around the king. Artan sniffed. Smelled like one, too. All heavy perfume spread over an unclean body.
“And who might ye be?” he demanded.
“I, sir, am Sir Fergus Ogilvey,” the man replied, lifting his weak chin enough to glare up at Artan.
“Never heard of ye.” Ignoring Fergus’s soft curse, Artan looked to where Anabel’s hand still clutched Cecily’s arm and scowled at the dark spots slowly spreading beneath those sharp nails. “Let her go. Ye have pierced the skin.”
Cecily breathed a sigh of relief when Anabel abruptly released her. She lightly rubbed her hand over the wounds she could feel beneath the sleeve of her gown. There would be a colorful array of bruises and scabs come the morning, she thought and hoped the bleeding would stop soon before it completely ruined the first new gown she had had in years. She looked from Fergus to Sir Artan and sighed, all too painfully aware of the marked difference between the two men. Sir Artan made Fergus look even smaller and paler than he actually was.
“When is this wedding?” Artan asked.
“In a fortnight,” replied Fergus, crossing his arms over his narrow chest. “Today is the first day of the festivities.”
“Then ’tis best if ye show me to my chambers so that I may wash away this dust and join ye.”
“I dinnae believe ye were invited,” snapped Anabel.
“I did note that rudeness, but I forgive ye.” Artan smiled at Cecily when she released a surprised laugh, but noticed that she hastily silenced it at one hard glance from Lady Anabel.
“Of course he must stay, m’dear,” said Sir Edmund as he joined them and looked at his wife. “The mon has been sent here by Cecily’s maternal uncle. We must nay offend the mon by treating his emissary so rudely, eh?” He smiled at Artan. “Ye can stand in the laird’s stead, aye, and then return to Glascreag with a full report of his niece’s marriage to this fine mon.” He clapped Sir Fergus on the back. “Now”—he waved over a buxom, fair-haired maid—“Davida here will see to ye. The meal will be set out in an hour.”
“I will be here,” said Artan. He turned to Cecily, took her hand in his, and lightly brushed a kiss over the back of it. “When I return we must needs discuss your uncle, lass.”
As Cecily watched Artan leave with Davida, she quickly clasped her hands together behind her back so that she could surreptitiously touch the spot he had kissed. She had never had her hand kissed before. She had certainly never felt so abruptly warm and weak-kneed just because a man had touched her hand. Then again, she had never seen a man like Sir Artan Murray either.
She sighed as she thought of him being seen to by the buxom Davida. A sharp pinch of jealousy seized her, for she knew the very wanton Davida would soon be in his bed. Cecily could not really blame the woman. Davida had probably never seen such a lovely man either and was undoubtedly thinking herself blessed. Understanding did not dim her resentment by much, however. If nothing else, it seemed grossly unfair that the wanton Davida would have Sir Artan while she was left with only Sir Fergus.
“Edmund, how could ye ask that savage to stay here?” demanded Anabel.
“And what choice was there, wife?” Edmund grimaced. “Angus is Cecily’s closest blood kin, and that mon said the laird is ill, mayhap e’en dying.”
“Mayhap I should go to him then,” said Cecily, then nearly flinched when Fergus, Edmund, and Anabel all glared at her.
“Ye are going nowhere,” said Anabel. “That mon hasnae had aught to do with ye until now, has he?”
That was sadly true, although Cecily had always thought that a little odd. She could recall her uncle as a big, rough-speaking man, but one who had been unceasingly kind to her. Even though that last ill-fated visit had been made so that the man could meet her brother, Colin, who was his heir, her uncle had spent time with her, too. As always, she shrugged that puzzle aside and gathered up the courage to argue with Anabel, at least just a little bit.
“That doesnae matter,” Cecily said. “What does matter is that my uncle may soon die. Since he is my closest kinsmon, isnae it my duty to go to his side?” She tensed when Sir Fergus stepped up beside her and put his arm around her shoulders, for she sensed no affection in the gesture.
“Aye, ’tis indeed your duty,” he agreed. “But ’tis also your duty to stay here and marry me. Your guardians have gone to a great deal of trouble a
nd expense to arrange these festivities. And now that we are betrothed, your first duty is to me, aye? I shall take ye to see the mon after the wedding.”
Cecily nearly ached to argue that and knew she had some very good arguments to make. The best being that her uncle carried some three score years. At such an age even a very mild illness could kill the man. Waiting until after the wedding could easily mean that all she got to visit was Uncle Angus’s grave. She looked at Fergus, Anabel, and Edmund and could tell by their expressions that even sound arguments would not sway them, however.
“And since ye truly are his nearest kin, there may e’en be a chance that ye are the heir to something, so, of course, we should go and see how matters stand at Glascreag,” Fergus continued.
“Quite right, Sir Fergus,” agreed Edmund. “’Tis a long, hard journey, but there may be some benefit to it.”
As she listened to her guardians and Sir Fergus discuss what her uncle might leave her when he died, Cecily fought to remain silent. She also tried very hard to convince herself that they were not really as cold and mercenary as they sounded. The way they spoke, as if it were Sir Fergus who would benefit, irritated her as well. She did not care if her uncle made her any bequest, but if he did, it should be hers and no one else’s.
Then she recalled that Fergus would soon be her husband, and the law said that what was hers would become his. Cecily doubted her uncle would want the man to have anything for the simple fact that Sir Fergus was a Lowlander, but her uncle had no idea that she was about to be married. She had written to him to tell him of her marriage, but there was a very good chance that he had not received her missive before he had sent Sir Artan to her. If her uncle died before she reached him and Sir Fergus benefited from his death in even the smallest way, Cecily suspected Uncle Angus would be spinning in his grave. He had often made his low opinion of Lowlanders very clear, seemingly forgetting that her father had been one.
Highland Barbarian Page 3
