Her thoughts fixed upon the last time she, her father, and her brother were together, Cecily was startled when Anabel pinched her on the arm. Rubbing the sore spot those vicious fingers had left behind, she looked at the woman. She was not exactly surprised to find Anabel scowling at her. Sadly, Cecily almost always found Anabel scowling at her.
“Go and tidy yourself,” Anabel ordered, nodding toward the small bloodstains on the sleeve of Cecily’s gown. “Clean off those stains quickly ere they set firm. Ye had best nay ruin that gown. And hurry back. I will be verra displeased if ye are late to the feast.”
As Cecily hurried away to her bedchamber, she wondered crossly if Anabel expected her to apologize for bleeding when her skin was pierced. It would not surprise her. Anabel always seemed to think Cecily should apologize for the times Anabel had to beat her until the blood flowed. Cecily had always been more than ready to accept punishment for any wrong she had done, but she realized she had never fully accepted that she deserved the very harsh punishments Anabel doled out.
Just as Cecily was thinking she needed to work harder on her humility and obedience, she heard Davida’s very distinctive laugh. She frowned at the door she was near and wondered why she felt a very strong urge to burst into that room and stop Davida and Sir Artan from doing whatever was making Davida laugh like that. Since Davida had a well-earned reputation as a wanton, there was little doubt in Cecily’s mind as to what those two were doing. She just did not understand why it should trouble her so much. Forcing herself to move, she hurried on to her bedchamber to do as Anabel had told her to do.
Artan scowled at the buxom Davida and pushed aside her hands. The maid was obviously eager and ready, but despite it having been a very long time since he had enjoyed a woman’s favors, Artan found that he did not want to oblige her. His mind and, apparently, the rest of him had obviously decided he was soon to be a married man. He liked how Cecily looked, and he liked the sound of her voice. There was a glimpse of spirit in the way she was the only one who had moved to greet him. He had to learn more about her, and he felt sure that would be difficult to do if Cecily thought he was bedding Davida. Instinct told him Davida was not a woman who could keep silent about her lovers.
“If ye cannae simply help me with my bath, it might be best if ye were to leave,” he said.
Davida stared at him in surprise. “Ye mean ye dinnae want—”
“Nay, I dinnae. Ye are a bonnie lass, but I have it in mind to become a married mon soon.”
“Oh.” Davida smiled and began to slide her hand down his belly again. “Weel, I willnae tell, and what the lass doesnae ken—”
“I will ken it,” he said firmly as he pushed her hand away, annoyed at how his body was responding to her touch and the anticipation of even greater intimacies.
“Ye dinnae look reluctant.”
“We both ken that that part of a mon has no mind and no morals. I dinnae think your master sent ye with me for that sort of play, aye?”
“Oh, aye, he did. And if he hadnae, Lady Anabel would have. I think they hope I will make ye miss out on the feasting.”
Artan hid his shock over that even though he knew some keeps had such women within their walls, ones freely offered to the guests. It was the reason Davida believed the courtesy was offered this time that stunned him. “Will ye get in trouble for failing?” He scowled at the look of cunning that briefly passed over her pretty round face. “The truth now, lass.”
Davida sighed. “Nay, Sir Edmund and, aye, e’en Lady Anabel will just think ye are a fast rider like Sir Edmund and Sir Fergus.”
Although his pride pinched at being thought of as such a poor lover, Artan concentrated on what Davida had just revealed. “Ye have bedded them both, have ye?” he asked as she began to scrub his hair.
“I have, though I cannae say they were much worth the effort. S’truth, Sir Fergus is one who enjoys a bit of rough play, if ye ken what I mean.”
“Aye, I do. Yet he cannae be sharing your bed now, nay at his own wedding celebration.”
Davida laughed. “Ye jest. Of course he is. The mon has dragged near every maid here into his bed, willing or nay. Those who were nay willing tried to speak to her ladyship, but it got them naught but a scolding. ’Tis odd, but whene’er Sir Fergus is here, ’tis almost as if he rules and nay the Donaldsons.”
“Aye, verra odd,” he murmured, “as I cannae see Lady Anabel bowing to anyone.”
Artan listened to Davida’s litany of complaints about Lady Anabel as she scrubbed his back. The lady of the demesne obviously did little to ensure the loyalty of her maids. What Davida revealed troubled Artan. Something was not right here. If one believed Davida, Cecily was being treated as some burden, as if she were some poor kinswoman taken in so she would not starve. From what Angus had told him before he had left Glascreag, Artan had come to believe that Cecily’s father had been a doting parent. It made no sense that the man would have left his daughter penniless and at the complete mercy of unkind kinsmen.
Stepping out of the bath, Artan continued to mull over the problem as Davida dried him off. Consumed by his thoughts, he was easily able to ignore the maid’s many attempts to rouse his interest until she eventually gave up and began to work with brisk efficiency. He was quick to don the robe set out for him when he was dry, however. The woman seemed to have a dozen bold hands.
As Davida had the bath cleared away, Artan stood by the fire thinking on what he had learned thus far, until he finally decided there were too many questions left to ask and each one had too many possible answers. Artan knew he had to search out the truth. Even if he did not marry Cecily, he owed it to Angus to make sure his niece was being treated fairly and was happy. He did wonder why that laudable goal did not make him feel happy or even just pleased with his own nobility.
He looked at Davida, who was kneeling on the floor and mopping up water. “’Tis disappointing to think Lady Cecily is one of those women who doesnae care what happens to the maids in her household,” he said with what he felt was the appropriate amount of disgust and regret.
“Oh, the lass doesnae ken anything about it, and God have mercy on any who tell her,” replied Davida as she stood up and brushed off her skirts. “I think Lady Anabel fears the lass would balk at marrying Sir Fergus if she kenned what he was truly like.” Davida grimaced. “Poor wee lass has her own troubles anyway, aye? She doesnae need to be weighed down with those of others. Aye, and she couldnae do aught to help in the end, which would fair break her heart.”
“So this marriage isnae the lass’s choice?”
“Why are ye so interested?”
“Her uncle sent me here, her dying uncle.”
“Oh, aye. Weel, I dinnae think Lady Cecily had anything to say about it all. Dinnae think many lasses do, do they. Lady Cecily does seem to be accepting it.” Davida put her hands on her well-rounded hips and frowned. “I have ne’er understood why they didnae let the poor lass go to her uncle. ’Tis clear to anyone with eyes in their head that Lady Anabel doesnae like her.” Davida suddenly blushed and looked wary. “Ach, but what do I ken, eh? Ye shouldnae heed me. Nay, and I spoke out of turn and all.”
“I willnae be repeating it all, so dinnae fret, lass. Her uncle will want to ken the truth, and I suspicion I willnae get much of that from Lady Cecily’s guardians or her betrothed.”
“They wouldnae ken the truth of it if it bit them on the arse,” Davida muttered. Then she asked, “If her uncle cares so much about the lass and how she fares, why has he ignored her all these years?”
“He hasnae. The mon wrote to her often.”
Davida gave him a look of utter disbelief. “Nay, there was ne’er a word from the mon. Poor wee lass wrote to him a lot in the beginning. ’Twas enough to make ye weep when she finally realized he was ne’er going to reply or e’en come to see her. Then she just wrote to him at Michaelmas time. Nay, she kens that all she has left for family now is this lot, and isnae that right sad, eh?” Davida shook her head, sighed, and
then looked Artan over, her growing smile revealing that her pity for Cecily was quickly being replaced with lust for him. “Shall I help ye dress?”
“Nay, I believe I can fend for meself,” he drawled.
The heavy sigh Davida released as she left the room stroked Artan’s vanity and he grinned. That good humor faded quickly, however. His suspicions had been roused by all the maid had told him. It was not just the fact that Cecily had never received any of Angus’s letters or gifts, either. Artan still could not believe Cecily’s father had left her destitute, although it was possible that the man had not realized how poorly his kinsman and his wife would treat Cecily. If Cecily’s father had been the only one in the family with a full purse, Anabel and Edmund could have always been on their best behavior around the man.
A lot of what Davida had told him about the situation at Dunburn could be explained away, but not the fact that Cecily had never received anything from Angus. Someone had wanted to make very sure that Cecily felt she had no choice, that she had no other place to go or anyone else to turn to. One had to ask why, and the only answers Artan could think of to that question were all bad. Even if he were not already considering Angus’s suggestion that he marry Cecily and become the heir to Glascreag, he would have felt compelled to linger at Dunburn and investigate. He might have used the excuse of a dying Angus to keep Davida talking, but the implication behind that excuse was the truth. Angus would want to know what was happening to his niece.
It was odd that Artan felt so outraged by the mere possibility that a woman he had only just met was being mistreated or cheated; but despite that, he accepted his feelings. He had never been one to sit and examine how he felt anyway. He either accepted the feelings as reasonable or banished them. This time instinct told him there was good reason to be outraged, if only because this was Angus’s niece. So he would linger at Dunburn, unwanted and uninvited, and find out just what was going on. Recalling a pair of deep green eyes, he decided there was another good reason to linger. He may well have just met his mate.
Chapter 4
Cecily glanced at Fergus. He sat across the table from her. As her betrothed, he should have been sitting next to her. Instead, he sat opposite her, scowling at the man seated on her right, the man who had somehow managed to usurp Sir Fergus’s rightful place. She had the uncomfortable feeling that one reason Sir Artan sat at her side was because Sir Fergus had been too cowardly to stand firm and claim his rights. And it had all been done without a word spoken. It seemed her betrothed was not only chinless but spineless.
As covertly as she could, Cecily peeked at the man seated next to her on the bench as he selected a slice of roast goose and set it on her plate. For a leanly built man he took up a lot of room. Every time his muscular thigh had brushed against her, she had shifted away from him until she now teetered on the far edge of the bench, but his thigh was yet again pressed close to hers. Cecily briefly considered nudging against him to see if he would shift away from her, but quickly dismissed that thought. She had the oddest feeling that he would not move an inch and she would end up sitting on his lap. And why the thought of sitting on Sir Artan’s lap should make her feel all warm and anxious she did not know. Deciding that might be what temptation felt like, she forced her attention to the large amount of food the man had piled onto her plate.
“Eat up, lass,” said Artan. “Ye will need your strength.”
Hastily chewing on a piece of meat she had put in her mouth, Cecily wondered what he meant. She frowned at the amount of food he had put on her plate and began to feel insulted. Cecily knew she was not very big, but she was no puling weakling either.
“Why do ye think I should build up my strength?” she asked.
“’Tis clear to see that this celebration is going to keep ye busy from sunrise to sunset for at least a fortnight. Aye, and then there is the wedding itself and, of course, the wedding night.”
The wedding night, Cecily thought and silently cursed. That was something she had tried very hard not to think about. She did not thank Sir Artan for reminding her of it either. Desperately, she tried hard to think about something else, anything else, so that she could return to that comforting state of blissful ignorance.
“Is my uncle really dying?” she asked and ignored the knowing look he gave her.
“He is ill and he is carrying three score years.”
Cecily frowned and wondered why that news made her eyes sting with tears. She had not seen her uncle for years, and he had shown little inclination to have anything to do with her. Over the years she had done her best to convince herself that it did not matter, that it was only to be expected for she was not a male who could become his heir. Obviously, she had failed in that endeavor, for she felt honestly grieved that her uncle may well be dead soon, that she would never have the chance to see him again.
“’Tis but natural for a mon to wish to have his loved ones close at his side when he is at the end of his life,” murmured Artan, sensing her upset and hoping to take advantage of it in convincing her to leave Dunburn willingly and soon.
“Loved ones?” Her voice was so tainted with bitter anger that even Cecily winced at the sound of it. “He doesnae see me as a loved one. If he did, he would have written or e’en come to visit.”
“And why are ye so sure that he hasnae written?”
“Because I have ne’er seen e’en the smallest, most crudely written letter. Nary a word. And he has certainly ne’er come to visit with me or asked me to come to him.”
Artan sensed a deep hurt behind her sharp words and inwardly cursed. Unless he had proof to give her, hard proof that her guardians had kept her apart from Angus, it would be difficult to free her from their grasp. It would not be easy to get any proof. Still, he mused with an inner smile, at least searching for that proof would give him something to do while he was at Dunburn.
“’Tis odd,” he murmured, “for I ken weel that he tried.”
“Tried to write or tried to visit?”
“Write. I fear he wouldnae come here unless ye were on your deathbed or in grave danger. He has no liking for the Lowlands.”
“So gently said. He loathes this place and has nary a kind word to say about Lowlanders.”
“He liked your father, didnae he?”
“Aye,” she said softly, “he did.” A sudden onslaught of cherished memories made her smile. “Uncle Angus always spoke as if Papa were of the Highlands, and thus ne’er tempered his opinion of Lowlanders. Why, I think only the English enrage him more.”
“The English enrage everyone.”
Cecily hastily swallowed the urge to laugh. The man spoke as if he was reciting one of God’s own laws. In many ways, he sounded very like her uncle, and she suddenly wondered exactly what his relationship was to Angus MacReith. Her uncle would not send just anyone as his emissary.
“How are ye related to my uncle? Or, are ye e’en a kinsmon?” Again, Cecily was not sure why the thought that he was a very close relation should trouble her so. She should be glad to have found other family.
“I am but a distant cousin. My mother is Angus’s cousin. I believe I am a step or two more distant than Malcolm.”
“Malcolm?” Cecily struggled to recall a cousin named Malcolm. “I cannae really recall a Malcolm.”
“Brown hair, thin, pointy wee face and little eyes? Makes one think of a weasel, a verra cowardly weasel.”
Even that harsh description did not immediately rouse a memory. Cecily did her best to think through that last visit to Glascreag. She was a little surprised at how clear those memories were after so long, especially when the visit had had such a tragic ending. Slowly, a particular memory became clear. There had been a feast and other kinsmen had attended. Her uncle had intended it for these more distant relations to meet Colin, who would be his heir. Recalling that feast brought to mind a well-rounded woman and her son, both of whom had so obviously disliked the idea of Colin as heir that even she, as a child, had sensed it.
; “Lady Seaton and her son.”
“Aye, Malcolm Seaton. His mother was also a cousin to Angus, and she has always expected her son to be Angus’s heir.”
“He was, if I recall right, an irritating young mon.”
“Aye, ye recall right. He still is. Sly, manipulative, weak, and dishonest.”
“Oh dear. Uncle Angus must be most dismayed that such a mon will take his place as laird one day.”
“Aye, ye could say that.”
Artan tried to think of something else to talk about, for this topic was too close to the reasons why he was at Dunburn. If he thought for even a minute that the truth would cause her to come with him back to Glascreag, he would tell it. Instinct told him she would not take it well, however. Women tended to take offense at the thought that they were being married for the land or coin they would bring to the marriage, even though that was the way of the world. Once such knowledge was in their hands, they were reluctant to believe any protestations to the contrary. It was true that he had an eye to being made Angus’s heir, but he would not marry simply because of that. Unfortunately, once Cecily found out about the arrangement with Angus, she would always question his reasons for wanting her as a wife.
Of course, he was still not absolutely certain he would do as Angus wished. Cecily was lovely, and just hearing her voice seemed to stroke him and rouse his lusts. There was more needed in a marriage than property and prettiness, however, and he was not yet completely sure he could find that with Cecily. What he needed to do was steal a kiss or two, he decided. He knew well that a man could be aroused by the look of a woman only to find a deep coldness in her arms.
Subtly glancing at Sir Fergus, Sir Edmund, and Lady Anabel, Artan suspected that it would be difficult to woo Cecily in even the smallest way. Not that he was particularly good at wooing, he mused. His best chance to draw Cecily back to Glascreag was in proving that her guardians and her betrothed were not worth her loyalty. He also needed to hold fast to Cecily’s interest so that she would remain close at hand in case she continued to bow to the will of the others and he had begun to run out of time. The more he saw of these people, the more he felt sure that it would be best if Cecily went to stay with Angus. If she did not agree to go with him and the wedding drew too near for comfort, he would simply pick her up and take her away from here.
Highland Barbarian Page 4
