Highland Barbarian

by Howell, Hannah

  He tried again to get comfortable on the ground. It was impossible to plan anything himself as he was too weak. If he could just rest a moment, he thought, then hastily pushed that temptation away. He needed to stay alert so he could help his rescuers when they arrived, and he was sure they would soon. Artan just wished Cecily was not part of the plan.

  “In about an hour we shall see just how much your bride cares for you,” Sir Fergus said as he moved a little closer.

  “And how do ye plan to see that?”

  “She will come to trade herself for you. She will put herself under my command so that ye may live. If she cares, that is.”

  “I am too weary to play this game, laddie,” Artan said, knowing the contempt in his voice enraged Sir Fergus. “Whether the lass cares for me or nay isnae what matters in this.”

  “Oh? And what does matter?”

  “Whether she is fool enough to think ye will e’er keep your promises.”

  Artan could see how badly the man wanted to kick him again. He did not understand why such remarks angered the man so much. Sir Fergus’s rage was no act to fool MacIvor, although it should be. Sir Fergus knew he was lying, but he might yet hope that MacIvor did not, and he needed that ally until he could get safely away from Glascreag. Artan just did not think Sir Fergus was that good a player.

  Glancing at his wounds, Artan saw that the bleeding had finally stopped. It had been a very slow sort of bleeding, but even a slow loss from several wounds could be dangerous if it was slow to stop. He hoped his rescue came soon, as it was increasingly difficult to keep his wits about him, and that was a very bad sign. He felt very tired and cold, another very bad sign.

  “So old Angus has named ye his heir, has he?” asked MacIvor.

  It took Artan a moment to focus on the man. There was an intent look on MacIvor’s face that made Artan think MacIvor knew exactly what he was feeling. It was just possible that MacIvor sought to help him in his efforts to cling to consciousness. If the man wanted to help, he would help him to a more comfortable place and give him a drink, Artan thought angrily, but he kept his anger out of his voice as he talked to the man.

  “Aye,” Artan replied, “ye ken that he had to call Malcolm that for a wee while since Malcolm has a closer blood tie to Angus.”

  “Ha! How it must have galled Old Angus to claim that whining ferret as his heir. Blood ties are important, though. Of course yours are much stronger now that ye have married the lass.”

  “Aye, much stronger. She is his niece after all.”

  “A fine way to secure it all and be rid of a spineless little cur like Malcolm. I suspicion ye dinnae have any complaints about it all, eh?”

  “Nay, none at all.” Artan tried to hide his surprise when the man picked up the jug of wine, poured a tankard full, and brought it over to him.

  “What are ye doing?” demanded Sir Fergus as MacIvor helped Artan drink.

  “Making sure the laddie doesnae die too quickly. A wounded mon needs drink.”

  Artan, pained by the way he had needed to be held upright a little to drink, could only manage a grunt as his expression of gratitude, but it seemed to please MacIvor. As he struggled to recover from the man’s help, a young MacIvor man came into the tent. After a look at Artan followed by a glare at Sir Fergus, the young mon had a quick word with MacIvor. Artan could not even guess at the words the two men exchanged, but a few moments later, the young man left without even a word or a bow of courtesy to Sir Fergus. The contempt for the man they found themselves allied with obviously went through the whole clan.

  “So, ye were told about the niece and asked to wed her?” MacIvor said as he returned to his seat at the small table. “Find her, wed her, and become Angus’s heir?

  “Aye, something like that,” Artan replied. “Angus wanted me to believe he was on his deathbed.”

  “It wasnae all that long ago ye left and Angus looked as hale as he e’er has.”

  “He recovered.” Artan smiled fleetingly when MacIvor snorted with laughter.

  “Is any of this important?” asked Sir Fergus in a sharp, angry voice.

  “To me. I will nay be running to the Lowlands when this is o’er. Nay, I must needs stay here on my lands, which border the MacReith land,” replied MacIvor. “’Tis wise to understand the ones who live so close to ye, especially when a lot of them are verra weel-armed men.”

  “Have your wee gossip then. Once I have Cecily back I will be gone from this place and your little intrigues willnae matter to me.”

  Artan had the feeling that MacIvor was doing more than gossiping. Instinct told him that MacIvor was trying to make a decision and wanted as much information as possible. What decision that might be and how it might help him was not something he had the wit left to untangle, however, so he simply answered MacIvor’s questions, using what few wits he had to make sure that he did not tell the man more than what Sir Fergus called gossip. By the end of the conversation, however, Artan knew that MacIvor had learned a great deal about Cecily’s connection to Angus and how much Angus had wanted Cecily and Artan’s marriage; he just could not think of why it should matter to the man and he had neither the strength nor the privacy needed to find out.

  One of Sir Fergus’s men cautiously entered the tent, frequently glancing back over his shoulder. “Sir Fergus, Lady Cecily is coming,” he said.

  “Good. Ye may go.” Sir Fergus turned to speak to MacIvor only to hear the Ogilvey man cough and draw his attention back to him. “Go.”

  “But, sir, I think, weel, I need to speak to ye. Privately.”

  “Later.”

  “Er, later willnae help, sir. I really think—”

  “I dinnae require ye to think! Get out of here!”

  When the man still hesitated Sir Fergus threw a tankard at him and he finally retreated. Sir Fergus forced himself to be calm and fussily brushed the front of his jupon with his hands. Artan could not see MacIvor’s expression for the man was intently staring into his tankard. There was something happening, something Sir Fergus was unaware of, but Artan could not seem to collect his thoughts enough to even guess what it was. He was rapidly becoming too weak to care about any intrigues, and that worried him. Looking toward the door, he waited for Cecily, hoping that she had not really come here alone.

  Chapter 17

  “Why are all the MacIvors sitting outside the camp?” Cecily asked Bennet, who was escorting her to Sir Fergus’s tent.

  “’Tis a puzzle, lass,” replied Bennet; then he grinned. “Howbeit, I think whate’er game they play it is to our advantage.”

  “I pray ye are right. I dinnae ken what my uncle’s plan is, but I suspect any advantage will aid him in carrying it out.” She frowned when, at the opening to the tent, two Ogilvey men stopped Bennet and relieved him of his weapons—but still held him back. “He is disarmed now, so why willnae ye let him come in?”

  “Only you,” said the shorter of the two men.

  “Go on in, lass,” said Bennet. “’Tis no matter. We didnae really think they would let me step inside with ye.”

  Heartily wishing yet again that Angus had told her what his plan was, Cecily stepped inside the tent. It took a moment for her eyes to accustom themselves to the darker interior, but when they did, she immediately sought out Artan. Her first sight of him made her fear that she would actually swoon and ruin all of Angus’s plans. He was tied hand and foot and leashed. Even in the position he was in, half curled up on his side, she could see that he suffered from several sword wounds and had been badly beaten. She started to move toward him but a faint shake of his head brought her to her senses.

  She turned her attention to Sir Fergus and caught him watching her very intently. Instinct told her that if she had rushed to Artan’s side as she had wished to and exclaimed over his injuries, it could have cost Artan dearly. It would have accomplished what Angus wanted, keeping Sir Fergus’s attention fixed firmly on her, but she suspected using Artan to accomplish that was not what Angus would want.<
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  “I see that your hospitality to a guest is as gracious as ever,” she drawled, and was sure she heard MacIvor snort with laughter, but she did not dare take her gaze from Sir Fergus to see for herself.

  “The mon is nay a guest, but a prisoner,” snapped Sir Fergus.

  “A prisoner ye said ye would release as soon as I came to ye. Weel, here I am, so release him.”

  “I am nay sure I ought to do that. Nay, at least not until we are off the MacReith lands.”

  It had been a fleeting hope that he would not only hold to his word but do so without trying any tricks. “Do ye mean to go back on your word?”

  “Of course not,” he said so quickly she knew he was lying. “I said I would release him, but I ne’er said when.”

  Cecily chanced a fleeting glance toward Laird MacIvor and saw him nod to himself as if he had just had a question answered or some decision confirmed. “That, sir, is naught but a base trickery, for ye ken weel that the immediate release of Sir Artan was what ye had agreed to.”

  “’Tis nay my fault that Laird Angus didnae have the wit to make it more specific.”

  “Actually, I believe the lass here is the one ye made the agreement with,” murmured Laird MacIvor, standing up and idly leaning against the edge of the table.

  “Fine then,” snapped Sir Fergus. “Then ’tis she who lacked the wit to be most specific.” He glared at Cecily. “And why are ye dressed as if someone has died?”

  “Nay someone but something. I dress in mourning for all my lost dreams,” she said in a soft, unsteady voice and sighed a little.

  “Ye would be wise to nay try to anger me.”

  “Sir Fergus, there appears to be verra little anyone can do that doesnae anger ye.”

  Cecily could see that she could, indeed, hold his attention on her. Angering him did that very efficiently. She hoped Angus was quick to arrive, however, for angering Sir Fergus Ogilvey was the surest way to get struck down, and she could not be sure that Laird MacIvor would do anything to stop him. While his beating her would certainly keep him occupied, Cecily would greatly prefer it if Angus arrived first.

  “It would appear that MacIvor has decided he has had enough of Sir Chinless,” murmured Angus as he looked around at all the MacIvor men now camping outside of Sir Fergus’s camp.

  Ian the Fair nodded as he also looked around. “Aye, and I ken weel that they ken we are here, and yet they do naught.”

  “But where is MacIvor?”

  “Still in the camp? He did give ye his word that Artan willnae be killed. Mayhap he stays near at hand to be sure that promise is kept.”

  “Ah, aye. I suspicion that is just what he is doing. And it would seem that he has also figured out we mean to come and get Artan ourselves, hence putting all his men out of the way.”

  “Weel, that is a fine thing, but it still leaves us all of those Lowlanders to deal with.”

  “But there are holes in the defenses now, lad. ’Twill be easier to slip in and get Artan and Cecily out of there.”

  “Aye, I could see that the lass didnae want to get near that bastard Sir Fergus, but she wasnae going to let Artan come to harm. She has spine.”

  “Aye, she does.”

  “Laird, what are ye doing?” Ian asked in shock, grabbing Angus by the arm when he started walking straight for the five MacIvors they had been watching.

  “Trust me, lad. They willnae do anything to stop us. I ken old MacIvor weel. Been adversaries for years, havenae we. He wants naught to do with this, but he kens we are coming after the lad. How to stay out of that tussle yet appear to be keeping his word? I suspicion he has set his men here and told them to ignore us. After all, if by some miracle Sir Idiot wins the day, there will be questions asked, aye? And the MacIvors will say that they ne’er saw us.”

  “Sly, verra sly. But are ye sure that is what this is all about?”

  “Sure enough to walk right through that camp and save myself a great deal of slipping through the shadows.”

  Angus bit back a grin when Ian muttered a curse even as he fell into step at his side. The moment he and Ian stepped out into the open, all five MacIvors sitting around a little fire dipped their heads and stared firmly at the ground. He was impressed by the sly trick MacIvor had devised. Even the men who were poor liars could look anyone straight in the eye and claim they had seen no MacReiths. He strode right through the middle of the camp, Ian at his side just staring at men sitting there with their heads bowed.

  “I cannae believe it,” muttered Ian as they reached the other side of the camp and all the MacIvors lifted their heads but were careful not to look to the left or the right.

  “’Tis verra clever. I ne’er would have thought MacIvor had that clever a mind. I have underestimated the poor fellow.”

  “That poor fellow has been trying to get Glascreag for his whole life and is probably teaching his sons to crave it, too.”

  “Aye, I suspicion he is, but that has been the way of it since MacIvors and MacReiths first set out their hearthstones in these hills.”

  As they approached the tent, Angus caught sight of Bennet just standing there chatting with two of the Ogilveys and inwardly shook his head. Bennet could make friends with Satan himself, he thought a little crossly. Just as he thought he was going to have to do something to remind the lad of his part in this plan, Bennet moved to the side of the tent. Angus was not sure what the young man was saying, but it was good enough to draw his two guards around the corner with him.

  He was getting too old for this, he mused as he waited for Bennet to reappear. His patience for this game was gone and he was going to be more than happy to hand such duties over to Artan soon. Angus was actually starting to move to go and see what had happened to Bennet when the young man and another MacReith, both wearing the jupons the guards had had on, came back around the corner.

  It was then that Angus noticed a small hole in his plan. The guards had been standing guard on a MacReith and now it looked as if they had lost their prisoner. A quick look around the camp showed him that no one was paying any attention and he breathed a quick sigh of relief. He felt a need to act quickly now, however, for there was a chance there were other holes he had not considered and he wanted Cecily and Artan back inside the walls of Glascreag before someone did notice.

  Staying to the shadows, Angus and Ian crept up close enough for Angus to whisper to Bennet, “Who is in the tent?”

  “Artan, Cecily, Sir Fergus, and Laird MacIvor,” Bennet answered in an equally soft voice.

  “Weel, that should make things interesting,” Angus said; Bennet laughed softly. “When ye hear my whistle…” he began.

  “Get out of here. Aye, I remember. Artan may need help getting back to Glascreag.”

  “He is wounded?”

  “Aye, although the brief glance I got inside the tent wasnae enough to tell me where or how badly. He is also bound hand and foot and leashed to a stake in the ground.”

  “I cannae wait to kill that bastard.”

  “Good luck.”

  Cecily glanced over at Artan, not liking his color or the way he seemed to be more unconscious than conscious. “Ye have done naught to tend his wounds. Most people would treat a dog better.”

  “He can wait. He will be back at Glascreag ere they worsen and he will be past caring then.”

  That was an ominous statement, and out of the corner of her eye Cecily saw MacIvor tense. Fergus did not seem to grasp the need to take care in what he said. Laird MacIvor had given his word to Angus that Artan would be returned to Glascreag quickly and alive. Fergus’s cold words strongly implied that not only would Artan not be returned quickly, he would be returned dead. Unlike Fergus, Laird MacIvor was a man of his word, and hearing Sir Fergus, his ally, strongly imply that he had no intention of honoring that word had to enrage him.

  “Ye would have been treated better by the MacReiths, Sir Fergus, and ye ken it weel,” she said.

  “That doesnae mean I have to be as foolish as th
ey are. This mon has wronged me!”

  “Oh, and ye havenae wronged me? Ye who intended to wed me for my dower, bed me until ye tired of me, and then kill me for all the rest my father left me? Who kenned weel that my own guardians had my father and brother killed and had expected, e’en fervently desired, that I should die with them? Yet ye said naught to me? Ye kenned about my inheritance as weel and ye said naught.”

  “Ye are but a woman. Ye didnae have any need to ken any of it.”

  “’Tis all mine and ye were silent because ye wanted as much of it for yourself as ye could get. But let us say that, as a woman, I should have naught to do with such concerns about my own inheritance and which carrion get to feast upon it. Our betrothal wasnae a long one, sir, and yet ye couldnae e’en be faithful to me. Worse, ye broke your vows to me in my own home.”

  “Faithful? What mon is e’er faithful, ye daft wench.”

  “My husband has promised to be faithful.”

  “Pretty words to lift your skirts is all.”

  “Nay, Artan isnae a mon much skilled in the saying of pretty words. He means it. He willnae be rutting with a maid within mine own home. Nay, nor will he commit adultery with a kinswoman of mine, although I have few of them sad to say. And one thing he will ne’er and would ne’er do is try to rape a lass barely past her first flux.”

  “She was willing and she looks younger than she is.”

  “And the bruises ye gave her were naught but wee love taps, aye?” She shook her head. “I cannae believe I almost married you. I thought ye might actually have a few attractive attributes, somewhere, buried deeply. What a fool I was. I ne’er suspected that ye were quite the thoroughly rotten bastard that ye are. Nay, I just thought ye were a tedious bore.”