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Highland Barbarian

Page 21

by Howell, Hannah

She heard a now-familiar snort of laughter and realized it had come from behind her. Laird MacIvor had somehow managed to slip around the room until he was standing near to Artan. She did not understand what the man was doing but, after a brief flash of alarm, felt certain he was no threat to Artan.

  Sir Fergus, however, was, she thought as she turned her attention back to that man.

  Where was Angus, she wondered. It seemed as if she had been standing here trading insults with Sir Fergus for hours. Although she knew stealth would be needed for whatever Angus had to do and that such stealth took time, she was beginning to get nervous.

  Another fleeting glance at Artan only added to her tension. He was looking poorly. Although he was watching her, there was a slightly glazed look in his eyes that frightened her. His silence also bothered her. It made sense that he would not want to show too much interest in her or give Sir Fergus the satisfaction that this apparent victory of his might cause either of them any real distress; he had not even insulted the man once since she had entered the tent.

  Looking more closely, she saw what looked to be blood on the ground around his body and she felt chilled with fear for him. His wounds had been left untended for a long time and it was clear that no one had even tried to stop the bleeding. Artan had probably lost a lot of blood, which did not bode well for his chances of recovery. She hastily stilled the worst of her fears by reminding herself of how strong and healthy he was. All he needed was to get back to Glascreag, get his wounds tended to, and be cared for, she told herself firmly.

  “If ye mean to honor your word, Sir Fergus, ye should either allow Artan to go back to Glascreag now or tend his wounds.”

  After staring at Artan for a moment, Sir Fergus looked back at her and shrugged. “He still breathes, which is more than can be said for the five men he killed ere we caught him.”

  “Those five men were trying to rape two young girls.”

  “Peasant wenches. Lusty, the whole lot of them. They like to protest in the hope of gaining a wee bit more coin for their favors. Ye have been sheltered at Dunburn and dinnae understand the ways of the world. Aye, and yon knight was a fool to let himself be caught because of two little whores who feared they would have to give it away for free.”

  “Ye, Sir Fergus, are indeed the rutting swine your banner declares ye to be.”

  “’Tis a rampant boar!” he yelled.

  Obviously that particular taunt had begun to sorely anger the man. “I see little difference.”

  “As do I, lass.”

  The sound of Angus’s voice was such a relief Cecily was astonished she did not fall to the ground at that very moment. She did obey the little quirk of his finger, however, and hurry over to stand at his side. Her heart ached to go to Artan’s side, but Angus did not need to have to keep a watch on two people as he confronted Sir Fergus. The only thing she could do was sidle along until she was on Angus’s far side, nearest to Artan but still protected by Angus. The moment he took care of the threat Sir Fergus presented, she would be able to reach Artan in only a few steps.

  She suddenly recalled Laird MacIvor and saw him standing close to Artan, his sword in his hand, and her blood chilled. Cecily looked at her uncle and knew he was aware of Laird MacIvor, but Angus did not look at all worried about where the man was and what he was holding. She tried very hard to share his calm.

  “Ye are a fool to come here, MacReith,” said Sir Fergus. “Ye may have been able to slip in past my guards, but ye will ne’er be able to slip out. Nay, especially since ye will have to carry Sir Artan.”

  “Aye, I can see that ye have done him hard,” agreed Angus. “Ye have become a real irritant, ye have.”

  “All I sought was that which was mine—Cecily Donaldson.”

  “She isnae yours, laddie. I am thinking she ne’er was and ne’er would have been. Ye and those two scum back at Dunburn have stolen enough from my poor wee lass, and it will end here.”

  “Oh, do ye mean to fight me for her, old mon?”

  Sir Fergus did not have the brain of a flea, thought Cecily as she winced over his mocking tone of voice and the remark about Angus’s age. If the man would just open his eyes, he would see that her uncle was still strong, probably stronger than Sir Fergus, and more than capable of fighting the fool. Sir Fergus should be afraid, not standing there feeling so superior and safe.

  “He just called ye an old mon, Angus,” murmured Laird MacIvor.

  “Aye, I ken it, but I have heard worse.”

  “Going to kill him?”

  “I am fair hungering to do so.”

  “Aye, he is a sad waste of a knighthood, that is for certain.”

  Sir Fergus stared at Laird MacIvor in shock. “Have ye gone to his side then? Is there naught but betrayal in these lands? I thought ye were a mon of your word. Ye have certainly deafened me with the claiming of it for hours.”

  “I am on my side, laddie. Ye are the one who had no intention of keeping his word. Did ye nay listen at the walls? I gave Angus my word that Sir Artan would be returned alive. I mean to keep it. If that means I step aside from ye, weel, so be it.”

  Sir Fergus took a step toward the opening of his tent only to find Ian standing there. “Nay, laddie. Ye will find no aid there. Two of ours stand guard.”

  Now Cecily could see the fear creep over Sir Fergus. He realized he had no ally and was trapped in his own tent by Sir Angus and his men. If he had not been planning to murder her to satisfy his greed and kill Artan to satisfy his anger, she just might have felt sorry for him. Cecily did not like the idea of seeing him killed, however, but in some ways, she was just as trapped as he was. Well, she thought, she was the wife of a Highland warrior and she would undoubtedly see men killed from time to time. Best to get the first shock of it over and done with.

  “So, ye mean to murder me, do ye?” Sir Fergus said.

  “Och, nay, laddie,” said Angus. “Now, I would like naught better than to kill ye for what ye have done to my lad here and what ye planned to do to my niece, but I really just wish to get my lad and his lass back to Glascreag as quickly as possible.”

  “She isnae his lass. She is mine!”

  “Ye havenae got the sense to ken when ye have lost, do ye? Leave it be, lad. Keep your life and go home. The money isnae worth it.”

  “’Tis a fortune, ye old fool, and this wench has to pay for humiliating me by running away with that Highlander during our wedding celebration.”

  “Ye cannae spend a fortune if your corpse is rotting away in these lands, now can ye.”

  “Nay, I cannae let him win. I cannae let her win. I had this all carefully planned.”

  “Go home, Sir Fergus,” Cecily said. “If ’tis a fortune ye hunger for, then pry it out of my guardian’s hands. They were willing to give me to ye as weel as a near fortune just to shut ye up. Ye can still play that game with them. Just leave me out of it.”

  “Nay, nay.” He shook his head and Cecily feared he had lost his mind, if only briefly. “I was humiliated. I willnae let that barbarian beat me!”

  He lunged toward Artan even as he drew his sword. Angus, Ian, and Cecily all moved at once, which only impeded them all. By the time Angus broke free of the tangle, Sir Fergus was lifting his sword over Artan, who seemed too dazed to get out of the way. Cecily could neither move nor speak, terrified that she was about to see her husband murdered right in front of her eyes.

  Then, suddenly, Laird MacIvor moved and swiftly settled the problem.

  Chapter 18

  Sir Fergus’s head landed right at her feet. Cecily stared down into his wide eyes and thought how surprised he looked. She wondered why she was not retching and decided she must be in shock. One minute it had looked as if Sir Fergus was going to succeed in killing Artan and none of them would be able to stop him. In the very next moment, Laird MacIvor was standing there with a bloodied sword in his hand and Sir Fergus’s head was touching the tips of her shoes while his body was sprawled out next to Artan.

  “It is tou
ching my shoes,” she whispered.

  Angus picked her up and set her down again several feet away. “There now, lass. Just take a few deep breaths and ye will be fine.”

  She did as he told her to and watched as he and Ian moved Sir Fergus’s body away from Artan and began to untie her husband. When Laird MacIvor calmly cleaned his sword off on Sir Fergus’s jupon, apparently unconcerned that that jupon was on a headless body, Cecily decided that she would probably never understand men. Sir Fergus deserved to die. She felt no remorse or sorrow about that. It was just the quick, cold way that it was done and how none of the men were troubled by having the body—both parts—right there in the tent with them.

  “How are ye going to explain Sir Fergus’s death?” Angus asked Laird MacIvor.

  “Weel, if I have to explain it at all, I will say that ye did it,” the man replied.

  “Fair enough. I was certainly ready to do it. But what do ye mean by if?”

  “I dinnae intend to be here when his men discover the fool’s body.”

  Angus nodded. “I had wondered on that. All your men sitting outside the camp made me think ye were planning to slip away. ’Tis the first step to leaving, isnae it?”

  “Aye, I should have left earlier, but I gave ye my word that the lad would come home alive and I meant to keep it. That fool let me ken that he didnae intend to keep his word. He was a bad one.”

  “He was. Somehow I dinnae think his men will be crying for vengeance. Or his family.”

  “Nay, do ye ken one of his men tried to tell him about how all of my men had moved out of the camp, but the fool wouldnae listen, wouldnae e’en hear what the mon had to say. Threw a tankard at his head and the man finally gave up. Mayhap if Fergus had learned to listen to others he wouldnae be dead now. Has me thinking hard, though.”

  “Oh? On what?”

  “On the way me and all the MacIvor lairds afore me have had covetous eyes on Glascreag.” He shook his head. “Look what I joined forces with just to get a chance to take it from you. I begin to think it has become a sickness with us, and truth tell, I cannae e’en remember why we think we have any right to it.”

  “Didnae ken ye needed one.”

  “Ah, but there’s the wrong in it, aye? Weel, get the lad home. He needs tending. That bastard nay only refused to treat his wounds or e’en give him water, but I caught him beating on the lad whilst he was tied up like that. Put a stop to that and gave your lad a drink. The man is a fine warrior and he will make a far better laird than that weasel Malcolm. Wasnae right to treat him as if he was some common thief.”

  Artan groaned with pain as Ian hefted him up across his shoulders. Cecily grabbed a blanket from the bed. As soon as there were other men to help, they could carry Artan in the blanket. Being carried over Ian’s shoulder like that could start Artan’s wounds bleeding again, and she could see that he had already lost enough to make him dangerously weak.

  To her surprise, the cut that Artan had made in the tent when he had rescued her was still there, simply laced shut. Angus held it open as wide as he could for Ian to get through, then slipped out after him. Cecily was just about to follow the men when she suddenly realized that all MacIvor had gotten as thanks was a grunt from Angus. She turned and started because he was standing right behind her.

  “Thank ye, m’laird,” she said, and stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the tiny part of his cheek that was not covered in beard just as she heard Angus’s whistle, the signal to the others to make for home.

  Looking bemused, Laird MacIvor said, “Tell that old fool I will give him five minutes.”

  She nodded and started out of the tent only to have Angus reach in, grab her by the arm, and yank her out. “I had to say thank ye to Laird MacIvor.”

  “Ye can write him a pretty note.”

  “He said he can give ye five minutes.” Seeing that Bennet and another young man had joined them, she handed Angus the blanket. “Ye can use this to carry him home. ’Twould be better, I think.”

  “Aye,” agreed Angus. With the help of the others, he immediately started getting Artan moved from Ian’s shoulders and onto the blanket. “Ye will have a lot of work to do to fix this, lass.”

  “I fear so,” she whispered, then followed the four men as they carried Artan in the blanket. When she saw the shadowy form of the others heading toward Glascreag she realized that Angus had brought quite a large force of men with him. “Why so many men, Uncle?”

  “In case there was a fight.”

  “Do ye think there will be any retaliation for Sir Fergus’s death?”

  “Nay, MacIvor will blame me if he has to, but he will let it be widely kenned that Sir Fergus died because he tried to kill a mon, an already wounded mon who was bound hand and foot and leashed to a stake. And think on this, lass. Considering the sort of mon he was, do ye really think there will be many mourners?”

  She sighed. “Nay, I have met some of his kinsmen. All there will be is a hard scramble to see who can grab the most of whatever he has left behind.”

  “A mon reaps what he sows.”

  That sounded heartless, but it was also true, she mused as she did her best to keep up with the men. When she was sure five minutes had passed, she tensed and waited for some sign of an outcry. None came and Cecily thought that was even sadder. She felt no grief for Sir Fergus Ogilvey, only for the sad waste of a life, and the waste had been mostly of Sir Fergus’s own making. The man had had several chances to step down a different path right up until the end, but he had not taken up any of them.

  The moment they were inside Glascreag’s walls, Cecily took command. She quickly had Artan settled in his bedchamber. Crooked Cat helped her undress him and wash the dirt from his body. She almost wept like a bairn when she saw the damage done to his big, strong body. It also troubled her to see him so weak and insensible, but she was glad of it as she began to clean his wounds.

  He had three sword cuts; all needed stitches, but only one of them was a truly serious wound. His capture and Sir Fergus’s beating had left Artan bruised from head to toe. Cecily was astonished that nothing was broken, although she suspected his ribs had taken a lot of punishment, so she wrapped them tightly. With Crooked Cat’s help she even managed to get some hearty broth down his throat.

  “That is a verra fine-looking mon ye have there, lass,” said Crooked Cat as she collected up all the rags they had used to clean him off.

  “I certainly think so, but if ye dinnae keep your eyes averted next time, I may have to kill ye.” She smiled when Crooked Cat laughed. “His color isnae good.”

  “Nay, it isnae. I think he lost a lot of blood and ’tis ne’er good to leave wounds untended for too long.”

  Cecily slowly nodded in agreement. She wanted to stay at his side, but at Crooked Cat’s insistence she hurried away to wash, change her clothes, and go and have something to eat. The woman was right to say that Artan was insensible right now, but also clean and comfortable. Now was the time for her to see to her own needs before she settled in at Artan’s bedside for what could prove to be a long, harrowing night, if not many of them.

  “How is the lad?” Angus asked the minute Cecily sat down at the head table in the great hall.

  “He remained unconscious throughout all the stitching, cleaning, and bandaging,” she replied as she filled her plate. “While I am most grateful he wasnae sensible as I tended his wounds, I cannae like it. It seems he should have stirred a little. I but pray that it is a natural sleep, that Artan heals himself in that way. Crooked Cat is sitting with him now.”

  Bennet frowned. “The few times Artan has been ill or badly wounded he did sleep a lot and slept verra deeply. And nay with the help of any potions.”

  “That is good then. There are few cures which are better than a lot of rest,” Cecily said, struggling to convince herself as much as she tried to convince the men. “It can e’en help ye recover from losing too much blood.” She looked at Angus. “Only one of the sword cuts, one on his back that c
urls around to his side, was a serious one, but ’tis clean and it bleeds no more. The beating Sir Fergus gave him left him covered in bruises, livid ones. But there are no broken bones; nay, not e’en his ribs, although I wrapped them as weel.” She noticed Bennet grinning, and asked, “What do ye find so amusing?”

  “Ye are a healer, arenae ye?” he asked.

  “Weel, aye, I suppose I am. ’Tis all I was e’er trained in and I was allowed it, I think, simply because I convinced Anabel that I hated it and she felt it was demeaning. Peasant’s work, she claimed.” She suddenly felt concern grip her heart. “Are ye thinking Artan willnae like it? Crooked Cat said a lot of women in your clan are healers.”

  “They are, and Artan will think it a fine thing. What amused me was thinking on how far afield he went and yet he ends up with a lass who will have much in common with all the lasses he grew up with.”

  “Crooked Cat sings your praises, lass,” said Angus. “And young Robbie’s mother is like to build a shrine to ye.”

  “Was he the lad with the three arrow wounds?”

  “Aye, and he is still weak and all, but there is no sign of fever or infection. Aye, and e’en the mother, who isnae a healer, could see how close two of those wounds were to killing her only child. But the best is that wee Nell, the lass who stayed at his side, has finally convinced her doting father of her devotion to the lad and they will be married as soon as Robbie is completely healed. She is a verra rich prize for a poor mon at arms. She will have her father’s wee farm in the end as weel as the stock, a full chest of linens, and ten shillings.” Angus winked. “E’en better, they have been sweet on each other since he was eight and she was a lass of but four summers stumbling after him everywhere he went.”

  Cecily had to smile. Her uncle acted as if he somehow had a hand in the match that was, indeed, a very good one for a poor man. She suspected Robbie’s work in the defending of Glascreag and the serious wounds he had endured helped sway the girl’s father as well. Cecily had thought the youth looked like a boy. No doubt Nell’s father did, too. There was nothing quite like being in a battle and enduring wounds to make other men begin to see that the boy has become a man. Men seemed able to ignore the fact that anyone can be pierced by an arrow or cut by a sword and bleed fulsomely, including a woman. Saying so to her uncle, however, would probably start an argument she did not have time to enjoy.

 

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