Highland Barbarian

by Howell, Hannah

  “Nay, I suspicion ye havenae needed any.”

  “’Twould sound vain if I were to agree with ye.”

  Old Meg shrugged. “’Tis just the truth. All that doesnae matter. Cecily isnae like one of those lasses ye took your ease with in the past. Best ye start thinking of what ye can say that will make her understand that she doesnae need to be anything but what she truly is.”

  Artan nodded and left the room. He needed to go for a ride, a hard, fast ride. He always thought better when he rode, and he needed to do a lot of hard thinking now. It would not be easy to get his Sile back, and he was far too aware of the fact that he lacked the proper skills to fight this battle. He wished his sister and her husband lived nearer to Glascreag. Liam Cameron was a man who knew well how to woo a lady. Sweet words tripped off the man’s tongue with ease. Artan had not really envied that skill until now.

  Once on the back of Thunderbolt, Artan gave the horse its head. He rode hard for several miles, letting the wind and the rhythm of his steed clear his mind. When he finally reined in, coaxing the horse into a slower pace, Artan looked around to mark where he was and realized he was nearly at the eastern border of Glascreag lands. He smiled and idly patted his mount’s neck. Thunderbolt might be getting old, but he still had the ability to take a man far and fast.

  “Good mon,” he murmured, turning the horse and letting the animal amble back in the direction of the keep and the warm stables. “Take your time, lad. I need to think. If only a woman could be as simple to ken as a good horse.” He laughed softly when Thunderbolt snorted and shook his head. “Aye, I ken that I would soon tire of that.”

  Artan was halfway back to the keep but no closer to having a plan when he espied his cousin Bennet. The man hailed him and rode up to him to fall in at his side. At first Artan resented this intrusion, but then decided it could prove useful. With his golden hair and blue eyes, Bennet never lacked for a woman’s attention. Although Artan had never noticed that the man had any great skill with soft words and flatteries, Bennet had to be doing something right to make so many women smile.

  “What are ye doing riding about all alone and somber when ye have such a bonnie wife at home?” asked Bennet.

  “’Tis my bonnie wife who has caused me to be out here ambling along like an old mon.”

  “Ah, ye have made her angry, have ye?”

  “Nay, not for days, and therein lies the problem.”

  Bennet frowned in confusion. “I must be particularly witless today for I dinnae see the problem. Ye dinnae like the fact that your wife isnae angry at you?”

  “I am nay an easy mon to live with.” Artan waited patiently for his cousin to stop laughing before he continued, “For my wife to be all sweet and smiling for so long just isnae right. She is too sweet, too obedient, too virtuous. She obeys my every command and rushes to see to my every need.”

  “Most men would be on their knees thanking God for the gift of such a wife, especially a virtuous one.”

  “Weel, I didnae mean I thought she ought to be smiling a welcome to every mon she sees,” Artan snapped.

  Bennet nodded. “Ye mean too virtuous in that she has all the fire and life of a dead herring.”

  Artan knew he was blushing for he could feel the faint heat of it in his cheeks. Even though he would like nothing better than to wipe that big grin off his cousin’s face, swiftly and violently, he ignored it. He needed to get his Sile back, and despite all Old Meg had advised, he still had no real idea of how to do that. It galled him to admit it, but he needed help. A lot of help.

  “Sile has turned herself into the perfect wife, or what that bitch Anabel told her a perfect wife should be.”

  “Why would Sile heed anything that woman ever said?”

  “Just because the woman turned out to be a conniving bitch who cared naught for the child in her care doesnae mean every word she uttered was a lie. And we both ken how some training can get a deep hold on a person. Old Meg says this is all because Sile needs to part of a family.”

  “She is part of a family. Our family.”

  “I didnae say it made any sense. Old Meg says Sile is doing this because I didnae make it clear that I liked my lass just as she was—all spit and fire. Sile is wearing herself to the bone trying to make herself perfect.”

  Bennet nodded. “Aye, she has looked weary of late. So tell her ye like her as she is.”

  “I dinnae like her this way.”

  “I meant as she was.”

  Artan dragged his hand through his hair. “I am nay sure of the best way to do that, to make her believe me and stop this nonsense. I tried to make her angry, but that didnae work. All she did was apologize and promise to try harder to be a good wife.”

  “That doesnae sound like our Sile.”

  “My Sile and, nay, it doesnae. Seems Lady Anabel deafened the lass for years with lectures on how a lady should act and what a proper wife should do and say and she enforced her opinions with beatings. Now Sile has decided to obey each and every rule.” Artan nodded when Bennet cursed, pleased that his cousin finally understood his problem. “I am going to have to talk to her.”

  “I see the problem now. By talk ye mean telling her how ye feel and all that. Difficult.”

  “Impossible. I am nay a mon of sweet words and I have no skill at flatteries.”

  “Er, nay. Nay, ye dinnae. ’Tisnae something I can teach ye in but a few hours either, Artan.”

  That was not what Artan wanted to hear. He suddenly wondered if being skilled with flatteries and sweet words did not necessarily mean you were truly good with women, or understood them any more than any other man, or could solve a problem that arose between you and the woman of your choice. It only meant that you could draw them into your bed or make them blush and smile. It might get one a wife, but it did not mean that one could keep her happy.

  “Nay, I suppose ye cannae,” he agreed and sighed. “And e’en if ye did, it wouldnae sound right when I said words ye had given me to say. Sile would ken they werenae my words. Just tell me what ye would do.”

  Bennet grimaced and scratched his chin. “I dinnae really ken. Tell her how ye feel, I suppose. Tell her ye liked her when she stood firm against ye and called ye an oaf when ye were acting like one.”

  “Actually, she called me an overbearing ogre who grunts more than he talks.” Artan smiled faintly in remembrance as Bennet laughed. “Oh, and a wart on Satan’s nose. I told her she needed to think harder on that one as it wasnae one of her best insults.”

  “She thinks up insults?”

  “Aye, she claims ’tis because she is too small to physically defend herself so she wants a quiverful of insults to fling at any foe.”

  “I dinnae think it was her insults that left Malcolm looking so poorly.”

  Artan nodded, feeling proud of how his wife had dealt with Malcolm. “That is the Sile I want. Nay this sweet, puling little weakling of a lass. When I kidnapped her the first time and I set her back on her feet and took that gag off, she spit out insults that could make your hair curl and was practically hopping up and down she was so angry. I kenned then that I had found my mate.”

  “Aye, she sounds perfect for ye,” drawled Bennet, and chuckled when Artan nodded in all seriousness. “So tell her that.”

  “Tell her I thought she was adorable when she kicked me in the shins, then cursed me for making her toes hurt? That I get as hard as a rock when her eyes spark with fury and she pokes me in the chest as she scolds me? Doesnae sound like sweet words or flattery to me.”

  “But it is and of the most sincere kind. ’Tis how ye can make her see that ye truly want her just as she was, that ’twas that lass ye wed and wanted as your wife, as the mother of your bairns.”

  Artan stared at Bennet and frowned. “Shouldnae I be telling her how bonnie she is or something about how her hair shines or her eyes are like some flower?”

  “’Tisnae her looks she is trying to change or is worried about.”

  Revelation came har
d and fast and Artan cursed softly. Bennet had hit the mark squarely and dead center. Although Cecily did not seem to believe she was as bonnie as she was, she was also not terribly concerned about it. Only the occasional hint of jealousy revealed that she thought she was not pretty enough for a man she had declared was beautiful. Foolish lass, he thought fondly. He would have to make her see that she was beautiful, but not just yet. Now he had to make her understand that it was her spirit he married, her courage and pride, and even her temper.

  “Of course ye could always just tell her that ye love her,” murmured Bennet.

  “And why should I be doing that?” Artan was sorely tempted to remove that smug, knowing look from Bennet’s face, preferably by grinding it into the mud.

  “Because ye do. Saw it the first day ye arrived, when ye realized that she had been hurt by the knowledge of your bargain with Angus.”

  “Weel, it may be true, but a mon has his pride. She hasnae said she loves me, ye ken. Dinnae see why I should be the first.”

  “Mayhap she hasnae said it in words, but she has in so many other ways that ’tis clear to everyone at Glascreag. Aye, and why else would she be trying so hard to be a perfect wife for ye?”

  Artan stared blindly at the keep as he and Bennet approached the gates. His heart was pounding hard and fast in his chest at the mere thought that his Sile might love him. He had told himself that her passion, respect, and caring were enough, but now knew that he had lied to himself. There had remained an unease in his heart, a nameless craving. He now knew what that craving was for. He needed Cecily to love him because she was his life, his mate, his love. It was not enough to have Bennet say it was so either. Artan needed Cecily to say the words. The urge to race to their bedchamber and demand she say the words was fierce, but he wrestled it into submission. In her current humor she could well say the words just because he had demanded them of her. He wanted to hear them only if she truly meant them.

  As he and Bennet dismounted in the bailey, Artan struggled to prepare himself for the confrontation with his wife. It could not be delayed any longer if only because waiting was not going to give him any better idea of what to say to her. Realizing he was cowering at the thought of having a serious discussion with a tiny green-eyed woman, Artan suddenly found his courage again. If he had to, he could face an army armed only with his bare hands and make a good accounting of himself. He could certainly face a discussion of feelings with his wife without flinching. Artan set his shoulders and walked purposefully toward the doors of the keep.

  “Good luck!” called Bennet.

  Artan only grunted in reply for he knew he was going to need every scrap of good fortune he could grab hold of. Never had so much depended on his ability to speak clearly about what he felt, and never had he been so fully aware of how little skill he had for such a mission.

  Chapter 22

  Cecily looked at the shirt she was sewing for Artan. A good wife was efficient with a needle. A good wife wove tapestries, made cushions and altar clothes. A good wife could sew a straight line of neat little stitches. Looking at the shirt again, Cecily decided no one could ever say that those seams were straight or her stitches neat.

  She would have to pull out all her stitches and start all over again. Cecily took a slow, deep breath, but it did little to ease the anger building inside of her. It made no sense that she should be feeling so angry over nothing more than a badly sewn shirt, but she was. For several days, the anger had lurked inside her, but until now, she had been able to push it aside. She just wished she could discover where it was all coming from.

  Plucking at the stitching, she wondered why it was all going so horribly wrong. She was doing what she should. Cecily had been very careful about which of Anabel’s thousands of rules she would heed now, weeding out the ones she felt had been imposed upon her just to make her miserable. What had been left were the sort of rules most ladies were taught. As a result of following those rules she should be happy, Artan should be happy, her uncle should be happy, and they should all be living in a happy home.

  Instead, she was utterly and completely wretched. Her body ached from trying to be a good wife in the bedchamber, as it took a great deal of effort to be a lady when Artan kissed and caressed her. Artan was starting to look as angry as she felt, as well as confused. Her uncle occasionally looked at her as if he were sorely tempted to shove one of his carvings down her throat. Old Meg looked as if she wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. Glascreag had not changed much, but some of the MacReiths were starting to look at her as if they thought she had been hit on the head once too often. She had failed and she had failed miserably.

  She suddenly threw the shirt on the floor. Muttering every curse she could think of, she stomped on it repeatedly. She was just thinking that she should have done this earlier, that the knot of anger inside of her was rapidly loosening, when she abruptly realized that she was no longer alone.

  Artan silently closed the door behind him and stared at his wife. She was doing a strange sort of dance on top of a piece of linen and muttering some very creative curses. One thing he had never considered concerning the odd humor she had been in lately was that she might be suffering from some sort of madness or a brain fever.

  He quickly shook aside that alarming and foolish thought. There was not a thing wrong with Cecily’s mind except that it could be too quick for a man’s comfort. At times she also got some strange ideas stuck in that clever mind of hers. He suspected there was one there now.

  When she looked up and saw him, Artan felt as if someone had just reached inside his chest and squeezed his heart. His Sile looked so lost, so forlorn, he quickly strode across the room and pulled her into his arms. His little wife had been through a great deal of turmoil and change just lately. She had faced some hard, ugly truths and survived. She had thus far survived marriage to a man like him and having Angus for her uncle. It was not surprising that she should be feeling emotional from time to time, especially when the people who should have cared for her had spent the last twelve years doing everything in their power to crush her spirit, to enslave her to their will.

  Which, he daily thanked God, they had failed to do. His Sile had all the spirit and passion he could have ever hoped to find in his wife. It had just been waiting there inside her for someone to pull it free again. He just wished she would cease trying to bury it again, which she did from time to time. Anabel’s grasp on Cecily’s spirit was still tight and choking and he desperately needed to find a way to break it permanently. Artan listened closely to what Cecily was muttering against his chest, selecting what words he could understand and felt might be useful. He also waited patiently for her to stop crying on his shirt and tell him what was wrong.

  Hearing a little voice in her head telling her that this was not how a good wife would behave, Cecily tried to step back, but Artan tightened his grip. “Is there something ye want, Artan?” she asked.

  “Aye, I want ye to tell me why ye were dancing on that piece of linen,” he replied.

  Cecily looked down at the crumpled remains of the shirt she had been trying to make and felt like crying some more. “I wasnae doing a dance. I was stomping on it.”

  “And just what is it.”

  “Was. It was a shirt. I was trying to make ye a shirt.” She nodded when he frowned down at it, certain that he was seeing exactly what a poor job she had done. “’Tis ruined. S’truth it was weel ruined ere I threw it on the floor and started stomping on it and cursing it. I failed. Miserably. I think someone could threaten to cut off all my toes one by one and I still couldnae sew a straight seam. All good wives are skilled with a needle. But nay me. Do ye see any cushions in here?”

  “Ah, weel, nay. No cushions.”

  “Of course ye dinnae see any. I havenae made any. I have failed at that, too.”

  “I dinnae mind that there are no cushions in here, and if I need a new shirt, weel, there are plenty of women about who can sew a fine stitch and would be pleased to ear
n a coin or two for making me one.”

  Artan began to feel a little desperate. He could tell by the look on her face that he was not saying the right things. She looked even more upset now than she had before he tried to soothe her.

  “So ye failed to make a shirt for me and cushions for our bedchamber. It doesnae matter,” he said firmly; then frustration over being unable to talk freely to the woman she had become and his inability to bring his ewer-tossing Sile back seized hold of him. “Do ye really want to ken what I want?”

  Cecily heard the faint hint of a growl in his voice and eyed him warily. “Aye, of course. A good wife—”

  “I want my wife back,” he snapped, interrupting what he felt was going to be an irritating list of all the truly stupid things Anabel had said.

  “But I am trying to give ye a wife, to get back to what I was ere we left Dunburn.”

  “Nay, it isnae what ye are doing. E’en at Dunburn ye werenae like ye have been these last few days. Ye have been acting verra odd.”

  “Odd? I havenae been acting odd. I have been trying to learn how to be a good wife to ye and—”

  “Curse it, ye have been a good wife, a verra good wife.”

  “Artan, I threw a ewer at your head.”

  He nodded and kissed the tip of her nose. “Aye, and your aim was true. I would have been trying to explain a blackened eye or broken nose if I hadnae ducked. Ye have a fine aim with a rock, too.”

  “Artan”—she grasped him by the upper part of his arms and stared into his eyes—“when ye were dying—”

  “I wasnae dying.”

  “Ye were as close to it as I e’er want to see,” she snapped, then drew a deep breath to calm herself. “When I thought ye were dying, I made a vow to God.”

  “Not to be celibate, I hope.”

  A good wife should not want to hit her husband with a thick stick, she told herself, and sighed out her annoyance. “I vowed that I would be the perfect wife, that that was what ye deserved.”