Читать книгу Highland Barbarian - Hannah Howell - Страница 8

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 and 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.

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.