“Thank you,” Cicely replied. This man had done her no harm, and his handsome face actually bore a look of genuine concern.
“I am called Fergus Deuce, for I am my father’s second-born,” the younger Douglas told her. Then he helped Cicely to stand, bracing her while she regained her equilibrium. “Do you think you can walk now if I help to support you?”
“I think so,” Cicely replied, leaning against him as she gingerly moved forward.
Fergus led her a few feet across the small clearing. “Do you . . .” His face grew red with his embarrassment. “Do you need to pee, my lady? I can help you into the bushes, and I’ll turn my back,” he said.
Now it was Cicely whose cheeks grew pink, but she did need to relieve herself. “Thank you,” she told him. “Aye. I think I can stand alone now.”
Fergus brought her to a thick stand of growth and then, as he had promised, turned away so she might have a modicum of privacy.
Cicely turned her back on him and, hiking up her skirts, did what needed to be done. She considered attempting another escape, but the skies above were already swiftly darkening into night. She had no idea where she might be, and there was no dwelling nearby where she might seek help. She would be forced to bear the company of these two villains until the morrow. Mistress Marjory would have certainly sounded the alarm when she regained consciousness. One of her two apprentices would have found her by now. And the king would send a troop of his men-at-arms after her.
“My lady?” Fergus’s voice sounded anxious.
“I’m done,” Cicely said. There was no need to be unkind to this poor fellow who had had compassion upon her. She stepped from the bushes, and he led her back so she might sit down against the large dark boulder that commanded their little clearing. She looked aboutfor the other man, but he was not to be seen, although there was a small fire burning. Fergus helped her to the ground. There was a thick coating of moss on both the earth and the rock, making it surprisingly comfortable.
The other man suddenly appeared from the small wood carrying two dead rabbits. Without a word he skinned the creatures, cleaned them, and set them on a wood spit over the fire to roast. “These two poor coneys had the unfortunate luck to come across my path,” he said. “We’ll have rabbit for supper with our oatcakes.”
“I shall not eat a thing from your hand!” Cicely said haughtily.
He shrugged.
“Who are you? And why have you kidnapped me?” she demanded of him.
“You don’t recognize me?” he said, not knowing whether he should feel offended or not.
“Your face is vaguely familiar,” Cicely admitted, “but I do not know you, do I?”
“I am Ian Douglas, the laird of Glengorm, madam,” he told her. “And I am engaging in what is known here in Scotland as bride stealing.”
It took a long moment for Cicely to realize just what he was saying to her. Then she burst out, “You are mad, my lord! Totally, raving mad! I have absolutely no intention of marrying you. Why on earth would I marryyou? I don’t even know you.”
Ian Douglas knelt before her. He took her small face between his thumb and his forefinger. “The first moment I saw you on the road to Perth I knew you were the woman for me, Cicely Bowen. I have never given my heart to any, but I am prepared to give it to you.” His hazel eyes looked directly into her blue-green ones.
“I don’t want it!” she cried, unnerved by both the unexpected declaration and by the passionate look in his eyes. No man had ever looked at her quite like that. Not even Andrew Gordon. That look both intrigued and frightened her.
“Ah, ladyfaire, do not be frightened,” he said softly to her. “I will love you.”
The gentle tone of his voice frightened Cicely far more than his earlier rough treatment of her had. “You must take me back!” she cried. “We will say it was all a misunderstanding! Though I said it, ’twas in anger—I will not let them hang you. But we must return to Perth, my lord.”
“I doubt the poor shopkeeper will consider the bump on her noggin a misunderstanding,” the laird said dryly.
“My lord, I cannot wed you!” Cicely told him.
“Why not?” he asked. His eyes were dancing with sudden amusement.
“I am already pledged to marry!” Cicely lied desperately.
“To the Gordon?” Ian said. “Nay, ladyfaire, you lie. The Gordon has not yet asked for you, although I am told he would. What is it, I wonder, that keeps him from it? Is there another he loves, but whose dower portion is not as fat as yours might be? Or perhaps a mistress who needs to be disposed of discreetly before he declares himself?”
“Andrew Gordon is a good man!” Cicely defended her suitor.
“Has he ever kissed you?” the laird wanted to know.
“That is none of your business!” Cicely snapped.
“He hasn’t.” Ian chuckled.
