“Does he have a wee lass in that tent?” he asked in Gaelic.
“He does,” replied the thinner of the pair in the same language. “She was carried in, but we could see that she had a fine pelt of red hair.”
“That is my bride by the sounds of it. You had better leave. I believe the man with no chin will be mad enough to kill in a few minutes.”
“Ah, you intend to steal her back.”
“She is to be my wife, so it is not stealing, but retrieving.”
“Since you have been so kind as to free us, we will see that that fool with his tent and his banner with a rutting swine on it will not be able to follow you very soon.”
“Why do you not just gut him and be done with it?” said the shorter one.
“It is a tempting thought, but it is more important to get my bride out of here.”
“It is,” said the tall one after jabbing his companion in the side with his elbow. “You can see the man has already been in a fight, fool. One squeal from that pig in there and he will be facing far more men than he can fight.” He turned back to Artan. “Go and fetch your bride, my laird. We shall go and cut a few cinches, then make for the hills.”
Artan smiled and stepped aside to let the two young men out. Cut cinches would be a very big help. He softly warned them not to cut the cinch on his mount and pointed out where the horse was. Both young men nodded and silently disappeared into the shadows. Artan suspected Sir Fergus would also find himself short two horses.
He turned his attention to the tent. Slipping up to the back, he used his dagger to cut a very small slice in the cloth and peered inside. He saw Cecily tied to a stake in the ground and felt cold with anger. When Sir Fergus suddenly kicked her, it took all of Artan’s willpower not to immediately cut his way into the tent and kill the man.
It took several slow, deep breaths before he felt calm enough to continue. Sir Fergus was dangerously close to Cecily and stealth was needed, he reminded himself. Although it had not been his plan to kill the man, Artan knew he would do so now if given half a chance. The most important thing was to get Cecily safely away from Sir Fergus. Killing the man would simply be an added and unexpected pleasure. Artan slowly began to make a cut in the tent large enough for him to slip through.
Cecily swore as Sir Fergus’s booted foot grazed her ribs. He was in a blind fury. She had ceased to taunt him, but that had made little difference. There was still no word from Tom or any of his men, and the mere thought that Artan might have escaped death yet again had put Sir Fergus into a rage. It was an anger bred of fear, but that did not make it any less dangerous to Cecily.
“Ye had best be careful, Sir Fergus,” she said as she twisted away from him until she was facing the back of the tent. “Ye dinnae want to kill me yet.”
“Ye willnae die from a little beating,” he snapped.
“Oh, I might, and then ye will have nothing. Ye have to be married to me to gain my dower and then my widow’s portion.” She watched his eyes narrow and realized his greed had finally cut through his fury.
“Ye ken far more than ye ought to.”
She sighed and was not surprised by the weariness in her voice. “What does that matter? Ye have ne’er intended for me to live verra long after the wedding, have ye?”
“Someone might listen to ye if ye choose to speak out.”
“When has anyone ever listened to me?”
Even to her own ears, Cecily sounded pitiful. It seemed to calm Sir Fergus, however. She suspected it was how he expected all women to sound.
One of Sir Fergus’s men stuck his head inside the tent and dolefully announced, “There is nay sign of Tom and his men yet.”
“Do not tell me again,” yelled Sir Fergus. “I dinnae wish to hear another word until ye can tell me he has returned and he is holding Sir Artan Murray’s head in his hands.”
“Ye asked him to bring ye Artan’s head?” she asked after the other man had fled and was not surprised to hear her voice trembling with horror.
Sir Fergus looked as if he badly wanted to kick her again. “They have failed time and time again. I need proof.”
Cecily hastily put the coldly terrifying thought from her mind. If she thought about it too much she could go mad. She preferred to take hope in the fact that Tom and his men had not returned. The fact that they had not so frightened Sir Fergus that she found a reason to hope in that as well.
If Artan was alive, she hoped he would come soon. Sir Fergus wavered between fury and what looked to be a growing lust. Cecily wanted no part of either, although she would take a beating if she had the choice. The mere thought of Sir Fergus touching her in a lustful manner turned her stomach. She could recover from a beating, but she was not so sure she would recover from being raped by the man.
Sir Fergus moved to pour himself another tankard of wine and Cecily felt her throat tighten with the need for a drink. She hated asking the man for anything, but her thirst was so great she was willing to swallow her pride, especially if it meant she could swallow a little wine as well. After studying her leash for a moment, she realized it was too short to allow her stand upright, so she sat up as straight as she could.
“Sir Fergus, might I please have a little of that wine?” she asked in what she hoped was an appropriately meek tone.
He turned to stare at her and she wondered how she could have ever thought he had nice eyes. The color was fine enough, but there was no life in those eyes, no softness or humor. It was very much like looking at a pretty piece of glass.
