For a moment she thought he was going to refuse. It would not surprise her as he seemed the sort of man to take pleasure in another’s misery. Then he shrugged as if it was all a matter of complete disinterest to him and brought his tankard over to her. With her wrists tied it was a little awkward to take a drink and she loathed the idea of putting her lips on a tankard he had drunk from, but the wine soothed the aching dryness in her throat. He took it away when she had had only a few sips, but it was enough to give her the strength to silently accept the deprivation.
“Thank ye,” she said, even though the words nearly gagged her and she sorely wished she could kick him when he nodded arrogantly as if he had done her some great service.
“Ye have changed,” he said, frowning at her.
“Changed? I dinnae understand what ye mean.”
“At Dunburn ye were always quiet, a pleasant wee shadow slipping about the halls of the place. There was ne’er any hint of a temper or a sharp tongue. I dinnae like either. Ye would be wise to control them again.”
A pleasant wee shadow?she thought and grimaced. She supposed she had been. It had made life a lot easier for her if no one noticed her. Yet it pained her to think of herself like that.
He supposed he was right to say she had changed. She had begun to sense the changes in herself before she had even left Dunburn. It was being with Artan that had done it. He made her feel safe, and that allowed her to say and do what she wanted to. Little by little she had relaxed the close guard she had kept on her words and actions. It was amusing to think that he had helped her by kidnapping her, yet the farther they got from Dunburn, Lady Anabel, and Sir Edmund, the more she had relaxed, the more she had felt as if she had been freed from a prison.
“Running from people who are eager to see ye in the grave probably has something to do with that,” she murmured. “Beinga pleasant wee shadowwillnae help one stay alive.”
The slap he gave her was delivered almost casually. She held herself steady this time and did not sprawl in the dirt. For a moment she stared at the ground; sure she looked like a true penitent, but knowing she needed to hide the anger she felt before she looked at him again.
As she lifted her eyes she caught the glint of something at the rear of the tent. Shielding the direction of her gaze by keeping her eyelids lowered, she stared at the spot and finally located what she had seen. The very tip of a blade was ever so slowly moving down through the cloth at the rear of the tent. Someone was cutting their way inside.
Her pulse increased as hope surged in her heart. She desperately wanted to believe it was Artan coming to rescue her. Even if it was not him, the only reason someone would be attempting to enter the tent so stealthily was because they meant no good for Sir Fergus. That made whoever it was her ally. She was determined to make sure that he was not discovered until it was too late for Sir Fergus to cry for aid.
Cecily looked at Sir Fergus and made no attempt to hide her contempt for him. His eyes narrowed in fury as he recognized that look for what it was. A fleeting glance toward the rear of the tent told her that whoever it was out there would soon been trying to slip inside and she was determined to keep all of Sir Fergus’s attention on her.
“Only men who are afraid that their manhood is the size of a bairn’s beat on women,” she said, not surprised to see his cheeks flush with the heat of his anger.
“Ye had best tread verra carefully, Cecily,” he said, his voice tight with anger.
“Why? Ye mean to marry me, steal all that is mine, and then kill me so that ye can steal the rest. Why should I be careful?”
“Because I can make what time ye have left seem like a hell upon earth.”
“Ye do that just by breathing the same air as I do, ye spineless cretin.”
Even though she had braced herself for his attack, she was still winded by the force of it. He threw himself on top of her and put his hands around her throat. The man proved to be a lot stronger than she would have thought, and she very quickly felt robbed of precious air. She was just beginning to think she had made a serious error when he was yanked off of her and tossed into the side of the tent. He bounced off the cloth a little, unharmed, but then fell to the ground and hit his head on something hard. Cecily suspected there were a few rocks near the edge of tent and Sir Fergus had found one. She looked up at Artan and saw him frowning in the direction of Sir Fergus.
“Nay as good as a nice solid wall, is it?” Cecily said as Artan held out his hand and she grasped it firmly in hers.
“Nay, it was a wee bit disappointing.”
She saw him look at the rope and could tell by the hardening of his expression that he had seen how it would not allow her to stand upright. “Just cut it and get me out of here.”
“I would really like to kill him,” he said as he cut her free.
Seeing how Sir Fergus was creeping toward the opening of the tent, she said, “I think that will have to wait.”
Artan threw his dagger and smiled when it pinned Sir Fergus’s jupon to the ground and the man squeaked. “Stay,” he ordered the man and hastily collected up what food and drink he could find in the tent, putting it all in a blanket and tying the blanket into a rough bag.
“She is my betrothed wife,” Sir Fergus said as he struggled to free his jupon.
“Nay, I am not,” said Cecily. “I am Sir Artan Murray’s wife.”
Artan looked at her and quirked one brow. When she nodded, he grinned and said, “Aye, she is, and I am her husband.”
Sir Fergus’s eyes widened as he realized what they had done, that they had just declared themselves before a witness. “Nay! Ye cannae do this!”
“Are ye sure I cannae kill him?” Artan asked Cecily even as he urged her toward the back of the tent.
“I dinnae think we have time and I suspect ye are a wee bit tired after fighting off ten men.”
