“I could just spit on him,” she muttered and ignored her uncle’s grin.
“Ye were betrothed to me!” Sir Fergus yelled. “Ye took vows and contracts were signed.”
“I declared them all null and void when I discovered that ye planned to kill me and keep my widow’s portion,” she yelled back. “I would say that ye broke all of your vows first. That didnae sound much like cherishing and protecting to me. And ye bedded Lady Anabel. I want no adulterer for a husband.”
“Ah, good one, lass. Old MacIvor is a pious fellow for all his rough ways. He frowns on adultery,” Angus said.
Looking at the huge, hairy man sitting on a horse just behind Sir Fergus, his heavily muscled body bristling with gleaming weapons, Cecily found it a little difficult to think of him as pious. She was also finding it difficult to remain calm and play this game with Sir Fergus. Angus had assured her, however, that this was how it should be done and she had complete faith in his knowledge of such things.
“Ye cannae just decide ye dinnae want to be betrothed anymore,” said Sir Fergus after casting a narrow glance at the large, scowling Laird MacIvor behind him. “Now, here is what ye will do if ye want Sir Artan Murray returned to ye alive. Ye will come to me in two hours and put yourself in my care. Then and only then will I allow Sir Artan to return to Glascreag. If ye dinnae come to me in two hours, then for every ten minutes I have to wait, I will send ye a piece of him.”
“If he keeps talking like that I am going to be violently ill,” Cecily told her uncle, her voice shaking.
“Just be sure to lean o’er the wall and aim for that fool,” Angus said as he awkwardly rubbed her back.
“What promise do I have that ye will keep your word?” she called down.
“Ye have my word as a king’s knight.”
Cecily was about to tell him just how little she thought that was worth when Laird MacIvor called out, “Ye havemyword. Did ye hear me, Angus MacReith?”
“Aye, I heard ye and I accept,” Angus called back.
After watching Laird MacIvor and Sir Fergus ride away, Cecily looked at her uncle. “There was a message there, wasnae there? Laird MacIvor was telling ye something.”
“Aye,” agreed Angus as he escorted Cecily off the walls. “He was telling me that he already kens that Sir Fergus’s word isnae worth warm spit. And if that chinless fool e’en starts to think of breaking his word, old MacIvor will make sure he is dead before he finishes the thought.”
“So, Laird MacIvor isnae really a bad mon?”
“Och, nay. Most of the time he isnae any trouble. ’Tis just that he has always wanted Glascreag, as have most of the lairds that came before him. He couldnae resist the chance that this wee trouble might be enough to let him inside the gates.”
The moment they reached the ground Crooked Cat ran over and hugged Cecily. For a little while Cecily allowed herself to be comforted; but then she took a deep breath and stood back a little, although she kept a tight grip on Crooked Cat’s hand for a little while longer. She was terrified for Artan, and even knowing that, in an odd way, Laird MacIvor was protecting him did not ease that chilling fear by very much.
“’Tis clear that Sir Fergus doesnae ken that new wives are to be tucked in the corner of the kitchen until the battle is o’er,” Cecily said, and was surprised to feel herself smile a little when Crooked Cat laughed.
“There is my brave wee lass.” Crooked Cat took Cecily by the arm and tugged her toward the keep. “Now we must get ye ready.”
“Exactly what does that mean?”
“Weel, I think we shall dress ye as a widow. That should be a sound slap in that fool’s face. And we have to make sure we hide all your weapons.”
“I have ne’er used a weapon,” Cecily felt compelled to confess.
“Wheesht, dinnae fret about it. That fool willnae expect ye have any, aye? Ye willnae be needing any skill. All ye will have to do is get close enough to the chinless bastard to stick a wee knife or two into him.”
Cecily looked at her uncle who just grinned. “Ye do have a plan, aye?”
“Aye, I do, lass,” he replied. “Dinnae worry. All ye need to do is make Sir Fergus the Chinless think he has won this game. Keep him from thinking too much on how ye may be part of a fine trick on him, eh? I just wish I could have thought of a way to warn MacIvor.”
“Why would ye want to warn MacIvor? He is Sir Fergus’s ally.”
“Nay, MacIvor is his own ally and, as I said, he isnae a bad fellow. Just as he kens hurting Artan willnae gain him anything but grief, I ken that hurting him will do me little good, e’en if he has put himself in the way.” He shrugged. “Ah, weel, my lads ken that as weel as I do, and MacIvor isnae as stupid as he looks. I think he will quickly guess what is about to happen and disappear or, at the verra least, have his men do so. Now, off ye go with Crooked Cat and get yourself ready to do your part.”
Artan winced and shifted his body slightly in a vain attempt to find a more comfortable position upon the ground. It had taken a lot of men to bring him down and he could be proud of that, but it had cost him. He had several wounds that had bled freely, leaving him weak. They needed to be tended to and soon or they could easily become fatal wounds. Infection and fever had killed more men than any sword or arrow.
The abuse he had suffered at Sir Fergus’s hands had not helped. Once he had been tied head and foot and leashed to the same stake Cecily had been tied to, Sir Fergus had become brave enough to attack him. Only Laird MacIvor’s intervention had stopped the man from beating him to death.
When both Sir Fergus and Laird MacIvor walked into the tent, Artan just stared at Sir Fergus. The look of distaste that crossed MacIvor’s heavily bearded face gave Artan his first hint of hope. Despite his attempts to gain hold of Glascreag, the man was not without a sense of honor. The way Sir Fergus had dealt with a fellow knight obviously troubled the Highlander. That did not mean the man would rescue him, but Artan suspected there would be no more beating of a wounded and securely bound prisoner, at least not while Laird MacIvor was near at hand.
