“Ye had best do just as ye have promised,” Laird MacIvor said to a scowling Sir Fergus.
“I gave my word, didnae I?” Sir Fergus snapped.
MacIvor spat at Sir Fergus’s feet. “That for your word, laddie. There is a lot about this that ye have ne’er told us. That lass isnae some Lowland wench who ran off with a bonnie face, is she? For a moment I thought I was seeing an angel on old Angus’s walls, mayhap e’en a ghostie. Then I remembered that Moira MacReith wed herself to a Lowlander, some gentle, scholarly fellow. That lass is Angus’s niece.”
“Who is betrothed to me!”
“Did old Angus sign the papers? Did he e’en ken she was being given to ye? Nay, I think not.”
“That doesnae matter. Her guardians gave her o’er to me. They are the cousins of her father. Her father’s wishes take precedence over those of some Highland laird.”
“Angus is her uncle and her laird. I ken that for a fact. I dinnae ken these Lowland cousins. And their word doesnae mean her father would have betrothed her to ye. Aye, and I only have your word that she is your betrothed.” The tone in MacIvor’s voice made it very clear that he held Sir Fergus’s word on that as lightly as he did on everything else.
“She admitted it just now. Ye heard her.”
“I also heard her say she had cast aside those promises for what seem verra sound reasons.”
“Such as the fact that she is my wife,” said Artan, who cursed when Sir Fergus kicked him. His eyes widened when MacIvor immediately held a sword against Sir Fergus’s throat.
“Just what do ye think ye are doing?” squeaked Sir Fergus. “We are allies.”
“Sad to say we are, indeed, as I gave my word and I keep my word. Howbeit, there will be no more kicking a wounded mon who is bound up like a pig for the spit. This mon is a knight and he is the heir to Glascreag. And I doubt ye will ken the importance of this since ye are a Lowlander, but he is also a Murray. I have no wish to find myself on the wrong side of them and all their allies.”
Sir Fergus glared down at Artan and then strode over to a small table and poured himself a drink. “Weel, there is no need for ye to linger here, m’laird,” he finally said. “I will nay abuse the mon again, and he will soon be gone, aye? Once Cecily arrives, we can send this mon back to Glascreag and I shall return to Dunburn and have my wedding.”
Laird MacIvor frowned. “How can ye have a wedding? The lass is wed to this mon.”
“Kidnapped and then handfasted with him. It can easily be set aside.”
“Kidnapped, handfasted, and vigorously bedded,” said Artan. “It willnae be so easy to set that aside. And with all that vigorous bedding I have probably already set a bairn in her belly.”
“Ye may want to temper your words a wee bit,” murmured Laird MacIvor to Artan as he watched Sir Fergus go white with fury.
“I am nay concerned about any bairn ye may have set in her,” said Sir Fergus, but his lingering fury was clear to hear in his voice.
Recalling that the man’s plan was to rid himself of his reluctant bride after a suitable amount of time and then claim her widow’s portion, Artan felt his anger grow. He could not believe Angus would hand Cecily to this Lowlander, not after all Artan had told him. He suddenly felt a small flicker of hope spring to life in his chest. He knew Angus would not give Cecily to Sir Fergus, yet the man felt sure she was coming. That had to mean that Angus had a plan.
Glancing at Laird MacIvor, Artan wondered if he could make use of the distaste and distrust the man already had for Sir Fergus. If he could make Laird MacIvor so disgusted with his ally that he utterly regretted allying himself to the man, then MacIvor and his men would leave. It seemed the laird was already at that point, but he could still feel bound by his word and he was very determined in his wish to gain and hold Glascreag. Still, it was worth a try as MacIvor’s defection would aid Angus in whatever he was planning.
“Ah, of course,” he murmured. “I was forgetting your plans for the lass. Ye mean to allow her to live for a few months and then ye will be rid of her so that ye can collect her verra handsome widow’s portion. How long do ye plan to let Anabel and Edmund live ere ye do what ye must to claim Dunburn in your poor late wife’s name?”
“Ye are mad,” Sir Fergus said, then gave a frowning Laird MacIvor a sickly smile. “He would say anything to ensure that he can keep the woman promised to me and her dower.”
“Ye are eager for her dower as weel, I suspect,” said MacIvor. “Only reason I can see for working so hard to fetch back a lass who doesnae want ye.”
“Of course her dower is important, but ye saw the lass. What mon wouldnae want her for a bride?”
MacIvor shrugged, then strode over to the table where Sir Fergus stood and poured himself some wine. After studying an increasingly nervous Sir Fergus for a moment, MacIvor pulled a stool over to the table and sat down. Artan was disappointed that the man had not left, but the look of dislike MacIvor made no secret of as he stared at Sir Fergus was enough to give Artan a little bit of hope. It seemed that Sir Fergus had just lost his ally. Now, since the man had not left, Artan just had to wonder how complete the cut was.
He tried again to get comfortable on the ground. It was impossible to plan anything himself as he was too weak. If he could just rest a moment, he thought, then hastily pushed that temptation away. He needed to stay alert so he could help his rescuers when they arrived, and he was sure they would soon. Artan just wished Cecily was not part of the plan.
“In about an hour we shall see just how much your bride cares for you,” Sir Fergus said as he moved a little closer.
“And how do ye plan to see that?”
“She will come to trade herself for you. She will put herself under my command so that ye may live. If she cares, that is.”
“I am too weary to play this game, laddie,” Artan said, knowing the contempt in his voice enraged Sir Fergus. “Whether the lass cares for me or nay isnae what matters in this.”
