“Oh? And what does matter?”
“Whether she is fool enough to think ye will e’er keep your promises.”
Artan could see how badly the man wanted to kick him again. He did not understand why such remarks angered the man so much. Sir Fergus’s rage was no act to fool MacIvor, although it should be. Sir Fergus knew he was lying, but he might yet hope that MacIvor did not, and he needed that ally until he could get safely away from Glascreag. Artan just did not think Sir Fergus was that good a player.
Glancing at his wounds, Artan saw that the bleeding had finally stopped. It had been a very slow sort of bleeding, but even a slow loss from several wounds could be dangerous if it was slow to stop. He hoped his rescue came soon, as it was increasingly difficult to keep his wits about him, and that was a very bad sign. He felt very tired and cold, another very bad sign.
“So old Angus has named ye his heir, has he?” asked MacIvor.
It took Artan a moment to focus on the man. There was an intent look on MacIvor’s face that made Artan think MacIvor knew exactly what he was feeling. It was just possible that MacIvor sought to help him in his efforts to cling to consciousness. If the man wanted to help, he would help him to a more comfortable place and give him a drink, Artan thought angrily, but he kept his anger out of his voice as he talked to the man.
“Aye,” Artan replied, “ye ken that he had to call Malcolm that for a wee while since Malcolm has a closer blood tie to Angus.”
“Ha! How it must have galled Old Angus to claim that whining ferret as his heir. Blood ties are important, though. Of course yours are much stronger now that ye have married the lass.”
“Aye, much stronger. She is his niece after all.”
“A fine way to secure it all and be rid of a spineless little cur like Malcolm. I suspicion ye dinnae have any complaints about it all, eh?”
“Nay, none at all.” Artan tried to hide his surprise when the man picked up the jug of wine, poured a tankard full, and brought it over to him.
“What are ye doing?” demanded Sir Fergus as MacIvor helped Artan drink.
“Making sure the laddie doesnae die too quickly. A wounded mon needs drink.”
Artan, pained by the way he had needed to be held upright a little to drink, could only manage a grunt as his expression of gratitude, but it seemed to please MacIvor. As he struggled to recover from the man’s help, a young MacIvor man came into the tent. After a look at Artan followed by a glare at Sir Fergus, the young mon had a quick word with MacIvor. Artan could not even guess at the words the two men exchanged, but a few moments later, the young man left without even a word or a bow of courtesy to Sir Fergus. The contempt for the man they found themselves allied with obviously went through the whole clan.
“So, ye were told about the niece and asked to wed her?” MacIvor said as he returned to his seat at the small table. “Find her, wed her, and become Angus’s heir?
“Aye, something like that,” Artan replied. “Angus wanted me to believe he was on his deathbed.”
“It wasnae all that long ago ye left and Angus looked as hale as he e’er has.”
“He recovered.” Artan smiled fleetingly when MacIvor snorted with laughter.
“Is any of this important?” asked Sir Fergus in a sharp, angry voice.
“To me. I will nay be running to the Lowlands when this is o’er. Nay, I must needs stay here on my lands, which border the MacReith land,” replied MacIvor. “’Tis wise to understand the ones who live so close to ye, especially when a lot of them are verra weel-armed men.”
“Have your wee gossip then. Once I have Cecily back I will be gone from this place and your little intrigues willnae matter to me.”
Artan had the feeling that MacIvor was doing more than gossiping. Instinct told him that MacIvor was trying to make a decision and wanted as much information as possible. What decision that might be and how it might help him was not something he had the wit left to untangle, however, so he simply answered MacIvor’s questions, using what few wits he had to make sure that he did not tell the man more than what Sir Fergus called gossip. By the end of the conversation, however, Artan knew that MacIvor had learned a great deal about Cecily’s connection to Angus and how much Angus had wanted Cecily and Artan’s marriage; he just could not think of why it should matter to the man and he had neither the strength nor the privacy needed to find out.
One of Sir Fergus’s men cautiously entered the tent, frequently glancing back over his shoulder. “Sir Fergus, Lady Cecily is coming,” he said.
“Good. Ye may go.” Sir Fergus turned to speak to MacIvor only to hear the Ogilvey man cough and draw his attention back to him. “Go.”
“But, sir, I think, weel, I need to speak to ye. Privately.”
“Later.”
“Er, later willnae help, sir. I really think—”
“I dinnae require ye to think! Get out of here!”
When the man still hesitated Sir Fergus threw a tankard at him and he finally retreated. Sir Fergus forced himself to be calm and fussily brushed the front of his jupon with his hands. Artan could not see MacIvor’s expression for the man was intently staring into his tankard. There was something happening, something Sir Fergus was unaware of, but Artan could not seem to collect his thoughts enough to even guess what it was. He was rapidly becoming too weak to care about any intrigues, and that worried him. Looking toward the door, he waited for Cecily, hoping that she had not really come here alone.
Chapter 17
