“Laird, what are ye doing?” Ian asked in shock, grabbing Angus by the arm when he started walking straight for the five MacIvors they had been watching.
“Trust me, lad. They willnae do anything to stop us. I ken old MacIvor weel. Been adversaries for years, havenae we. He wants naught to do with this, but he kens we are coming after the lad. How to stay out of that tussle yet appear to be keeping his word? I suspicion he has set his men here and told them to ignore us. After all, if by some miracle Sir Idiot wins the day, there will be questions asked, aye? And the MacIvors will say that they ne’er saw us.”
“Sly, verra sly. But are ye sure that is what this is all about?”
“Sure enough to walk right through that camp and save myself a great deal of slipping through the shadows.”
Angus bit back a grin when Ian muttered a curse even as he fell into step at his side. The moment he and Ian stepped out into the open, all five MacIvors sitting around a little fire dipped their heads and stared firmly at the ground. He was impressed by the sly trick MacIvor had devised. Even the men who were poor liars could look anyone straight in the eye and claim they had seen no MacReiths. He strode right through the middle of the camp, Ian at his side just staring at men sitting there with their heads bowed.
“I cannae believe it,” muttered Ian as they reached the other side of the camp and all the MacIvors lifted their heads but were careful not to look to the left or the right.
“’Tis verra clever. I ne’er would have thought MacIvor had that clever a mind. I have underestimated the poor fellow.”
“That poor fellow has been trying to get Glascreag for his whole life and is probably teaching his sons to crave it, too.”
“Aye, I suspicion he is, but that has been the way of it since MacIvors and MacReiths first set out their hearthstones in these hills.”
As they approached the tent, Angus caught sight of Bennet just standing there chatting with two of the Ogilveys and inwardly shook his head. Bennet could make friends with Satan himself, he thought a little crossly. Just as he thought he was going to have to do something to remind the lad of his part in this plan, Bennet moved to the side of the tent. Angus was not sure what the young man was saying, but it was good enough to draw his two guards around the corner with him.
He was getting too old for this, he mused as he waited for Bennet to reappear. His patience for this game was gone and he was going to be more than happy to hand such duties over to Artan soon. Angus was actually starting to move to go and see what had happened to Bennet when the young man and another MacReith, both wearing the jupons the guards had had on, came back around the corner.
It was then that Angus noticed a small hole in his plan. The guards had been standing guard on a MacReith and now it looked as if they had lost their prisoner. A quick look around the camp showed him that no one was paying any attention and he breathed a quick sigh of relief. He felt a need to act quickly now, however, for there was a chance there were other holes he had not considered and he wanted Cecily and Artan back inside the walls of Glascreag before someone did notice.
Staying to the shadows, Angus and Ian crept up close enough for Angus to whisper to Bennet, “Who is in the tent?”
“Artan, Cecily, Sir Fergus, and Laird MacIvor,” Bennet answered in an equally soft voice.
“Weel, that should make things interesting,” Angus said; Bennet laughed softly. “When ye hear my whistle…” he began.
“Get out of here. Aye, I remember. Artan may need help getting back to Glascreag.”
“He is wounded?”
“Aye, although the brief glance I got inside the tent wasnae enough to tell me where or how badly. He is also bound hand and foot and leashed to a stake in the ground.”
“I cannae wait to kill that bastard.”
“Good luck.”
Cecily glanced over at Artan, not liking his color or the way he seemed to be more unconscious than conscious. “Ye have done naught to tend his wounds. Most people would treat a dog better.”
“He can wait. He will be back at Glascreag ere they worsen and he will be past caring then.”
That was an ominous statement, and out of the corner of her eye Cecily saw MacIvor tense. Fergus did not seem to grasp the need to take care in what he said. Laird MacIvor had given his word to Angus that Artan would be returned to Glascreag quickly and alive. Fergus’s cold words strongly implied that not only would Artan not be returned quickly, he would be returned dead. Unlike Fergus, Laird MacIvor was a man of his word, and hearing Sir Fergus, his ally, strongly imply that he had no intention of honoring that word had to enrage him.
“Ye would have been treated better by the MacReiths, Sir Fergus, and ye ken it weel,” she said.
“That doesnae mean I have to be as foolish as they are. This mon has wronged me!”
“Oh, and ye havenae wronged me? Ye who intended to wed me for my dower, bed me until ye tired of me, and then kill me for all the rest my father left me? Who kenned weel that my own guardians had my father and brother killed and had expected, e’en fervently desired, that I should die with them? Yet ye said naught to me? Ye kenned about my inheritance as weel and ye said naught.”
“Ye are but a woman. Ye didnae have any need to ken any of it.”
“’Tis all mine and ye were silent because ye wanted as much of it for yourself as ye could get. But let us say that, as a woman, I should have naught to do with such concerns about my own inheritance and which carrion get to feast upon it. Our betrothal wasnae a long one, sir, and yet ye couldnae e’en be faithful to me. Worse, ye broke your vows to me in my own home.”
“Faithful? What mon is e’er faithful, ye daft wench.”
“My husband has promised to be faithful.”
