“Pretty words to lift your skirts is all.”
“Nay, Artan isnae a mon much skilled in the saying of pretty words. He means it. He willnae be rutting with a maid within mine own home. Nay, nor will he commit adultery with a kinswoman of mine, although I have few of them sad to say. And one thing he will ne’er and would ne’er do is try to rape a lass barely past her first flux.”
“She was willing and she looks younger than she is.”
“And the bruises ye gave her were naught but wee love taps, aye?” She shook her head. “I cannae believe I almost married you. I thought ye might actually have a few attractive attributes, somewhere, buried deeply. What a fool I was. I ne’er suspected that ye were quite the thoroughly rotten bastard that ye are. Nay, I just thought ye were a tedious bore.”
She heard a now-familiar snort of laughter and realized it had come from behind her. Laird MacIvor had somehow managed to slip around the room until he was standing near to Artan. She did not understand what the man was doing but, after a brief flash of alarm, felt certain he was no threat to Artan.
Sir Fergus, however, was, she thought as she turned her attention back to that man.
Where was Angus, she wondered. It seemed as if she had been standing here trading insults with Sir Fergus for hours. Although she knew stealth would be needed for whatever Angus had to do and that such stealth took time, she was beginning to get nervous.
Another fleeting glance at Artan only added to her tension. He was looking poorly. Although he was watching her, there was a slightly glazed look in his eyes that frightened her. His silence also bothered her. It made sense that he would not want to show too much interest in her or give Sir Fergus the satisfaction that this apparent victory of his might cause either of them any real distress; he had not even insulted the man once since she had entered the tent.
Looking more closely, she saw what looked to be blood on the ground around his body and she felt chilled with fear for him. His wounds had been left untended for a long time and it was clear that no one had even tried to stop the bleeding. Artan had probably lost a lot of blood, which did not bode well for his chances of recovery. She hastily stilled the worst of her fears by reminding herself of how strong and healthy he was. All he needed was to get back to Glascreag, get his wounds tended to, and be cared for, she told herself firmly.
“If ye mean to honor your word, Sir Fergus, ye should either allow Artan to go back to Glascreag now or tend his wounds.”
After staring at Artan for a moment, Sir Fergus looked back at her and shrugged. “He still breathes, which is more than can be said for the five men he killed ere we caught him.”
“Those five men were trying to rape two young girls.”
“Peasant wenches. Lusty, the whole lot of them. They like to protest in the hope of gaining a wee bit more coin for their favors. Ye have been sheltered at Dunburn and dinnae understand the ways of the world. Aye, and yon knight was a fool to let himself be caught because of two little whores who feared they would have to give it away for free.”
“Ye, Sir Fergus, are indeed the rutting swine your banner declares ye to be.”
“’Tis a rampant boar!” he yelled.
Obviously that particular taunt had begun to sorely anger the man. “I see little difference.”
“As do I, lass.”
The sound of Angus’s voice was such a relief Cecily was astonished she did not fall to the ground at that very moment. She did obey the little quirk of his finger, however, and hurry over to stand at his side. Her heart ached to go to Artan’s side, but Angus did not need to have to keep a watch on two people as he confronted Sir Fergus. The only thing she could do was sidle along until she was on Angus’s far side, nearest to Artan but still protected by Angus. The moment he took care of the threat Sir Fergus presented, she would be able to reach Artan in only a few steps.
She suddenly recalled Laird MacIvor and saw him standing close to Artan, his sword in his hand, and her blood chilled. Cecily looked at her uncle and knew he was aware of Laird MacIvor, but Angus did not look at all worried about where the man was and what he was holding. She tried very hard to share his calm.
“Ye are a fool to come here, MacReith,” said Sir Fergus. “Ye may have been able to slip in past my guards, but ye will ne’er be able to slip out. Nay, especially since ye will have to carry Sir Artan.”
“Aye, I can see that ye have done him hard,” agreed Angus. “Ye have become a real irritant, ye have.”
“All I sought was that which was mine—Cecily Donaldson.”
“She isnae yours, laddie. I am thinking she ne’er was and ne’er would have been. Ye and those two scum back at Dunburn have stolen enough from my poor wee lass, and it will end here.”
“Oh, do ye mean to fight me for her, old mon?”
Sir Fergus did not have the brain of a flea, thought Cecily as she winced over his mocking tone of voice and the remark about Angus’s age. If the man would just open his eyes, he would see that her uncle was still strong, probably stronger than Sir Fergus, and more than capable of fighting the fool. Sir Fergus should be afraid, not standing there feeling so superior and safe.
“He just called ye an old mon, Angus,” murmured Laird MacIvor.
“Aye, I ken it, but I have heard worse.”
“Going to kill him?”
“I am fair hungering to do so.”
“Aye, he is a sad waste of a knighthood, that is for certain.”
