Highland Barbarian. Hannah Howell

did it when ye sent word.”

      “Ye dinnae ken who did it?”

      “I have a good idea who did it. A verra good idea.” Artan shrugged. “I will find them.”

      Angus nodded, “Aye, ye will, lad. Suspicion they will be hiding now, eh?”

      “Aye, as time passes and I dinnae come to take my reckoning they will begin to feel themselves safe. ’Twill be most enjoyable to show them how mistaken they are.”

      “Ye have a devious mind, Artan,” Angus said in obvious admiration.

      “Thank ye.” Artan moved to lean against the bedpost at the head of the bed. “I dinnae think ye are dying, Angus.”

      “I am nay weel!”

      “Och, nay, ye arenae, but ye arenae dying.”

      “What do ye ken about it?” grumbled Angus, pushing himself upright enough to collapse against the pillows Artan quickly set behind him.

      “Dinnae ye recall that I am a Murray? I have spent near all my life surrounded by healers. Aye, ye are ailing; but I dinnae think ye will die if ye are careful. Ye dinnae have the odor of a mon with one foot in the grave. And, for all ye do stink some, ’tisnae really the smell of death.”

      “Death has a smell ere it e’en takes hold of a mon’s soul?”

      “Aye, I think it does. And since ye are nay dying, I will return to hunting the men who hurt Lucas.”

      Angus grabbed Artan by the arm, halting the younger man as he started to move away. “Nay! I could die and ye ken it weel. I hold three score years. E’en the smallest chill could set me firm in the grave.”

      That was true enough, Artan thought as he studied the man who had fostered him and Lucas for nearly ten years. Angus was still a big, strong man, but age sometimes weakened a body in ways one could not see. The fact that Angus was in bed in the middle of the day was proof enough that whatever ailed him was serious. Artan wondered if he was just refusing to accept the fact that Angus was old and would die soon.

      “So, ye have brought me here to stand watch o’er your deathbed?” Artan asked, frowning, for he doubted Angus would ask such a thing of him.

      “Nay, I need ye to do something for me. This ague, or whate’er it is that ails me, has made me face the hard fact that, e’en if I recover from this, I dinnae have many years left to me. ’Tis past time I start thinking on what must be done to ensure the well-being of Glascreag and the clan when I am nay longer here.”

      “Then ye should be speaking with Malcolm.”

      “Bah, that craven whelp is naught but a stain upon the name MacReith. Sly, whining little wretch. I wouldnae trust him to care for my dogs, let alone these lands and the people living here. He couldnae hold fast to this place for a fortnight. Nay, I willnae have him as my heir.”

      “Ye dinnae have another one that I ken of.”

      “Aye, I do, although I have kept it quiet. Glad of that now. My youngest sister bore a child two-and-twenty years ago. Poor Moira died a few years later bearing another child,” he murmured, the shadow of old memories briefly darkening his eyes.

      “Then where is he? Why wasnae he sent here to train to be the laird? Why isnae he kicking that wee timid mousie named Malcolm out of Glascreag?”

      “’Tis a lass.”

      Artan opened his mouth to loudly decry naming a lass the heir to Glascreag, and then quickly shut it. He resisted the temptation to look behind him to see if his kinswomen were bearing down on him, well armed and ready to beat some sense into him. They would all be sorely aggrieved if they knew what thoughts were whirling about in his head. Words like too weak, too sentimental, too trusting, and made to have bairns not lead armies were the sort of thoughts that would have his kinswomen grinding their teeth in fury.

      But Glascreag was no Donncoill, he thought. Deep in the Highlands, it was surrounded by rough lands and even rougher men. In the years he and Lucas had trained with Angus, they had fought reivers, other clans, and some who had wanted Angus’s lands. Glascreag required constant vigilance and a strong sword arm. Murray women were strong and clever, but they were healers not warriors, not deep in their hearts. Artan also considered his kinswomen unique and doubted Angus’s niece was of their ilk.

      “If ye name a lass as your heir, Angus, every mon who has e’er coveted your lands will come kicking down your gates.” Artan crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the man. “Malcolm is a spineless weasel, but a mon, more or less. Naming him your heir would at least make men pause as they girded themselves for battle. Aye, and your men would heed his orders far more quickly than they would those of a lass, and ye ken it weel.”

      Angus nodded and ran one scarred hand through his black hair, which was still thick and long, but was now well threaded with white. “I ken it, but I have a plan.”

      A tickle of unease passed through Artan. Angus’s plans could often mean trouble. At the very least, they meant hard work for him. The way the man’s eyes, a silvery blue like his own, were shielded by his half-lowered lids warned Artan that even Angus knew he was not going to like this particular plan.

      “I want ye to go and fetch my niece for me and bring her here to Glascreag, where she belongs. I wish to see her once more before I die.” Angus sighed, slumped heavily against the pillows, and closed his eyes.

      Artan grunted, making his disgust with such a pitiful play for sympathy very clear. “Then send word and have her people bring her here.”

      Sitting up straight, Angus glared at him. “I did. I have been writing to the lass for years, e’en sent for her when her father and brother died ten, nay, twelve years ago. Her father’s kinsmen refused to give her into my care e’en though nary a one of them is as close in blood to her as I am.”

      “Why didnae ye just go and get her? Ye are a laird. Ye could have claimed her as your legal heir and taken her. ’Tis easy to refuse letters and emissaries, but nay so easy to refuse a mon to his face. Ye could have saved yourself the misery of dealing with Malcolm.”

      “I wanted the lass to want to come to Glascreag, didnae I?”

      “’Tis past time ye ceased trying to coax her or her father’s kinsmen.”

      “Exactly! That is why I want ye to go and fetch her here. Ach, laddie, I am sure ye can do it. Ye can charm and threaten with equal skill. Aye, and ye can do it without making them all hot for your blood. I would surely start a feud I dinnae need. Ye have a way with folk that I dinnae, that ye do.”

      Artan listened to Angus’s flattery and grew even more uneasy. Angus was not only a little desperate to have his niece brought home to Glascreag, but he also knew Artan would probably refuse to do him this favor. The question was, why would Angus think Artan would refuse to go and get the woman. It could not be because it was dangerous, for the man knew well that only something foolishly suicidal would cause Artan to, perhaps, hesitate. Although his mind was quickly crowded with possibilities ranging from illegal to just plain disgusting, Artan decided he had played this game long enough.

      “Shut it, Angus,” he said, standing up straighter and putting his hands on his hips. “Why havenae ye gone after the woman yourself, and why do ye think I will refuse to go?”

      “Ye would refuse to help a mon on his deathbed?”

      “Just spit it out, Angus, or I will leave right now and ye will ne’er ken which I might have said, aye or nay.”

      “Och, ye will say nay,” Angus mumbled. “Cecily lives at Dunburn near Kirkfalls.”

      “Near Kirkfalls? Kirkfalls?” Artan muttered; then he swore. “That is in the Lowlands.” Artan’s voice was soft yet sharp with loathing.

      “Weel, just a few miles into the Lowlands.”

      “Now I ken why ye ne’er went after the lass yourself. Ye couldnae