Highland Barbarian. Hannah Howell

Mayhap ye should release those men. I think they are having trouble breathing.”

      Such was the enticement of her low, husky voice it took Artan a moment to understand what she said. He looked at the two men he held and grunted softly. They did appear to be choking. He shrugged and tossed them aside, then scowled at the people who gasped and moved farther away from him.

      “Thank ye, sir,” Cecily said, struggling not to laugh. “May we ken who ye are and why ye have come to our home?” When he looked at her with his silvery blue eyes Cecily felt oddly lightheaded and quickly stiffened her spine. She was not sure what he was doing to her or how he could make her feel so breathless with just a glance, but she would reveal to him only a calm civility.

      “I am Sir Artan Murray,” he replied and bowed slightly. “I have come on behalf of Sir Angus MacReith of Glascreag.”

      “Uncle Angus sent ye?” Cecily wondered why the sudden thought that this man could be a close relative should upset her so.

      “Ah, so ye are Lady Cecily Donaldson?” Artan had to strongly resist the urge to rub his hands together in glee.

      Cecily nodded and curtsied almost absently as she asked, “What does my uncle want?”

      “He wants ye to come to Glascreag. The mon is ill and wishes to see ye before he dies.” Artan did not really believe Angus was in danger of dying, but if the slight exaggeration got this woman to come to Glascreag with him, he saw no real harm in it.

      “Nay!” screeched Anabel, suddenly shaking free of her shock and rushing to Cecily’s side.

      Wincing when Anabel grabbed her tightly by the arm, Cecily said, “But if my uncle is dying—”

      “Ye can go to see him after the wedding,” said Anabel.

      “Wedding? What wedding?” Artan demanded.

      “Cecily’s wedding,” replied Anabel.

      “Angus wasnae told about any wedding.”

      “Why should he be told?”

      “Because he is her closest living kin.”

      “Weel, we are her family, too, her guardians. I am Lady Anabel Donaldson and there is my husband, Sir Edmund, coming toward us. It was our decision to make, nay his.”

      Artan studied the woman clutching Cecily’s arm in what looked to be a painful hold. The woman was pleasing to look at with her fair hair and blue eyes, but those eyes were cold. Her voluptuous body was well displayed in a deep red gown, but he suspected such bounty was wasted on this woman, her blood being as cold as her eyes. There was the hint of desperation in her stance and her voice. Artan immediately wondered what she gained from Cecily’s marriage.

      He looked at Cecily next. There was a faint pinch of pain her expression, and Artan had to fight the urge to pry Lady Anabel’s heavily ringed hand off Cecily’s slender arm. There was also no hint of joy or anticipation in Cecily’s expression, no sign of a bride’s pleasure. He hoped he was not fooling himself, but he could not shake the feeling that this marriage was not of her choosing.

      “Who are ye marrying, Sile?” he asked, using the Gaelic form of her name.

      “Me.”

      One look was all it took for Artan to decide that he neither liked nor trusted the man who stepped up on the other side of Lady Anabel and laid claim to Cecily. Artan made a great show of looking down at the man who was nearly a head shorter and enjoyed the light flush of anger that flared upon the man’s pale cheeks. He looked like one of those whining, grasping bootlickers who constantly danced around the king. Artan sniffed. Smelled like one, too. All heavy perfume spread over an unclean body.

      “And who might ye be?” he demanded.

      “I, sir, am Sir Fergus Ogilvey,” the man replied, lifting his weak chin enough to glare up at Artan.

      “Never heard of ye.” Ignoring Fergus’s soft curse, Artan looked to where Anabel’s hand still clutched Cecily’s arm and scowled at the dark spots slowly spreading beneath those sharp nails. “Let her go. Ye have pierced the skin.”

      Cecily breathed a sigh of relief when Anabel abruptly released her. She lightly rubbed her hand over the wounds she could feel beneath the sleeve of her gown. There would be a colorful array of bruises and scabs come the morning, she thought and hoped the bleeding would stop soon before it completely ruined the first new gown she had had in years. She looked from Fergus to Sir Artan and sighed, all too painfully aware of the marked difference between the two men. Sir Artan made Fergus look even smaller and paler than he actually was.

      “When is this wedding?” Artan asked.

      “In a fortnight,” replied Fergus, crossing his arms over his narrow chest. “Today is the first day of the festivities.”

      “Then ’tis best if ye show me to my chambers so that I may wash away this dust and join ye.”

      “I dinnae believe ye were invited,” snapped Anabel.

      “I did note that rudeness, but I forgive ye.” Artan smiled at Cecily when she released a surprised laugh, but noticed that she hastily silenced it at one hard glance from Lady Anabel.

      “Of course he must stay, m’dear,” said Sir Edmund as he joined them and looked at his wife. “The mon has been sent here by Cecily’s maternal uncle. We must nay offend the mon by treating his emissary so rudely, eh?” He smiled at Artan. “Ye can stand in the laird’s stead, aye, and then return to Glascreag with a full report of his niece’s marriage to this fine mon.” He clapped Sir Fergus on the back. “Now”—he waved over a buxom, fair-haired maid—“Davida here will see to ye. The meal will be set out in an hour.”

      “I will be here,” said Artan. He turned to Cecily, took her hand in his, and lightly brushed a kiss over the back of it. “When I return we must needs discuss your uncle, lass.”

      As Cecily watched Artan leave with Davida, she quickly clasped her hands together behind her back so that she could surreptitiously touch the spot he had kissed. She had never had her hand kissed before. She had certainly never felt so abruptly warm and weak-kneed just because a man had touched her hand. Then again, she had never seen a man like Sir Artan Murray either.

      She sighed as she thought of him being seen to by the buxom Davida. A sharp pinch of jealousy seized her, for she knew the very wanton Davida would soon be in his bed. Cecily could not really blame the woman. Davida had probably never seen such a lovely man either and was undoubtedly thinking herself blessed. Understanding did not dim her resentment by much, however. If nothing else, it seemed grossly unfair that the wanton Davida would have Sir Artan while she was left with only Sir Fergus.

      “Edmund, how could ye ask that savage to stay here?” demanded Anabel.

      “And what choice was there, wife?” Edmund grimaced. “Angus is Cecily’s closest blood kin, and that mon said the laird is ill, mayhap e’en dying.”

      “Mayhap I should go to him then,” said Cecily, then nearly flinched when Fergus, Edmund, and Anabel all glared at her.

      “Ye are going nowhere,” said Anabel. “That mon hasnae had aught to do with ye until now, has he?”

      That was sadly true, although Cecily had always thought that a little odd. She could recall her uncle as a big, rough-speaking man, but one who had been unceasingly kind to her. Even though that last ill-fated visit had been made so that the man could meet her brother, Colin, who was his heir, her uncle had spent time with her, too. As always, she shrugged that puzzle aside and gathered up the courage to argue with Anabel, at least just a little bit.

      “That doesnae matter,” Cecily said. “What does matter is that my uncle may soon die. Since he is my closest kinsmon, isnae it my duty to go to his side?” She tensed when Sir Fergus stepped up beside her and put his arm around her shoulders, for she sensed no affection in the gesture.

      “Aye,