Highland Barbarian. Hannah Howell

“I think Lady Anabel fears the lass would balk at marrying Sir Fergus if she kenned what he was truly like.” Davida grimaced. “Poor wee lass has her own troubles anyway, aye? She doesnae need to be weighed down with those of others. Aye, and she couldnae do aught to help in the end, which would fair break her heart.”

      “So this marriage isnae the lass’s choice?”

      “Why are ye so interested?”

      “Her uncle sent me here, her dying uncle.”

      “Oh, aye. Weel, I dinnae think Lady Cecily had anything to say about it all. Dinnae think many lasses do, do they. Lady Cecily does seem to be accepting it.” Davida put her hands on her well-rounded hips and frowned. “I have ne’er understood why they didnae let the poor lass go to her uncle. ’Tis clear to anyone with eyes in their head that Lady Anabel doesnae like her.” Davida suddenly blushed and looked wary. “Ach, but what do I ken, eh? Ye shouldnae heed me. Nay, and I spoke out of turn and all.”

      “I willnae be repeating it all, so dinnae fret, lass. Her uncle will want to ken the truth, and I suspicion I willnae get much of that from Lady Cecily’s guardians or her betrothed.”

      “They wouldnae ken the truth of it if it bit them on the arse,” Davida muttered. Then she asked, “If her uncle cares so much about the lass and how she fares, why has he ignored her all these years?”

      “He hasnae. The mon wrote to her often.”

      Davida gave him a look of utter disbelief. “Nay, there was ne’er a word from the mon. Poor wee lass wrote to him a lot in the beginning. ’Twas enough to make ye weep when she finally realized he was ne’er going to reply or e’en come to see her. Then she just wrote to him at Michaelmas time. Nay, she kens that all she has left for family now is this lot, and isnae that right sad, eh?” Davida shook her head, sighed, and then looked Artan over, her growing smile revealing that her pity for Cecily was quickly being replaced with lust for him. “Shall I help ye dress?”

      “Nay, I believe I can fend for meself,” he drawled.

      The heavy sigh Davida released as she left the room stroked Artan’s vanity and he grinned. That good humor faded quickly, however. His suspicions had been roused by all the maid had told him. It was not just the fact that Cecily had never received any of Angus’s letters or gifts, either. Artan still could not believe Cecily’s father had left her destitute, although it was possible that the man had not realized how poorly his kinsman and his wife would treat Cecily. If Cecily’s father had been the only one in the family with a full purse, Anabel and Edmund could have always been on their best behavior around the man.

      A lot of what Davida had told him about the situation at Dunburn could be explained away, but not the fact that Cecily had never received anything from Angus. Someone had wanted to make very sure that Cecily felt she had no choice, that she had no other place to go or anyone else to turn to. One had to ask why, and the only answers Artan could think of to that question were all bad. Even if he were not already considering Angus’s suggestion that he marry Cecily and become the heir to Glascreag, he would have felt compelled to linger at Dunburn and investigate. He might have used the excuse of a dying Angus to keep Davida talking, but the implication behind that excuse was the truth. Angus would want to know what was happening to his niece.

      It was odd that Artan felt so outraged by the mere possibility that a woman he had only just met was being mistreated or cheated; but despite that, he accepted his feelings. He had never been one to sit and examine how he felt anyway. He either accepted the feelings as reasonable or banished them. This time instinct told him there was good reason to be outraged, if only because this was Angus’s niece. So he would linger at Dunburn, unwanted and uninvited, and find out just what was going on. Recalling a pair of deep green eyes, he decided there was another good reason to linger. He may well have just met his mate.

      Chapter 4

      Cecily glanced at Fergus. He sat across the table from her. As her betrothed, he should have been sitting next to her. Instead, he sat opposite her, scowling at the man seated on her right, the man who had somehow managed to usurp Sir Fergus’s rightful place. She had the uncomfortable feeling that one reason Sir Artan sat at her side was because Sir Fergus had been too cowardly to stand firm and claim his rights. And it had all been done without a word spoken. It seemed her betrothed was not only chinless but spineless.

      As covertly as she could, Cecily peeked at the man seated next to her on the bench as he selected a slice of roast goose and set it on her plate. For a leanly built man he took up a lot of room. Every time his muscular thigh had brushed against her, she had shifted away from him until she now teetered on the far edge of the bench, but his thigh was yet again pressed close to hers. Cecily briefly considered nudging against him to see if he would shift away from her, but quickly dismissed that thought. She had the oddest feeling that he would not move an inch and she would end up sitting on his lap. And why the thought of sitting on Sir Artan’s lap should make her feel all warm and anxious she did not know. Deciding that might be what temptation felt like, she forced her attention to the large amount of food the man had piled onto her plate.

      “Eat up, lass,” said Artan. “Ye will need your strength.”

      Hastily chewing on a piece of meat she had put in her mouth, Cecily wondered what he meant. She frowned at the amount of food he had put on her plate and began to feel insulted. Cecily knew she was not very big, but she was no puling weakling either.

      “Why do ye think I should build up my strength?” she asked.

      “’Tis clear to see that this celebration is going to keep ye busy from sunrise to sunset for at least a fortnight. Aye, and then there is the wedding itself and, of course, the wedding night.”

      The wedding night, Cecily thought and silently cursed. That was something she had tried very hard not to think about. She did not thank Sir Artan for reminding her of it either. Desperately, she tried hard to think about something else, anything else, so that she could return to that comforting state of blissful ignorance.

      “Is my uncle really dying?” she asked and ignored the knowing look he gave her.

      “He is ill and he is carrying three score years.”

      Cecily frowned and wondered why that news made her eyes sting with tears. She had not seen her uncle for years, and he had shown little inclination to have anything to do with her. Over the years she had done her best to convince herself that it did not matter, that it was only to be expected for she was not a male who could become his heir. Obviously, she had failed in that endeavor, for she felt honestly grieved that her uncle may well be dead soon, that she would never have the chance to see him again.

      “’Tis but natural for a mon to wish to have his loved ones close at his side when he is at the end of his life,” murmured Artan, sensing her upset and hoping to take advantage of it in convincing her to leave Dunburn willingly and soon.

      “Loved ones?” Her voice was so tainted with bitter anger that even Cecily winced at the sound of it. “He doesnae see me as a loved one. If he did, he would have written or e’en come to visit.”

      “And why are ye so sure that he hasnae written?”

      “Because I have ne’er seen e’en the smallest, most crudely written letter. Nary a word. And he has certainly ne’er come to visit with me or asked me to come to him.”

      Artan sensed a deep hurt behind her sharp words and inwardly cursed. Unless he had proof to give her, hard proof that her guardians had kept her apart from Angus, it would be difficult to free her from their grasp. It would not be easy to get any proof. Still, he mused with an inner smile, at least searching for that proof would give him something to do while he was at Dunburn.

      “’Tis odd,” he murmured, “for I ken weel that he tried.”

      “Tried to write or tried to visit?”

      “Write. I fear he wouldnae come here unless ye were on your deathbed or in grave danger. He has no liking for the Lowlands.”

      “So