“Her father brought her and her wee brother here just before he and the lad died.”
“How did they die?”
“Killed whilst traveling back home from visiting me. Thieves. Poor wee lass saw it all. Old Meg, her maid, got her to safety, though. Some of their escort survived, chased away the thieves, and then got Cecily, Old Meg, and the dead back to their home. The moment I heard I sent for the lass, but the cousins had already taken hold of her and wouldnae let go.”
“Was her father a mon of wealth or property?”
“Aye, he was. He had both, and the cousins now control it all. For the lass’s sake, they say. And, aye, I wonder on the killing. His kinsmen could have had a hand in it.”
“Yet they havenae rid themselves of the lass.”
“She made it home and has ne’er left there again. They also have control of all that she has since she is a woman, aye?”
“Aye, and it probably helps muzzle any suspicions about the other deaths.”
Angus nodded. “’Tis what I think. So, will ye go to Kirkfalls and fetch my niece?”
“Aye, I will fetch her, but I make no promises about marrying her.”
“Not e’en to become my heir?”
“Nay, not e’en for that, tempting as it is. I willnae tie myself to a woman for that alone. There has to be more.”
“She is a bonnie wee lass with dark red hair and big green eyes.”
That sounded promising, but Artan fixed a stern gaze upon the old man. “Ye havenae set eyes on her since she was a child, and ye dinnae ken what sort of woman she has become. A lass can be so bonnie on the outside she makes a mon’s innards clench. But then the blind lust clears away, and he finds himself with a bonnie lass who is as cold as ice, or mean of spirit, or any of a dozen things that would make living with her a pure misery. Nay, I willnae promise to wed your niece now. I will only promise to consider it. There will be time to come to know the lass as we travel here from Kirkfalls.”
“Fair enough, but ye will see. Ye will be wanting to marry her. She is a sweet, gentle, biddable lass. A true lady raised to be a mon’s comfort.”
Artan wondered just how much of that effusive praise was true, then shrugged and began to plan his journey.
Chapter 2
“A rotting piece of refuse, a slimy, wart-infested toad, a—a—” Cecily frowned and stopped pacing her bedchamber as she tried to think of some more ways to adequately describe the man she was about to be married to, but words failed her.
“M’lady?”
Cecily looked toward where her very young maid peered nervously into the room and she tried to smile. Although Joan entered the room, she did not look very reassured, and Cecily decided her attempt to look pleasant had failed. She was not surprised. She did not feel the least bit pleasant.
“I have come to help ye dress for the start of the celebration,” Joan said as she began to collect the clothes she had obviously been told to dress Cecily in.
Sighing heavily, Cecily removed her robe and allowed the girl to help her dress for the meal in the great hall. She needed to calm herself before she faced her family, all their friends, and her newly betrothed again. Her cousins felt they were doing well by her, arranging an excellent marriage, and by most people’s reckoning, they were. Sir Fergus Ogilvey was a man of power and wealth by all accounts, was not too old, and had gained his knighthood in service to the king. She was the orphaned daughter of a scholar and a Highland woman. She was also a woman of two-and-twenty with unruly red hair, very few curves, and freckles.
She had long been a sore trial to her cousins, repaying their care with embarrassment and disobedience. It was why they were increasingly cold toward her. Cecily had tried, time and time again, to win their love and approval, but she had consistently failed. This was her last chance, and despite her distaste for the man she was soon to marry, she would stiffen her spine and accept him as her husband.
“A pustule on the arse of the devil,” she murmured.
“M’lady?” squeaked Joan.
The way Joan stared at her told Cecily that she had spoken that last unkind thought aloud and she sighed again. A part of her mind had obviously continued to think of more insults to fling at Sir Fergus Ogilvey, and her mouth had unfortunately joined in the game. The very last thing she needed was to have such remarks make their way to her cousins’ ears. She would lose all chance of gaining their affection and approval then.
“My pardon, Joan,” she said, and forced herself to look suitably contrite and just a little embarrassed. “I was practicing the saying of insults when ye entered the room and that one just suddenly occurred to me.”
“Practicing insults? Whate’er for, m’lady?”
“Why, to spit out at an enemy if one should attack. I cannae use a sword or a dagger and I am much too small to put up much of a successful fight, so I thought it might be useful to be able to flay my foe with sharp words.”
Wonderful, Cecily thought as Joan very gently urged her to sit upon a stool so that she could dress her hair, now Joan obviously thought her mistress had gone mad. Perhaps she had. It had to be some sort of lunacy to try unendingly for so many years to win the approval and affection of someone, yet she could not seem to help herself. Each failure to win the approval, the respect, and caring of her guardians seemed to just drive her to try even harder. She felt she owed them so much, yet she continuously failed in all of her attempts to repay them. This time she would not fail.
“Here now, wee Joan, I will do that.”
Cecily felt her dark mood lighten a little when Old Meg hurried into the room. Sharp of tongue though Old Meg was, Cecily had absolutely no doubt that the woman cared for her. Her cousins detested the woman and had almost completely banished her from the manor, although Cecily had never been able to find out why. To have the woman here now, at her time of need, was an unexpected blessing, and Cecily rose to hug the tall, buxom woman.
“’Tis so good to see ye, Old Meg,” Cecily said, not surprised to hear the rasp of choked-back tears in her voice.
Old Meg patted her on the back. “And where else should I be when my wee Cecily is soon to be wed, eh?” She urged Cecily back down onto the stool and smiled at Joan. “Go on, lassie. I will do this. I suspicion ye have a lot of other things ye must see to.”
“I hope ye havenae hurt her feelings,” Cecily murmured as soon as Joan was gone and Old Meg shut the door.
“Nay, poor lass is being worked to the bone, she is, and is glad to be relieved of at least one chore. Your cousins are twisting themselves into knots trying to impress Ogilvey and his kin. They dinnae seem to ken that he is naught but a grasper who thinks himself so high and mighty he wouldst probably look down his long nose at one of God’s angels.”
Cecily laughed briefly, but then frowned. “He does seem to be verra fond of himself.”
Old Meg harrumphed as she began to vigorously brush Cecily’s hair. “He is so full of himself he ought to be gagging. The mon is acting as if he does ye some grand favor by agreeing to wed with ye. Ye come from far better stock than that prancing mongrel.”
“He was knighted in the service of the king,” Cecily felt moved to say even though she felt no real compulsion to defend the man.
“The fool stumbled into the way of a sword that would have struck our king, nay more than that. It wasnae until Ogilvey paused a wee moment in cursing and whining—after he had recovered from his swoon, mind ye—that he realized everyone thought he had done it apurpose. The sly cur did have the wit to play the humble savior of our sire, I will give ye that, although he did a right poor job of it.”
“How do ye ken so much about it?”
“I was there, wasnae I? I was visiting my sister. We were watching all the lairds and the king. Some foolish argument began between a few of the lairds, swords were drawn, and the king nearly walked into one save that Ogilvey was so busy brushing a wee speck of dirt off his cloak he wasnae watching where he was going. Tripped o’er his own feet and
stumbled into glory, aye.”
Cecily frowned. “He has only e’er said that he did our king a great service. Verra humble about it all he is.”
“Weel, he cannae tell the truth about it, can he? Nay when he let the mistake stand and got himself knighted and all.”
So she was soon to marry a liar, Cecily thought, and inwardly sighed. That might be an unfair judgment. It could well have been impossible for Sir Fergus to untangle himself from the misconception. After all, who would dare argue with a king? And why was she wearying her mind making excuses for the man, she asked herself.
Because she had to was the answer. This was her last chance to become a part of this family, to be more than a burden and an object of charity. Although she would have to leave to abide in her husband’s home, at least she could leave her cousins thinking well of her and ready to finally consider her a true and helpful part of their family. She would be welcome in their hearts and their home at last. Sir Fergus was not a man she would have chosen for the father of her children, but few women got to choose their husbands. Poor though she felt the choice was, however, she could take comfort in the fact that she had finally done something to please her kinsmen.
“Ye dinnae look to be too happy about this, lass,” said Old Meg as she decorated Cecily’s thick hair with blue ribbons to match her gown.
“I will be,” Cecily murmured.
“And just what does that mean, eh? I will be.”
“It means I will be content in my marriage. And, aye, I shall have to work to be so, but it will suffice. I am nearly two-and-twenty. ’Tis past time I was married and bred a few bairns. I but pray they dinnae get his chin,” she muttered, then grimaced when Old Meg laughed. “That was unkind of me.”
“Mayhap, but ’twas the hard, cold truth. The mon has no chin at all, does he.”
“Nay, I fear not. I have ne’er seen such a weak one. ’Tis as if his neck starts at his mouth.” Cecily shook her head, earning a sharp reprimand from Old Meg.
“If ye dinnae wish to be wed to the fool, why have ye agreed to this?”
“Because Anabel and Edmund want this.”
When Old Meg stepped back to put her hands on her ample hips and scowl at her, Cecily stood up and moved to the looking glass to see if she was presentable. The looking glass was one of the few richer items in her small bedchamber, and if Cecily stood a little to the side, she could see herself quite well despite the large crack in it. She felt that small worm of resentment in her heart twitch over being given only the things Anabel or her daughters no longer wanted or that were marred in some way, but she smothered it. Anabel could have just thrown the cracked looking glass away as she had so much else that had belonged to Cecily’s mother.
Cecily frowned as she realized she would have to plot some way to slyly retrieve a few things from hiding. She glanced toward a still scowling Old Meg. One of the woman’s most often voiced complaints was about how Anabel had tossed away so many of Moira Donaldson’s belongings. It was, perhaps, time to let the woman know that not everything was lost. At first, it had just been a child’s grief that had caused Cecily to retrieve her mother’s things and hide them away. Over the years, it had slowly become a ritual and, she ruefully admitted to herself, a form of rebellion.
The same could be said for her other great secret, she mused, glancing toward the small ornately carved chest holding her ribbons and the meager collection of jewelry allotted to her. Anabel had rapidly claimed all the jewelry that had once been Moira’s, or so the woman believed. Hidden away beneath the ribbons and trinkets in that chest were several rich pieces of jewelry that Cecily refused to give up, pieces her father had given her after her mother had died. He had intended her to have the rest when she grew older, but Cecily had mentioned that to her guardians only once. Anabel’s fury had been chilling. In truth, Cecily suspected it was one reason Anabel made such a display of it when she threw away yet another thing that had once belonged to Cecily’s mother or father. Holding fast to those few pieces of jewelry had been enough to keep Cecily quiet when she saw Anabel or her daughters wearing the jewelry that had once adorned Moira Donaldson.
The woman deserved something for caring for a penniless orphan, Cecily told herself, firmly pushing aside the resentment she could not seem to fully conquer; then she turned to face Old Meg. That woman looked an odd mix of annoyed and concerned. Even though Cecily had taken only a fleeting note of her own appearance, deeming it neat and presentable, she smiled at Old Meg and lightly touched her beribboned hair.
“It looks verra bonnie, Meg,” she said.
Old Meg snorted and crossed her arms. “Ye barely glanced at yourself, lass. Ye got all somber and looked to be verra far away. What were ye thinking on?”
“Ah, weel, a secret I have kept for a verra long time,” Cecily replied, speaking softly as she quickly moved to Old Meg’s side. “Do ye recall my favorite hiding place?”
“Aye,” Old Meg replied, speaking as softly as Cecily was. “In the dungeon. That wee hidden room. I ne’er told anyone, though I should have. Ye could have gotten yourself locked in there and, if I wasnae about, been stuck in there good and tight.”
“Weel, ye were about and I was e’er safe. But heed me, please, for I may yet need your help. I have hidden some things in there, things Anabel threw away, things that Maman and Papa and e’en Colin loved.” She laughed a little when Old Meg hugged her.
“And ye want me to be sure they go with ye when ye marry.”
“Aye.” Cecily pointed to the small chest that hid her other treasures. “And that wee chest.”
Old Meg sighed. “Your da gave ye that. Ye were so pleased with the gift. It has a wee hidey-hole in it, and ye loved to put your special things inside it. What have ye hidden in it now?”
“After Maman died, my father gave me a few pieces of her jewelry. I was to get the rest when I got older, but Anabel,” Cecily ignored Old Meg’s softly muttered and rather crude opinion of Anabel, “kept everything. She said all of Maman’s jewels and other fine things were now hers. So I kept the ones Papa had given me a secret from Anabel. ’Twas wrong of me, I ken it, but—”
“’Tis nay wrong for a child to hold fast to something that reminds her of her parents.”
“That is what I tell myself whene’er I begin to feel guilty.”
“Ye have naught to feel guilty about.”
Cecily gently touched her fingers to Old Meg’s mouth, silencing what she knew could easily become a long rant about how poorly she had been treated by her guardians. “It matters not. Anabel and Edmund are my family, and I have been a sore disappointment to them. This time I mean to please them. Howbeit, I willnae lose what little I have left of my brother, father, and mother. I need ye to ken where I have hidden what few things I could hold tight to.”
Old Meg sighed and nodded. “If ye cannae get them away yourself, I will see that they come to ye.”
“Thank ye, Meggie. ’Twill be a comfort to me to have them close at hand.”
“Ye are really going to marry that chinless fool, arenae ye?”
“Aye, ’tis what they want, and this time I mean to please them. And as I said, I am almost two-and-twenty and have ne’er e’en been wooed. Or properly kissed.” Cecily quickly banished the thought of Sir Fergus kissing her, for it made her feel slightly nauseous. “I want bairns and one needs a husband for that. I am sure it will be fine.”
Old Meg gave her a look that said she was daft, but only muttered, “Let us now pray that those bairns ye want dinnae get that fool’s chin.”
“Weel, at least ye look presentable.”
Cecily smiled faintly at Anabel, deciding to accept those sharp words as a compliment. She forced herself to stop staring at the intricate gold and garnet necklace Anabel wore, one that had been a gift her father had given her mother upon their marriage. It was painful to be reminded of times past, of the love her mother and father had shared, especially when she would soon be married to a man she was not sure she could ever
love.
She looked around the great hall, taking careful note of all the people attending the feast. It was the start of two weeks of festivities, which would end with her marriage to Sir Fergus Ogilvey. Cecily knew very few of the people since she had rarely been allowed to join in any feasts or even go with her kinsmen on any visits. She suspected these people came to this wedding celebration to eat, drink, and hunt all at someone else’s expense.
When she finally espied her betrothed, she sighed. He stood with two other men, all three looking very self-important as they talked. Cecily realized she was not even faintly curious about their conversation and suspected that was a very bad omen concerning her future. Surely a wife should be interested in all her husband was interested in, she thought.
As Anabel began to tell her all about each and every guest—who they were, where they were from, and why it was important to cater to their every whim—Cecily tried to find something about her betrothed that she could like or simply appreciate. He was not ugly, but neither was he handsome. He definitely had a very weak chin and a somewhat long, thin nose. His brown hair was rather dull in color, and it already showed signs of retreating from his head. She recalled that he had eyes of a greenish hazel shade, a nice color. Unfortunately, his eyes were rather small, his lashes thin and very short. He had good posture and he dressed well, she decided, and felt relieved that she could find something to compliment him on if the need arose.
“Are ye e’en listening?” hissed Anabel. “This is important. Ye will soon be mixing freely with these people.”
Cecily looked at Anabel and tensed. Something had angered the woman again, and Cecily felt her heart sink into her stomach. She hastily tried to recall something, anything, the woman had just said, only to watch Anabel visibly control her temper. Cecily was surprised to discover that she found that even more alarming. Anabel very clearly wanted this marriage—desperately. Even if she was not determined to do this to please Edmund and Anabel, to try to finally gain some place in this family, Cecily realized there really was no choice for her. If she did not marry Sir Fergus Ogilvey willingly, she would undoubtedly be forced to do it.
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