Highland Barbarian

by Howell, Hannah

  “Might I be so impertinent as to ask why I am tied to this stake?” she asked between tightly gritted teeth.

  The way his eyes widened told her that her obvious anger had surprised him. He looked at her a little more closely and appeared to be even more shocked. Cecily would not be surprised if her eyes fairly screamed her rage. It was obvious he felt as if some mouse had just grown large fangs and was leaping for his throat. That he was so astonished that she would be angry to be treated so told Cecily as much about herself as it did about him. She had clearly appeared weak and timid to him, an easy victim. It disgusted her.

  “I couldnae leave ye loose, could I?” he said. “Ye might have run back to your lover.”

  “I have no lover,” she said.

  He moved faster than she could have believed possible and backhanded her across the face. Cecily sprawled back onto the ground from the force of the blow. For a moment she stayed there, sprawled gracelessly on her back. The pain of the blow made the whole side of her face throb, but the shock of the attack was worse. It was not really the shock over a man striking her either; it was the shock of knowing at that precise moment that Artan had been telling her the truth.

  “Do ye think I hadnae guessed that ye had willingly met that Highlander at the burn?” he snapped and gulped down the rest of his wine. “Ye crept away like a thief in the night to rut with that mon. Ye are betrothed to me, and yet ye let that barbarian touch ye.”

  Warily, a little afraid that he would knock her back down again, Cecily sat up. “And just how did ye discover I was even gone, let alone where I went and with whom?”

  “I had someone watching the Highlander and ye werenae in your room.”

  “Ye went to my bedchamber?”

  “I felt it was time to remind ye that ye are betrothed to me.”

  That told her all too clearly why he had gone to her room, and Cecily barely suppressed a shudder of revulsion. She had always done her best not to think too much on the fact that, as her husband, Sir Fergus would have the right to share her bed, to claim her body. He had evidently decided not to wait any longer to claim those rights. Cecily suspected it had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with making a firm claim on her, one that might cause Artan to turn away from her. Recalling what Artan had told her about Sir Fergus and the young maid he had tried to rape, she also knew her willingness or lack of it would not have mattered. Worse, she was absolutely sure that her guardians would not have done anything to help her or avenge that insult.

  “Weel, ’tis a good thing I wasnae there then, isnae it, seeing as I have decided that we are nay longer betrothed.”

  “Ye have decided? This has naught to do with ye, ye witless whore. Your guardians gave ye to me.”

  “Curious that. Nay matter how hard I think on it, I cannae understand why they chose ye. Ye dinnae gain them verra much. There were others they could have chosen who would have brought them far more gain.”

  “Aye, but I can send them to the gallows.”

  His smug look chilled her as much as the revelation that yet another thing Artan had told her was really true. Sir Edmund and Lady Anabel had ordered the killing of her father and poor wee Colin. If not for Old Meg and a few stalwart men, she would have died with the rest of her family. She found some comfort in the fact that Old Meg had never guessed the secret of her guardians’ crimes, but only a little. A part of her felt as if she had betrayed her father and Colin by living with their killers and trying so hard to please them.

  “I can see that ye ken what I mean. In payment for my silence concerning the blood on their hands, I got ye and quite a bit of the fortune your father left ye. He was a verra rich mon, ye ken, and Anabel and Edmund have lived weel off your money for long enough. ’Tis time they shared a wee bit.”

  “Did my father e’en name them as my guardians?”

  “Nay, he chose another cousin, but that poor, kindly mon had a tragic accident and died.”

  “It must be a sizable fortune if ye are willing to give them Dunburn.”

  “Weel, weel, your barbarian did manage to uncover many a secret, didnae he. He is obviously nay as stupid as he looks.” He shrugged. “It matters not. He has taken them to the grave with him. As for Dunburn, I will let those two fools enjoy it for a while longer. I cannae move against them too quickly. It would raise too many questions.”

  Shoving aside the fear that he was right when he said Artan had taken those secrets to the grave, Cecily forced herself to look at Fergus with scorn. “Did ye ne’er think that they might be planning the same fate for you?”

  “Of course. I ne’er let myself forget that they have already killed to gain Dunburn and its wealth. It troubles me not. I am a match for them.”

  “Intend to rid yourself of Anabel the next time ye share her bed?” She was a little surprised by the look of distaste that crossed his face.

  “She wasnae to my taste. The woman enjoys it too much.”

  “It being the occasional loving punch in the face?”

  He scowled at her. “That bastard told ye about the maid, didnae he? He nearly killed me!”

  Cecily snorted. “If he had wanted ye dead, then ye wouldnae be standing here acting so proud of all your crimes.”

  “Oh, aye? Just who has won this game, eh?”

  “I wouldnae play head cock of the dunghill yet, Sir Fergus. Ye ne’er saw Artan’s body.”

  To her amazement he paled and hurried over to the tent opening, calling over one of his men. “Have Tom and his men returned yet?”

  “Nay,” replied the man, “we have been waiting for them, but mayhap the fading light slows them down.”

  The man did not sound too sure of that, and although Cecily would not have thought it possible, Sir Fergus grew even paler before he abruptly dismissed the man. She watched as Sir Fergus poured himself another tankard of wine and gulped down the whole thing. Artan terrified him.

  “See? No body yet.”

  “He is dead,” Sir Fergus hissed, then kicked her in the side. “I left ten men there to see to it. He couldnae survive that.”

  “He survived the eight men ye sent after him last time.”

  Cecily hastily scrambled out of his way when he tried to kick her again. It might be gratifying to taunt him, but it was not wise. Even as she prayed that she had the right to hope, she planned how she could keep Sir Fergus from beating her too badly or raping her before Artan came for her.

  Artan held his sword at the throat of the last man standing, and demanded, “Where has he taken her?”

  “He is camped in a clearing about a mile from here. A mile to the north. Ye cannae miss him. He has a huge tent set up. Aye, with pennants on it.”

  “Pennants?”

  The man nodded, but carefully, all too aware of the sword point but inches from his throat. “He had them made when he was knighted.”

  “What is on them?”

  “Some wee blue flower and a rampant boar.”

  “How fitting. Now, ye are a Donaldson, aye?”

  “Aye, her ladyship sent near thirty of us with Sir Fergus.”

  “Do ye ken that her ladyship and her rutting swine of a husband are nay the true owners of Dunburn?”

  The man grimaced. “’Tis the lass, isnae it?”

  “Aye, ’tis the lass, and verra soon Sir Edmund and Lady Anabel will be made to pay for their thievery and for the murder of Lady Cecily’s father and brother.” He nodded when the man just stared at him in shock. “I would suggest that ye slip away home. Now.”

  The moment the man ran away, Artan sheathed his sword and whistled for Thunderbolt. He ached all over and had a few small wounds that stung badly, but he had survived hale and strong enough to go after his woman. Hearing a groan, he quickly mounted his horse and started to ride away. Some of the men were starting to wake up and he had no wish to fight them all over again. With one man having fled, one dead, and two seriously wounded, he would only have to fight six, but he did not want to risk it. It was more
important to get to Cecily as fast as he could.

  He saw the pennant first and nearly laughed. There was so much white in the thing that it fairly glowed like a lantern even in the fading light caused by the increasing clouds. He suspected Sir Fergus’s men were heartily cursing the man’s vanity. Silently, he drew as close as he dared to the back of the tent. Dismounting, he began to move toward the tent when he espied one of the Ogilveys standing guard in front of a shepherd’s shieling. Although he doubted Fergus would have put Cecily in there, he had to check.

  After slamming the hilt of his sword into the man’s head, Artan carefully set him on the ground. He pulled aside the oiled leather door of the shieling and found himself staring at two very young men. Despite the fact that he knew he looked like he had been in a hard fight and he held a sword in his hand, both young men smiled at him. Artan suspected it was because they were pleased to see one of their own.

  “Does he have a wee lass in that tent?” he asked in Gaelic.

  “He does,” replied the thinner of the pair in the same language. “She was carried in, but we could see that she had a fine pelt of red hair.”

  “That is my bride by the sounds of it. You had better leave. I believe the man with no chin will be mad enough to kill in a few minutes.”

  “Ah, you intend to steal her back.”

  “She is to be my wife, so it is not stealing, but retrieving.”

  “Since you have been so kind as to free us, we will see that that fool with his tent and his banner with a rutting swine on it will not be able to follow you very soon.”

  “Why do you not just gut him and be done with it?” said the shorter one.

  “It is a tempting thought, but it is more important to get my bride out of here.”

  “It is,” said the tall one after jabbing his companion in the side with his elbow. “You can see the man has already been in a fight, fool. One squeal from that pig in there and he will be facing far more men than he can fight.” He turned back to Artan. “Go and fetch your bride, my laird. We shall go and cut a few cinches, then make for the hills.”

  Artan smiled and stepped aside to let the two young men out. Cut cinches would be a very big help. He softly warned them not to cut the cinch on his mount and pointed out where the horse was. Both young men nodded and silently disappeared into the shadows. Artan suspected Sir Fergus would also find himself short two horses.

  He turned his attention to the tent. Slipping up to the back, he used his dagger to cut a very small slice in the cloth and peered inside. He saw Cecily tied to a stake in the ground and felt cold with anger. When Sir Fergus suddenly kicked her, it took all of Artan’s willpower not to immediately cut his way into the tent and kill the man.

  It took several slow, deep breaths before he felt calm enough to continue. Sir Fergus was dangerously close to Cecily and stealth was needed, he reminded himself. Although it had not been his plan to kill the man, Artan knew he would do so now if given half a chance. The most important thing was to get Cecily safely away from Sir Fergus. Killing the man would simply be an added and unexpected pleasure. Artan slowly began to make a cut in the tent large enough for him to slip through.

  Cecily swore as Sir Fergus’s booted foot grazed her ribs. He was in a blind fury. She had ceased to taunt him, but that had made little difference. There was still no word from Tom or any of his men, and the mere thought that Artan might have escaped death yet again had put Sir Fergus into a rage. It was an anger bred of fear, but that did not make it any less dangerous to Cecily.

  “Ye had best be careful, Sir Fergus,” she said as she twisted away from him until she was facing the back of the tent. “Ye dinnae want to kill me yet.”

  “Ye willnae die from a little beating,” he snapped.

  “Oh, I might, and then ye will have nothing. Ye have to be married to me to gain my dower and then my widow’s portion.” She watched his eyes narrow and realized his greed had finally cut through his fury.

  “Ye ken far more than ye ought to.”

  She sighed and was not surprised by the weariness in her voice. “What does that matter? Ye have ne’er intended for me to live verra long after the wedding, have ye?”

  “Someone might listen to ye if ye choose to speak out.”

  “When has anyone ever listened to me?”

  Even to her own ears, Cecily sounded pitiful. It seemed to calm Sir Fergus, however. She suspected it was how he expected all women to sound.

  One of Sir Fergus’s men stuck his head inside the tent and dolefully announced, “There is nay sign of Tom and his men yet.”

  “Do not tell me again,” yelled Sir Fergus. “I dinnae wish to hear another word until ye can tell me he has returned and he is holding Sir Artan Murray’s head in his hands.”

  “Ye asked him to bring ye Artan’s head?” she asked after the other man had fled and was not surprised to hear her voice trembling with horror.

  Sir Fergus looked as if he badly wanted to kick her again. “They have failed time and time again. I need proof.”

  Cecily hastily put the coldly terrifying thought from her mind. If she thought about it too much she could go mad. She preferred to take hope in the fact that Tom and his men had not returned. The fact that they had not so frightened Sir Fergus that she found a reason to hope in that as well.

  If Artan was alive, she hoped he would come soon. Sir Fergus wavered between fury and what looked to be a growing lust. Cecily wanted no part of either, although she would take a beating if she had the choice. The mere thought of Sir Fergus touching her in a lustful manner turned her stomach. She could recover from a beating, but she was not so sure she would recover from being raped by the man.

  Sir Fergus moved to pour himself another tankard of wine and Cecily felt her throat tighten with the need for a drink. She hated asking the man for anything, but her thirst was so great she was willing to swallow her pride, especially if it meant she could swallow a little wine as well. After studying her leash for a moment, she realized it was too short to allow her stand upright, so she sat up as straight as she could.

  “Sir Fergus, might I please have a little of that wine?” she asked in what she hoped was an appropriately meek tone.

  He turned to stare at her and she wondered how she could have ever thought he had nice eyes. The color was fine enough, but there was no life in those eyes, no softness or humor. It was very much like looking at a pretty piece of glass.

  For a moment she thought he was going to refuse. It would not surprise her as he seemed the sort of man to take pleasure in another’s misery. Then he shrugged as if it was all a matter of complete disinterest to him and brought his tankard over to her. With her wrists tied it was a little awkward to take a drink and she loathed the idea of putting her lips on a tankard he had drunk from, but the wine soothed the aching dryness in her throat. He took it away when she had had only a few sips, but it was enough to give her the strength to silently accept the deprivation.

  “Thank ye,” she said, even though the words nearly gagged her and she sorely wished she could kick him when he nodded arrogantly as if he had done her some great service.

  “Ye have changed,” he said, frowning at her.

  “Changed? I dinnae understand what ye mean.”

  “At Dunburn ye were always quiet, a pleasant wee shadow slipping about the halls of the place. There was ne’er any hint of a temper or a sharp tongue. I dinnae like either. Ye would be wise to control them again.”

  A pleasant wee shadow? she thought and grimaced. She supposed she had been. It had made life a lot easier for her if no one noticed her. Yet it pained her to think of herself like that.

  He supposed he was right to say she had changed. She had begun to sense the changes in herself before she had even left Dunburn. It was being with Artan that had done it. He made her feel safe, and that allowed her to say and do what she wanted to. Little by little she had relaxed the close guard she had kept on her words and actions. It was amusing to think that he had
helped her by kidnapping her, yet the farther they got from Dunburn, Lady Anabel, and Sir Edmund, the more she had relaxed, the more she had felt as if she had been freed from a prison.

  “Running from people who are eager to see ye in the grave probably has something to do with that,” she murmured. “Being a pleasant wee shadow willnae help one stay alive.”

  The slap he gave her was delivered almost casually. She held herself steady this time and did not sprawl in the dirt. For a moment she stared at the ground; sure she looked like a true penitent, but knowing she needed to hide the anger she felt before she looked at him again.

  As she lifted her eyes she caught the glint of something at the rear of the tent. Shielding the direction of her gaze by keeping her eyelids lowered, she stared at the spot and finally located what she had seen. The very tip of a blade was ever so slowly moving down through the cloth at the rear of the tent. Someone was cutting their way inside.

  Her pulse increased as hope surged in her heart. She desperately wanted to believe it was Artan coming to rescue her. Even if it was not him, the only reason someone would be attempting to enter the tent so stealthily was because they meant no good for Sir Fergus. That made whoever it was her ally. She was determined to make sure that he was not discovered until it was too late for Sir Fergus to cry for aid.

  Cecily looked at Sir Fergus and made no attempt to hide her contempt for him. His eyes narrowed in fury as he recognized that look for what it was. A fleeting glance toward the rear of the tent told her that whoever it was out there would soon been trying to slip inside and she was determined to keep all of Sir Fergus’s attention on her.

  “Only men who are afraid that their manhood is the size of a bairn’s beat on women,” she said, not surprised to see his cheeks flush with the heat of his anger.