like Thunderbolt here giving his stall a wee kick in his eagerness to get out, I suspect.” Artan patted his horse’s neck in silent apology for that slur upon his good behavior.
Cecily found herself ready to question that answer and was appalled. She could almost hear Anabel screeching in her ear, telling her repeatedly that a woman never questioned the veracity of what a man told her. Of course, Anabel also said that that did not mean they were telling the truth, that men rarely told the truth. What appalled Cecily was that she seemed to have taken that cold advice to heart, for there was no reason for her to doubt Sir Artan’s words. She promised herself she would shake free of such an unkind and unjust opinion and turned her attention to showing Sir Artan the lands her father had loved so much.
Artan studied the land Cecily spoke of with such affection and wondered how she would like the rougher, stronger beauty of the Highlands. Dunburn had good lands, he mused, despite looking a little too soft and civilized. It was not being husbanded well, however. The occasional frown he caught darkening Cecily’s sweet face told him she was becoming aware of the creeping neglect of the lands. It had obviously been quite a while since she had ridden the lands of her father, and he wondered if she had been purposely kept from doing so.
When they paused by a clear, swiftly running burn Artan recalled crossing when he had come to Dunburn, he listened to Cecily describe the many hours she had spent in the shelter of a cluster of trees near the bank. Her voice carried the soft touch of fond remembrance followed by a hint of sadness as she spoke of the times she had brought her brother here with her. Artan dismounted, then helped her dismount. He followed her into the shady bower formed by the trees.
“I havenae been here for such a long time,” she whispered.
“Because the memories hurt?” he asked as he put his arm around her shoulders.
“Partly. Also, Anabel doesnae allow me to ride about on my own, and when I do go for a ride, whate’er guardian she sets at my heels has obviously been given verra specific instructions as to where I am allowed to go. I think the chance of painful memories being stirred up was one reason I didnae fight the restriction much.”
“We can leave if ye wish.”
“Nay, it has been a long time, and e’en though memories of that happier time and poor wee Colin cause a pang, there is more joy in the memory than pain. ’Tis wrong to clutch grief close for too long or to try to dismiss all memories of lost loved ones just to save oneself the pain of thinking of them.”
Artan placed two fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his. He kissed her lightly, intending it to be a gesture of comfort. When she slid her arms around his neck and pressed her slim body closer to his, however, comfort was soon lost in a swiftly rising lust.
Cecily clung to Artan, parting her lips at the first touch of his tongue so that he could deepen the kiss. A shudder tore through her body as he stroked the inside of her mouth. She tentatively touched his tongue with hers and the low, almost feral, growl he gave encouraged her to be more daring, giving back as much as he gave.
It took every ounce of willpower Artan had to pull back from the heated embrace. He was delighted by the soft mew of objection she gave and the way she tried to pull him closer again, but he held firm. He would not take her here, out in the woods in the middle of the day with far too much chance of being discovered. Cecily might not know it, but that was exactly where such heated kisses would take them.
For a moment, he paused as he brushed a kiss over her forehead. If they were caught rolling about on the banks of the burn, her betrothal to Sir Fergus might be ended. It would mean he did not have to exert himself to do any wooing, simply pack her up and take her to Glascreag. Then he considered how humiliated she would be and knew he could not do it. There was also the chance she would not be cast out, even by her betrothed, but her life would undoubtedly be made very miserable indeed. Nor would he have the chance to find out exactly what was going on at Dunburn. Nay, he thought as he took another step back from the temptation of her mouth, this had to stop for now.
When he saw her start to realize what they had been doing, that realization bringing a deep blush to her cheeks and a look of shame into her eyes, he gave her his best cocksure grin. As he had suspected, it worked on her as it so often had on his sisters. The hint of shame was rapidly replaced by anger. Before she could show him just how sharp her tongue might be, Artan felt something brush past his face. Even as he started to pull Cecily into his arms to shield her with his body, an arrow embedded itself in the tree.
“Artan!” Cecily cried, terrified that he had been hurt or soon would be.
He did not answer but nearly threw her to the ground and sprawled on top of her just as a second arrow thudded into the tree. The sound of a horse rapidly fleeing reached his ears, but he could not see anything. After a few moments, Artan cautiously rose to his knees, but he still kept Cecily sheltered beneath him.
There was no doubt in Artan’s mind that someone had just tried to kill him. The only thing that really puzzled him was that they would try to do so when Cecily was with him. He had to believe that her presence was not expected. There was no benefit he could see to killing her; but then he had not yet uncovered the secrets he knew her guardians and, perhaps, even her betrothed were keeping.
As he slowly got to his feet and pulled Cecily up alongside him, he thought about how determined her guardians were that she marry Sir Fergus. And although there was certainly no hint of love there, how determined Sir Fergus was that nothing and no one stop this marriage. He would give himself three more days to ferret out the truth; then he would get her away from this place whether she agreed or not.
“The hunting party?” Cecily asked in a shaking voice, giving in to the urge to hug Artan out of a deep sense of relief that he was unharmed.
“Mayhap.” Artan kept a close watch for any sign of the one who had shot the arrows as he began to walk Cecily back to their horses. “They must have realized their error when ye screeched out my name.”
“I ne’er screech.” The soft chuckle he gave did a lot to soothe her lingering fears. “They cannae be such poor hunters. Ye look nothing like a deer.”
“We were within the wee leafy bower. It could have confused someone.”
“Someone who thinks deer come to drink at the burn on horseback?”
“Weel, I didnae say that the someone couldnae be a complete idiot.”
Cecily opened her mouth to say more, then quickly closed it. She simply did not believe this was a hunting accident and did not think he did either. Yet what else could it be? She had no enemies. Sir Artan might well have a few, but she doubted an enemy would follow him to Dunburn, lurk about waiting for him to venture outside the protective walls, and then shoot arrows at him. And if someone was after him, she doubted an enemy who was so persistent, so blindly determined, would miss him—twice.
Something was not right here, she decided as he swung her up onto her saddle and she took the reins into her hands. There was a hard look in Sir Artan’s fine eyes that told her he felt the same. Cecily suspected he had a suspicion or two but suddenly knew he would not tell her what they were, not yet. He would not throw out unproven accusations. She was not sure how she knew that; she just did.
“Mayhap ye ought to leave Dunburn,” she said quietly once they were both mounted and headed back to the keep.
He was pleased to hear the sharp reluctance in her voice when she made that suggestion. “And miss your wedding?”
Despite
