bring her here to Glascreag, where she belongs. I wish to see her once more before I die.” Angus sighed, slumped heavily against the pillows, and closed his eyes.
Artan grunted, making his disgust with such a pitiful play for sympathy very clear. “Then send word and have her people bring her here.”
Sitting up straight, Angus glared at him. “I did. I have been writing to the lass for years, e’en sent for her when her father and brother died ten, nay, twelve years ago. Her father’s kinsmen refused to give her into my care e’en though nary a one of them is as close in blood to her as I am.”
“Why didnae ye just go and get her? Ye are a laird. Ye could have claimed her as your legal heir and taken her. ’Tis easy to refuse letters and emissaries, but nay so easy to refuse a mon to his face. Ye could have saved yourself the misery of dealing with Malcolm.”
“I wanted the lass to want to come to Glascreag, didnae I?”
“’Tis past time ye ceased trying to coax her or her father’s kinsmen.”
“Exactly! That is why I want ye to go and fetch her here. Ach, laddie, I am sure ye can do it. Ye can charm and threaten with equal skill. Aye, and ye can do it without making them all hot for your blood. I would surely start a feud I dinnae need. Ye have a way with folk that I dinnae, that ye do.”
Artan listened to Angus’s flattery and grew even more uneasy. Angus was not only a little desperate to have his niece brought home to Glascreag, but he also knew Artan would probably refuse to do him this favor. The question was, why would Angus think Artan would refuse to go and get the woman. It could not be because it was dangerous, for the man knew well that only something foolishly suicidal would cause Artan to, perhaps, hesitate. Although his mind was quickly crowded with possibilities ranging from illegal to just plain disgusting, Artan decided he had played this game long enough.
“Shut it, Angus,” he said, standing up straighter and putting his hands on his hips. “Why havenae ye gone after the woman yourself, and why do ye think I will refuse to go?”
“Ye would refuse to help a mon on his deathbed?”
“Just spit it out, Angus, or I will leave right now and ye will ne’er ken which I might have said, aye or nay.”
“Och, ye will say nay,” Angus mumbled. “Cecily lives at Dunburn near Kirkfalls.”
“Near Kirkfalls? Kirkfalls?” Artan muttered; then he swore. “That is in the Lowlands.” Artan’s voice was soft yet sharp with loathing.
“Weel, just a few miles into the Lowlands.”
“Now I ken why ye ne’er went after the lass yourself. Ye couldnae stomach the thought of going there. Yet ye would send me into that hellhole?”
“’Tisnae as bad as all that.”
“’Tis as bad as if ye wanted me to ride to London. I willnae do it,” Artan said, and started to leave.
“I need an heir of my own blood!”
“Then ye should ne’er have let your sister marry a Lowlander. ’Tis near as bad as if ye had let her run off with a Sassanach. Best ye leave the lass where she is. She is weel ruined by now.”
“Wait! Ye havenae heard the whole of my plan!”
Artan opened the door and stared at Malcolm, who was crouched on the floor, obviously having had his large ear pressed against the door. The thin, pale young man grew even paler and stood up. He staggered back a few steps, and then bolted down the hall. Artan sighed. He did not need such a stark reminder of the pathetic choice Angus had for an heir now.
Curiosity also halted him at the door. Every instinct he had told him to keep on moving, that he would be a fool to listen to anything else Angus had to say. A voice in his head whispered that his next step could change his life forever. Artan wished that voice would tell him if that change would be for the better. Praying he was not about to make a very bad choice, he slowly turned to look at Angus, but he did not move away from the door.
Angus looked a little smug, and Artan inwardly cursed. The old man had judged his victim well. Curiosity had always been Artan’s weakness. It had caused him trouble and several injuries more times than he cared to recall. He wished Lucas were with him, for his brother was the cautious one. Then Artan quickly shook that thought aside. He was a grown man now, not a reckless child, and he had wit enough to make his own decisions with care and wisdom.
“What is the rest of your plan?” he asked Angus.
“Weel, ’tis verra simple. I need a strong mon to take my place as laird once I die or decide ’tis time I rested. Malcolm isnae it, and neither is Cecily. Howbeit, there has to be someone of MacReith blood to step into my place, the closer to me the better.”
“Aye, ’tis the way it should be.”
“So, e’en though ye have MacReith blood, ’tis but from a distant cousin. Howbeit, if ye marry Cecily—”
“Marry?!”
“Wheesht, what are ye looking so horrified about, eh? Ye arenae getting any younger, laddie. Past time ye were wed.”
“I have naught against marriage. I fully intend to choose a bride some day.”
Angus grunted. “Some day can sneak up on a body, laddie. I ken it weel. Now, cease your fretting for a moment and let me finish. If ye were to marry my niece, ye could be laird here. I would name ye my heir and nary a one of my men would protest it. E’en better, Malcolm couldnae get anyone to heed him if he cried foul. Cecily is my closest blood kin, and ye are nearly as close to me as Malcolm is. So, ye marry the lass and, one day, Glascreag is yours.”
Artan stepped back into the room and slowly closed the door. Angus was offering him something he had never thought to have—the chance to be a laird, to hold lands of his own. As the secondborn of the twins, his future had always been as Lucas’s second, or as the next in line to be the laird of Donncoill if anything happened to Lucas, something he never cared to think about. There had always been only one possibility of changing that future—marriage to a woman with lands as part of her dowry.
Which was exactly what Angus was offering him, he mused, and felt temptation tease at his mind and heart. Marry Cecily and become heir to Glascreag, a place he truly loved as much as he did his own homelands. Any man with wit enough to recall his own name would grab at this chance with both hands; yet despite the strong temptation of it all, he hesitated. Since Artan considered his wits sound and sharp, he had to wonder why.
Because he wanted a marriage like his parents had, like his grandparents had, and like so many of his clan had, he realized. He wanted a marriage of choice, of passion, of a bonding that held firm for life. When it was land, coin, or alliances that tied a couple together, the chances of such a good marriage were sadly dimmed. He had been offered the favors of too many unhappy wives to doubt that conclusion. If the thought of taking part in committing adultery did not trouble him so much, he would now be a very experienced lover, he mused and hastily shook aside a pinch of regret. He certainly did not want his wife to become one of those women, and he did not want to be one of those men who felt so little a bond with his wife that he repeatedly broke his vows; or worse, find himself trapped in a cold marriage and, bound tightly by his own beliefs, unable to find passion elsewhere.
He looked at Angus, who was waiting for
