to consider it. He could go and get the woman and decide on marrying her once he saw her. As they traveled back to Glascreag together, he would have ample time to decide if she was a woman he could share the rest of his life with.
Then he recalled where she lived and how long she had lived there. “She is a Lowlander.”
“She is a MacReith,” Angus snapped.
Angus was looking smug again. Artan ignored it, for the man was right in thinking he might get what he wanted. In many ways, it was what Artan wanted as well. It all depended upon what this woman Cecily was like.
“Cecily,” he murmured. “Sounds like a Sassanach name.” He almost smiled when Angus glared at him, the old man’s pale cheeks now flushed with anger.
“’Tis no an English name! ’Tis the name of a martyr, ye great heathen, and weel ye ken it. My sister was a pious lass. She didnae change the child’s christening name as some folk do. Kept the saint’s name. I call the lass Sile. Use the Gaelic, ye ken.”
“Because ye think Cecily sounds English.” Artan ignored Angus’s stuttering denial. “When did ye last see this lass?”
“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
