care naught for such things. They consider it their right to bed whomever they wish to.”
“My father was faithful to my mother.”
“How would ye ken that, eh? Ye were naught but a bairn. Trust me in this, ye will be glad the mon slakes his lust elsewhere and troubles ye with it only rarely. ’Tis a disgusting business that only men get any pleasure out of. Let the peasant lasses deal with it. Since men feel they must have a quiverful of sons, ye will be burdened with the chore of taking him into your bed often enough to heartily welcome such respites.”
“Take him into my bed? Willnae he be sleeping there every night anyway?”
“Where did ye get such a strange idea?”
“My mother and father shared a bed. And, aye, I was just a wee child, but I do ken that.”
“How verra odd,” Anabel murmured, then shrugged. “Probably some strange practice from the Highlands. They are all barbarians up there, ye ken. Ye, however, have been raised amongst civilized people and ’tis past time ye cast aside such thoughts and beliefs.”
Cecily hastily swallowed her instinctive urge to defend her mother’s people. She had learned long ago that it did no good. All such defense accomplished was to anger Anabel and get Cecily sentenced to some menial, exhausting, and often filthy chore as a penance for speaking out. She had the feeling Anabel said such things to her on purpose. At times it almost seemed that Anabel hated the long-dead Moira Donaldson, although Cecily had no idea why the woman should do so or what her sweet mother could have done to earn such enmity. The woman often derided her father as well. Cecily did not understand Anabel’s apparent animosity for her late parents and, sadly, did not think she would ever get Anabel to explain it.
The thought of her lost family brought on a wave of grief and Cecily stared at her feet as she fought back her tears. It would soon be her wedding day, the most important day for a woman, and she was surrounded by strangers and people who did not truly care for her. If Old Meg managed to slip inside the chapel or a few of the gatherings, Cecily would at least know that one person who loved her was close at hand, but she could not be sure Old Meg could do so. If Anabel even glimpsed the woman in the room, she would swiftly send Old Meg away, far away. She knew her family was with her in spirit, in her heart, and in her memories, but she dearly wished she had them at her side.
“Will ye smile?” hissed Anabel. “Wheesht, ye look ready to weep. Best not let Sir Fergus catch that look upon your face. He will think ye arenae pleased to have him as your husband.”
There was a tone to Anabel’s voice that told Cecily that that was the very last thing the woman wanted. If it happened, punishment would be swift and harsh. Although Cecily doubted she could produce a credible smile, she did her best to hide her sorrow. When she felt she had accomplished that, she looked at Anabel, only to find the woman was gaping at the doorway to the great hall. A quick glance around revealed that everyone else was doing the same thing, and Cecily became sharply aware of how quiet it had become in the hall.
Although the sight of so many silent, wide-eyed, open-mouthed people was fascinating, curiosity forced Cecily to look toward the doorway of the great hall as well. It was only a sudden attack of pride that kept her from mimicking the others when she saw the man standing there. He was very tall and leanly muscular. His long black hair hung down past his broad shoulders, a thin braid on either side of his stunningly handsome face. He wore a plaid, the dark green crossed with black and yellow lines. He also wore deerskin boots and a white linen shirt, both dusty from travel. From behind his head she could see the hilt of a broadsword. He wore another sword at his side, and she could see a dagger sheathed inside his left boot.
Cecily was rather glad she had not been in the midst of a hearty defense of Highlanders at that precise moment. This man did look gloriously barbaric. That appearance was only enhanced by what he held. Grasped by the front of their jupons and dangling several inches off the floor, the Highlander held two of her cousins’ men-at-arms. The men did not seem to be struggling much, she thought with a touch of amusement, nor did their captor seem overly burdened by the weight he held in each hand. Deciding that someone had to do something, Cecily took a deep breath to steady herself and began to walk toward the man.
Chapter 3
Artan scowled at the people in the great hall, all of whom were gaping at him. He struggled to rein in his temper, but it was difficult. From the moment he had crossed into the Lowlands, his journey had become arduous. He had been watched, sneered at, fled from, and insulted every step of the way. Even knocking a few heads together here and there along the way had done little to soften his bad humor. Being refused entry into the Donaldson manor had been the last straw, or so he had thought. Being gaped at by all the people he now faced was rapidly surpassing that.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone move and he tensed. Glancing more fully in that direction, he watched a small, slender woman with dark red hair walk toward him. He felt an odd quickening in his heart as he studied her. She moved with an easy grace, her slim hips swaying gently with each step. The blue gown she wore was cut low enough to reveal the softly rounded tops of her breasts. Those breasts were not the heavy, bountiful sort he usually lusted after, but they were full enough to catch his eye.
When she was only a few steps away, he saw that her wide, heavily lashed eyes were a deep, rich green and he felt his pulse increase. She had an oval face, her skin clear and pale. Her lips were full enough to invite kisses, her small nose was straight and lightly freckled, and her chin held a distinct hint of a stubborn nature. If this was Angus’s niece, Artan thus far had no objection at all to marrying her.
“Sir? Mayhap ye should release those men. I think they are having trouble breathing.”
Such was the enticement of her low, husky voice it took Artan a moment to understand what she said. He looked at the two men he held and grunted softly. They did appear to be choking. He shrugged and tossed them aside, then scowled at the people who gasped and moved farther away from him.
“Thank ye, sir,” Cecily said, struggling not to laugh. “May we ken who ye are and why ye have come to our home?” When he looked at her with his silvery blue eyes Cecily felt oddly lightheaded and quickly stiffened her spine. She was not sure what he was doing to her or how he could make her feel so breathless with just a glance, but she would reveal to him only a calm civility.
“I am Sir Artan Murray,” he replied and bowed slightly. “I have come on behalf of Sir Angus MacReith of Glascreag.”
“Uncle Angus sent ye?” Cecily wondered why the sudden thought that this man could be a close relative should upset her so.
“Ah, so ye are Lady Cecily Donaldson?” Artan had to strongly resist the urge to rub his hands together in glee.
Cecily nodded and curtsied almost absently as she asked, “What does my uncle want?”
“He wants ye to come to Glascreag. The mon is ill and wishes to see ye before he dies.” Artan did not really believe Angus was in danger of dying, but if the slight exaggeration got this woman to come to Glascreag with him, he saw no real harm in it.
“Nay!” screeched Anabel, suddenly shaking free of her shock and rushing to Cecily’s side.
Wincing when Anabel grabbed her tightly by the arm, Cecily said, “But if my uncle is dying—”
“Ye can go to see him after the wedding,” said Anabel.
“Wedding? What wedding?” Artan demanded.
“Cecily’s
