“Aye,” she said softly, “he did.” A sudden onslaught of cherished memories made her smile. “Uncle Angus always spoke as if Papa were of the Highlands, and thus ne’er tempered his opinion of Lowlanders. Why, I think only the English enrage him more.”
“The English enrage everyone.”
Cecily hastily swallowed the urge to laugh. The man spoke as if he was reciting one of God’s own laws. In many ways, he sounded very like her uncle, and she suddenly wondered exactly what his relationship was to Angus MacReith. Her uncle would not send just anyone as his emissary.
“How are ye related to my uncle? Or, are ye e’en a kinsmon?” Again, Cecily was not sure why the thought that he was a very close relation should trouble her so. She should be glad to have found other family.
“I am but a distant cousin. My mother is Angus’s cousin. I believe I am a step or two more distant than Malcolm.”
“Malcolm?” Cecily struggled to recall a cousin named Malcolm. “I cannae really recall a Malcolm.”
“Brown hair, thin, pointy wee face and little eyes? Makes one think of a weasel, a verra cowardly weasel.”
Even that harsh description did not immediately rouse a memory. Cecily did her best to think through that last visit to Glascreag. She was a little surprised at how clear those memories were after so long, especially when the visit had had such a tragic ending. Slowly, a particular memory became clear. There had been a feast and other kinsmen had attended. Her uncle had intended it for these more distant relations to meet Colin, who would be his heir. Recalling that feast brought to mind a well-rounded woman and her son, both of whom had so obviously disliked the idea of Colin as heir that even she, as a child, had sensed it.
“Lady Seaton and her son.”
“Aye, Malcolm Seaton. His mother was also a cousin to Angus, and she has always expected her son to be Angus’s heir.”
“He was, if I recall right, an irritating young mon.”
“Aye, ye recall right. He still is. Sly, manipulative, weak, and dishonest.”
“Oh dear. Uncle Angus must be most dismayed that such a mon will take his place as laird one day.”
“Aye, ye could say that.”
Artan tried to think of something else to talk about, for this topic was too close to the reasons why he was at Dunburn. If he thought for even a minute that the truth would cause her to come with him back to Glascreag, he would tell it. Instinct told him she would not take it well, however. Women tended to take offense at the thought that they were being married for the land or coin they would bring to the marriage, even though that was the way of the world. Once such knowledge was in their hands, they were reluctant to believe any protestations to the contrary. It was true that he had an eye to being made Angus’s heir, but he would not marry simply because of that. Unfortunately, once Cecily found out about the arrangement with Angus, she would always question his reasons for wanting her as a wife.
Of course, he was still not absolutely certain he would do as Angus wished. Cecily was lovely, and just hearing her voice seemed to stroke him and rouse his lusts. There was more needed in a marriage than property and prettiness, however, and he was not yet completely sure he could find that with Cecily. What he needed to do was steal a kiss or two, he decided. He knew well that a man could be aroused by the look of a woman only to find a deep coldness in her arms.
Subtly glancing at Sir Fergus, Sir Edmund, and Lady Anabel, Artan suspected that it would be difficult to woo Cecily in even the smallest way. Not that he was particularly good at wooing, he mused. His best chance to draw Cecily back to Glascreag was in proving that her guardians and her betrothed were not worth her loyalty. He also needed to hold fast to Cecily’s interest so that she would remain close at hand in case she continued to bow to the will of the others and he had begun to run out of time. The more he saw of these people, the more he felt sure that it would be best if Cecily went to stay with Angus. If she did not agree to go with him and the wedding drew too near for comfort, he would simply pick her up and take her away from here.
Now that he had a firm plan, Artan relaxed. He found the company poor, even annoying, except for Cecily, but the food and wine were good. Anabel sat on his right and he knew she was angry. He could almost feel her glare boring into his skin. His sisters had always accused him of being completely insensitive, but Artan decided it was probably a good thing under these circumstances. If he had any tender feelings, they would be sorely abused by lingering in a place where he was so clearly unwanted. He almost grinned as he refilled his plate with food. If these people thought he would give up and return to Glascreag liked a whipped cur just because they scowled and were rude to him, they were doomed to defeat.
“I dinnae recall ye from Glascreag,” she said quietly, hoping she did not sound as suspicious as she suddenly felt.
“Weel, I wasnae at Glascreag when ye were. My brother and I fostered with Angus. At that time we had returned to Donncoill and our family as our Grandmere was ill.”
“Oh, I am so sorry. ’Tis always hard when the old ones falter, e’en when ye ken it must happen. Did she recover?”
“Aye, she did, although it was a close run thing, but ye have the right of it. She is three score and ten and my grandsire is four score years. Their time is near, but one can only give thanks for each day they are still at hand and pray that when the end comes ’tis easy. ’Twill be a great loss for the clan, but they have both lived a good life.”
Cecily nodded. “Kenning that can be a great comfort.” She hesitated a moment, then quietly asked, “Has my uncle lived a good life?’
“He has. He is a fine, strong warrior and has held his land against all comers.”
That was not quite what she had wanted to hear, but she could tell that Artan thought it was high praise indeed. Cecily realized that, as a foster son, Sir Artan would share some of the same characteristics as her uncle. Coming to know Sir Artan would be somewhat akin to coming to know her uncle.
A tickle of unease went through her as she covertly watched Sir Artan eat. He had a prodigious appetite, but his manners were excellent. The man spoke scathingly of courtiers, but in his looks and his table manners, it was evident that he could hold his own against any of them. She did not understand why she suddenly felt it might be dangerous to come to know Sir Artan well. Then he glanced at her and smiled and she felt as if something inside of her had melted. There was the danger. For the first time in her life she was truly attracted to a man. Considering how he had first entered Dunburn, a nearly unconscious man dangling from each hand, she found that astonishing.
“Do ye want some more food?” Artan asked her, wondering why she looked so stunned. Looking at her plate, Cecily was surprised to discover that she had eaten everything on it. She had never eaten so much at one sitting. Taking a meal with her kinsmen and her betrothed had always killed her appetite. Even before her betrothal, eating beneath Anabel’s constant watch had always been difficult. This night she would not have need of the plate of cold meat, bread, and cheese the kindly cook always set aside for her to steal away with and eat in the private comfort of her bedchamber.
“Nay, nay. ’Twas ample.” She cautiously peered around him and breathed an inner sigh of relief to find that Anabel had not noticed her gluttony. The woman had been too busy glaring at Sir Artan to notice anything else.
“An apple then?” he asked as the fruits and sweets were set out.
“Aye, that would please.”
Her eyes widened slightly as he produced a gleaming knife from inside the sleeve of his shirt. He chose a large apple from the basket a small page held out. In a few swift, clean moves, he cored and sliced the apple, setting each piece upon her plate. After doing the same for himself, he returned the knife to its sheath that she suspected was strapped to his forearm. Sir Artan Murray was a well-armed man. He had also not offered to provide the same service for Anabel. Obviously, his manners were not