Highland Lover (39 page)

“Where is the other one?” he asked.

“Lucas had his leg broken,” Artan replied.

“Bad?”

“Could be. I was looking for the ones who did it when ye sent word.”

“Ye dinnae ken who did it?”

“I have a good idea who did it. A verra good idea.” Artan shrugged. “I will find them.”

Angus nodded. “Aye, ye will, lad. Suspicion they will be hiding now, eh?”

“Aye. As time passes and I dinnae come to take my reckoning they will begin to feel themselves

safe. ’Twill be most enjoyable to show them how mistaken they are.”

“Ye have a devious mind, Artan,” Angus said in obvious admiration.

“Thank ye.” Artan moved to lean against the bedpost at the head of the bed. “I dinnae think ye are

dying, Angus.”

“I am nay weel!”

“Och, nay, ye arenae, but ye arenae dying.”

“What do ye ken about it?” grumbled Angus, pushing himself upright enough to collapse against

the pillows Artan quickly set behind him.

“Dinnae ye recall that I am a Murray? I have spent near all my life surrounded by healers. Aye, ye

are ailing, but I dinnae think ye will die if ye are careful. Ye dinnae have the odor of a mon with one foot in the grave. And, for all ye do stink some, ’tisnae really the smell of death.”

“Death has a smell ere it e’en takes hold of a mon’s soul?”

“Aye, I think it does. And since ye are nay dying, I will return to hunting the men who hurt Lucas.”

Angus grabbed Artan by the arm, halting the younger man as he started to move away. “Nay! I

could die and ye ken it weel. I hold three score years. E’en the smallest chill could set me firm in

the grave.”

That was true enough, Artan thought as he studied the man who had fostered him and Lucas for

nearly ten years. Angus was still a big strong man, but age sometimes weakened a body in ways one

could not see. The fact that Angus was in bed in the middle of the day was proof enough that

whatever ailed him was serious. Artan wondered if he was just refusing to accept the fact that

Angus was old and would die soon.

“So ye have brought me here to stand watch o’er your deathbed?” he asked, frowning for he

doubted Angus would ask such a thing of him.

“Nay, I need ye to do something for me. This ague, or whate’er it is that ails me, has made me face

the hard fact that, e’en if I recover from this, I dinnae have many years left to me. ’Tis past time I start thinking on what must be done to ensure the well-being of Glascreag and the clan when I am

nay longer here.”

“Then ye should be speaking with Malcolm.”

“Bah, that craven whelp is naught but a stain upon the name MacReith. Sly, whining little wretch. I

wouldnae trust him to care for my dogs let alone these lands and the people living here. He

couldnae hold fast to this place for a fortnight. Nay, I willnae have him as my heir.”

“Ye dinnae have another one that I ken of.”

“Aye, I do, although I have kept it quiet. Glad of that now. My youngest sister bore a child two and

twenty years ago. Poor Moira died a few years later bearing another child,” he murmured, the

shadow of old memories briefly darkening his eyes.

“Then where is he? Why wasnae he sent here to train to be the laird? Why isnae he kicking that wee

timid mousie named Malcolm out of Glascreag?”

“’Tis a lass.”

Artan opened his mouth to loudly decry naming a lass the heir to Glascreag and then quickly shut it.

He resisted the temptation to look behind him to see if his kinswomen were bearing down on him,

well armed and ready to beat some sense into him. They would all be sorely aggrieved if they knew

what thoughts were whirling about in his head. Words like too weak, too sentimental, too trusting,

and made to have bairns not lead armies were the sort of thoughts that would have his kinswomen

grinding their teeth in fury.

But Glascreag was no Donncoill, he thought. Deep in the Highlands, it was surrounded by rough

lands and even rougher men. In the years he and Lucas had trained with Angus they had fought

reivers, other clans, and some who wanted Angus’s lands. Glascreag required constant vigilance

and a strong sword arm. Murray women were strong and clever, but they were healers, not warriors,

not deep in their hearts. Artan also considered his kinswomen unique and doubted Angus’s niece

was of their ilk.

“If ye name a lass as your heir, Angus, every mon who has e’er coveted your lands will come

kicking down yer gates.” Artan crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the man. “Malcolm

is a spineless weasel, but a mon, more or less. Naming him yer heir would at least make men pause

as they girded themselves for battle. Aye, and yer men would heed his orders far more quickly than

they would those of a lass and ye ken it weel.”

Angus nodded and ran one scarred hand through his black hair, which was still thick and long but

was now well threaded with white. “I ken it, but I have a plan.”

A tickle of unease passed through Artan. Angus’s plans could often mean trouble. At the very least,

they meant hard work for him. The way the man’s eyes, a silvery blue like his own, were shielded

by his half-lowered lids warned Artan that even Angus knew he was not going to like this particular

plan.

“I want ye to go and fetch my niece for me and 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 yer 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 yerself 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 yer 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 near Kirkfalls.”

“In Kirkfalls? Kirkfalls?” Artan muttered and 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 yerself. 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 yers.”

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 second born 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 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 an answer with an ill-concealed impatience. Although he

could not agree to marry a woman he had never met, no matter how tempting her dowry, there was

no harm in agreeing 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.