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Highland Barbarian. Hannah Howell
Читать онлайн.Название Highland Barbarian
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781420129120
Автор произведения Hannah Howell
Жанр Исторические любовные романы
Серия The Murrays
Издательство Ingram
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 now, at her time of need, was an unexpected blessing, and Cecily rose to hug the tall, buxom woman.
“’Tis so good to see ye, Old Meg,” Cecily said, not surprised to hear the rasp of choked-back tears in her voice.
Old Meg patted her on the back. “And where else should I be when my wee Cecily is soon to be wed, eh?” She urged Cecily back down onto the stool and smiled at Joan. “Go on, lassie. I will do this. I suspicion ye have a lot of other things ye must see to.”
“I hope ye havenae hurt her feelings,” Cecily murmured as soon as Joan was gone and Old Meg shut the door.
“Nay, poor lass is being worked to the bone, she is, and is glad to be relieved of at least one chore. Your cousins are twisting themselves into knots trying to impress Ogilvey and his kin. They dinnae seem to ken that he is naught but a grasper who thinks himself so high and mighty he wouldst probably look down his long nose at one of God’s angels.”
Cecily laughed briefly, but then frowned. “He does seem to be verra fond of himself.”
Old Meg harrumphed as she began to vigorously brush Cecily’s hair. “He is so full of himself he ought to be gagging. The mon is acting as if he does ye some grand favor by agreeing to wed with ye. Ye come from far better stock than that prancing mongrel.”
“He was knighted in the service of the king,” Cecily felt moved to say even though she felt no real compulsion to defend the man.
“The fool stumbled into the way of a sword that would have struck our king, nay more than that. It wasnae until Ogilvey paused a wee moment in cursing and whining—after he had recovered from his swoon, mind ye—that he realized everyone thought he had done it apurpose. The sly cur did have the wit to play the humble savior of our sire, I will give ye that, although he did a right poor job of it.”
“How do ye ken so much about it?”
“I was there, wasnae I? I was visiting my sister. We were watching all the lairds and the king. Some foolish argument began between a few of the lairds, swords were drawn, and the king nearly walked into one save that Ogilvey was so busy brushing a wee speck of dirt off his cloak he wasnae watching where he was going. Tripped o’er his own feet and stumbled into glory, aye.”
Cecily frowned. “He has only e’er said that he did our king a great service. Verra humble about it all he is.”
“Weel, he cannae tell the truth about it, can he? Nay when he let the mistake stand and got himself knighted and all.”
So she was soon to marry a liar, Cecily thought, and inwardly sighed. That might be an unfair judgment. It could well have been impossible for Sir Fergus to untangle himself from the misconception. After all, who would dare argue with a king? And why was she wearying her mind making excuses for the man, she asked herself.
Because she had to was the answer. This was her last chance to become a part of this family, to be more than a burden and an object of charity. Although she would have to leave to abide in her husband’s home, at least she could leave her cousins thinking well of her and ready to finally consider her a true and helpful part of their family. She would be welcome in their hearts and their home at last. Sir Fergus was not a man she would have chosen for the father of her children, but few women got to choose their husbands. Poor though she felt the choice was, however, she could take comfort in the fact that she had finally done something to please her kinsmen.
“Ye dinnae look to be too happy about this, lass,” said Old Meg as she decorated Cecily’s thick hair with blue ribbons to match her gown.
“I will be,” Cecily murmured.
“And just what does that mean, eh? I will be.”
“It means I will be content in my marriage. And, aye, I shall have to work to be so, but it will suffice. I am nearly two-and-twenty. ’Tis past time I was married and bred a few bairns. I but pray they dinnae get his chin,” she muttered, then grimaced when Old Meg laughed. “That was unkind of me.”
“Mayhap, but ’twas the hard, cold truth. The mon has no chin at all, does he.”
“Nay, I fear not. I have ne’er seen such a weak one. ’Tis as if his neck starts at his mouth.” Cecily shook her head,