Highland Captive
Page 7
Parlan astutely guessed the cause of her grimace. “Aye, I will have Old Meg see to it and to restoking the fire in here.”
“There is no need of a fire here. I will be in Leith’s chambers.”
“If ye are, I will drag ye, tub and all, right back here. These are your chambers now.” He started out the door.
“Ye ask a high price for my horse.”
“‘Tis a fine steed.” He saw her open her mouth to speak. “I wouldnae if I were ye. I havenae broken my fast yet and ye must ken how short a man’s temper can be when his belly is empty.”
“She has a quick and sharp tongue,” observed Lagan as he followed Parlan to the hall where they would find some hearty fare. “That is a lass who will do little stroking of a man’s vanity.”
“Aye. I wouldnae like to feel the lash of that tongue when it is unleashed by anger or hate.”
“Ye dinnae think she feels either now? She has a verra good reason to feel both.”
“True but she doesnae. I offered her a choice in all this. She cannae blame me for the choice she took.”
“To give herself to save her horse.” Lagan shook his head. “‘Tis an odd thing for a woman to do.”
“Grown men have wept like bairns over their steeds. We never find that a puzzle. She raised that brute by hand. There isnae any denying the bond between them. And I ken there is none who claims her heart so there was little to hold her back in that way, no man she feared to hurt or to lose. Howbeit, I do have a strong feeling that there was far more behind her decision. In truth, I cannae help but wonder how much this betrothal prompted her choice.”
As Aimil watched her bath being prepared, she thought about her betrothal to Rory Fergueson and the duty she owed him. She wondered where her guilt was as well as her shame. Being a fallen woman was not affecting her very much. She knew the reason for that was her betrothal. Although the chance that it might be ended because of what she had done was slim, it was something to be considered. Then too, she had honestly enjoyed herself and she knew she never would with Rory.
“Weel? Are ye going to use it or stare at it?”
Grinning, Aimil got into the bath. Old Meg reminded her of Annie at home. Both, rail thin and sharp of tongue, were past their prime, although it was difficult to guess how far past. She wondered if such women were common features of keeps.
“Ah, so ye were a virgin,” muttered Old Meg as she and two young maids took the linen from the bed.
Concentrating on washing her legs and cursing her blushes, Aimil snapped, “What matter if I was?”
“Ye never can tell. Nay, ye never can tell, lassie. Ye remember to do as I told ye,” Old Meg growled at the maids.
The younger, less comely of the two maids looked at Aimil. “Did ye really do this to keep a horse?”
“Some men have killed for less,” Aimil replied, determined to cling to that story even if people did think her mad. “I simply lie back, closed my eyes, and thought on king and country.”
She had to choke down a giggle over the astounded looks upon the maids’ faces. Old Meg eyed her narrowly, and Aimil suspected that there was as little chance of fooling the woman as there was Annie. Suddenly, the buxom, pretty maid flounced to the edge of the tub, her hands on her well-rounded hips and her eyes glinting with maliciousness. Aimil wondered idly how many times Parlan had used the maid.
“Are ye expecting us to believe that ye lay with the Black Parlan and thought on the king?” she sneered.
“There are one or twa of us that can keep more than one thought in her head at a time.” Aimil smiled sweetly at the woman.
“Let us get out o’ here, Jeanne,” urged the other maid when Jeanne swelled with fury.
Old Meg cackled merrily and made no attempt to interfere. She had been Parlan’s nurse and was interested in the girl. Only the finest would do for the man she still called her lad. He could not be happy with any weak-willed girl.
“Mayhaps ‘tis best if ye keep your mind on the king. T’would never do for ye to take a fancy to the Black Parlan. He has no use for some Lowland slut and will send ye off as soon as your cur of a father begs the ransom.”
Aimil moved so quickly that Jeanne had no chance to avoid retribution. Aimil might have ignored the slur upon herself but she would not allow an insult to her father to go un-reprimanded. Jeanne’s screeches were cut off by the water when Aimil pushed the girl’s head under.
Parlan stopped abruptly in his advance toward Leith’s chambers when he heard a scream come from his own chambers. It ended quickly, but he still decided it warranted checking. Parlan burst into the room, gaped at the sight of the well-endowed Jeanne bent over the tub, arms and legs flailing, and then hastily yanked her free of Aimil’s hold.
With equal haste Aimil covered her breasts with her arms and sank a little deeper into the soapy water. Old Meg tittered over the sight of a gasping, dripping Jeanne as did Lagan who hovered inside the door. The other little maid clearly wished she was someplace else. Aimil sympathized for she found herself wishing the same but decided to hide her embarrassment with haughty bravado.
“What the Devil is going on here?” Parlan demanded, cursing softly when he saw that he was now wet.
“I lost my soap and she was helping me find it.” Aimil tried to ignore Lagan who fell into a fit of laughter.
“She tried to drown me,” screeched Jeanne.
“Nonsense,” snapped Aimil. “If ye had kept your big mouth shut when ye went under, ye wouldnae be in such a state.”
“Aimil.” Parlan’s voice was a growl of warning as he restrained a furious Jeanne and with a firm grip held the other maid’s arm. “Ilka, tell me what happened here.”
Reluctantly, Ilka obeyed the command, shrinking a little when Parlan’s face darkened with anger. “Then ye came in.”
“Since ye cannae keep a civil tongue around your betters, Jeanne, I suggest ye keep to the kitchens.” He spoke coldly to the maid then turned to Aimil as Jeanne stormed away. “Ye must learn to hold your temper.”
“Coming from ye that advice lacks a wee bit,” she drawled. “Now, may I have some privacy for my bath?”
“But of course, m’lady.” He bowed mockingly. “Just try to restrain the urge to drown my serving wenches.”
“If I must, I must,” she sighed, and waited for the door to close after him before she began to bathe again.
“Ilka, ye make the bed afresh.” Old Meg looked at Aimil. “I cannae think of what to get ye for clothes. There hasnae been a lady here, save serving wenches and crofters’ wives, for a score of years. They wouldnae have anything to suit ye even if they had it to spare.”
“It doesnae matter. Most all here have seen me dressed as a lad. It willnae shock them if I continue so.”
“Aye, ‘tis how it must be for now, but I may yet come round with an idea. T’would be best if ye were dressed as the lass ye are.”
Shrugging, Aimil continued to bathe. When her father had started to ignore her existence, she had done as she had pleased. One of the things that had pleased her was to ride dressed as a lad. She did in truth find it far more comfortable than female attire. To have to wear it was no hardship in her mind. She only hoped that Leith did not see it as a further insult that needed avenging.
Leith feared his family was facing dire hardship as he reacted in horror over Parlan’s exorbitant ransom demands. “T’will leave us naught.”
“Do ye think your father will pay it?”
“He will try to whittle ye down, as he should. This demand is far beyond reason.”
“Aye, I thought so but nae too far beyond, so it should be taken seriously.”
Frowning in confusion, Leith muttered, “I dinnae ken what ye are about.”
“I dinnae want this much. ‘Tis not my way to leave a man in rags. I expect him to haggle and I will be stubborn, slow to come down. If he accepts it or a still too high cost, t’will take him a fair while to raise it in coin. Time is what this is all about. I but try to buy t
ime. A man should pay a goodly fee when he was foolish to let his kin be caught.” He ignored Leith’s scowl. “Howbeit, I wouldnae pay this much for my own mother.”
A reluctant laugh escaped Leith, but then he grew serious. “I hope that time will solve the problem.”
“It has to. Time is important no matter what and this game will buy that. I but hope that your father doesnae see that we play a game or we shall quickly be robbed of that time.”
Lachlan Mengue felt that time weighed far too heavily upon his hands. Even his ability to believe that his children still lived had begun to waver. No word and no sighting of them had weakened his confidence in their continued existence.
His family had gathered close to him to lend their quiet strength. Both married daughters, their husbands at their sides, had come home to be with him. All they could do was wait with him for either a ransom demand or, as they all silently feared, the discovery of the bodies. Waiting put a strain on the nerves, however, and the arrival of Rory Fergueson helped little.
Tall, strong, and almost too handsome, Rory Fergueson had little taste for waiting. When it concerned the possible loss of Aimil Mengue, he had no taste for it at all. It was not only her handsome dowry he saw slipping away but the chance to possess Aimil, to dominate her and to avenge an old slight that had festered for many years. He faced Lachlan, trying to force the older man to act.
“Curse it, man, the only solution is to ride against the MacGuins. ‘Tis past time that thieving clan was put to the sword.”
“We arenae sure they have the pair,” Lachlan reminded the man. “No word or ransom demand has come.”
“They make ye wait so ye will pay quicker and without question. ‘Tis an old game.”
“And one I havenae heard of the Black Parlan playing,” the redheaded Iain MacVern growled.
“The man is the Devil himself and we all ken it. He would play any game if it suited him. He raided me the verra day Aimil and Leith disappeared. What more proof is needed?”
“T’was Artair who raided ye from what I heard,” James Broth drawled in his deep gravelly voice. “The Black Parlan was away.”
“Aye,” agreed Jennet Mengue Broth, her light blue eyes shining with the sudden hope she felt. “That may be why we have heard naught. Artair could await his brother and laird’s return before any ransom is asked. Could that not be the how of it, Father?”
Lachlan nodded slowly. “Aye, could be the way of it. He may fear to ask the wrong amount and so leaves it for Parlan to decide.”
Jennet watched how Rory Fergueson reacted and felt certain that the man was grinding his teeth. “His call to ride against the MacGuins would carry more force if he were to ride at the fore of the force,” she murmured to her husband, James.
James hid a smile over the dry sarcasm in his wife’s voice. Rory Fergueson was well known never to leave himself open to charges of cowardice yet was overly fond of his own skin, never really turning from a fight but keeping himself well out of any danger. If there was an attack made on the MacGuin, Rory would be there but well to the rear until the worst was over.
Giorsal, Lachlan’s firstborn, also watched Rory. He repelled her despite his beauty of face and form. She was not very close to her youngest sister but the thought of Aimil wed to such a man brought tears to her eyes. If that was to be Aimil’s fate, then it might be best if the girl was dead. Giorsal suddenly clasped Iain’s hand, fervently glad that such a good man had been chosen for her. For all her sulkiness when the match had been set, and her disappointment in his ruddy, plain looks and gruff character, he was good to her and the two children they had been blessed with. She looked back over nearly five years of a peaceful, secure home life with a faithful, kind man and suddenly realized she had been a shrew. Sweet words and fine looks mattered little. She had what was important.
“Here now,” Iain blustered, blushing fiercely when his usually undemonstrative wife kissed his cheek, slipped her arms around his waist, and hugged him. “Are ye ailing?” he whispered, his hazel eyes moving nervously as he assured himself that they were unnoticed for now.
“Nay, I just felt I must let ye ken how verra glad I am that ye were chosen for me,” she replied as she pulled away.
“Humph, weel, ‘tis about time ye kenned how lucky ye are,” he mumbled, but the light that flared in his eyes told her that he was more than pleased with her words. “Here, ye best heed this. Rory makes another try. The man is hot for us to spill blood for him.”
She nodded, but her gaze rested upon the hand Iain still held close to his thigh. Gently, she placed her other hand on top of their clasped ones and then turned her mind to Rory and his ranting. Iain’s reaction to her words had told her how willingly he would accept such displays. She realized that she had never really given him any soft words, and had expected them from him with no promise of return. For five years she had given him little more than congenial indifference. She hoped it was not too late to change all that.
“I am to judge from that exchange that ye willnae ride against the MacGuins?”
“Nay, Rory, I willnae. If they have Leith and Aimil, I cannae risk their lives and, if they dinnae, I willnae attack without cause.”
“And what do ye think is happening while ye sit and wait?” growled Rory. “We cannae guess what Leith may be suffering but I think we all ken how the Black Parlan will treat a comely female captive.”
“If ye are concerned about the chastity of your bride, ye can be released from the betrothal, Rory,” Lachlan said, stiffening with anger.
Grabbing his cloak and striding to the door, Rory snapped, “Nay, I willnae withdraw but, if she is a maiden no longer, someone will pay.”
As soon as he had left, Jennet stumbled to her feet. “I hope the Black Parlan does take Aimil to his bed.”
“Jennet!” her husband snapped in an attempt to halt her reckless words.
“Nay, I will say it. From what I have heard said, the Black Parlan kens weel how to please a woman, something Rory Fergueson doesnae even care to do. If the Black Parlan has bedded Aimil, at least she will have had a taste of what could be between a man and a woman before she is consigned to a life of hell on earth.” Jennet hurried from the room, followed quickly by an apologetic James.
Later, as Giorsal lay in her husband’s bed, trying not to giggle over his hesitation in undressing, she said, “I agree with Jennet.”
“Aye?” Iain was far more concerned with why his wife had suddenly decided to share a chamber.
“Aye. Rory will bring Aimil only pain.” She hid a grin at the cautious way he slid into bed, an expression that grew more difficult to hide when she snuggled up to him and he blushed. “There are some verra dark things said of the man. I have tried to speak to Father of them but he says he willnae listen to rumor. Mayhaps Rory will yet back out of the betrothal.”
“‘Tis possible. A man doesnae want to wed a woman dishonored.” He tentatively moved his hands over her well-rounded backside.
“There is something in Rory Fergueson that frightens me. Aye, makes me shudder until my teeth click. T’was when I realized that poor Aimil would be wife to that man that I finally opened my eyes and looked at ye, Iain. I have been a cold, heartless shrew, the greatest of blind fools. Nay, I ken how I have been,” she cried when he murmured a protest and she pressed her face against his hairy chest. “I will make it up to you, Iain.”
Over his repentent wife’s head, Iain grinned. He had no intention of telling her that he had no real complaint, had only occasionally wished for a little more fire in her and a return of the love he had always felt for her. As he put her new softness to a very practical use, he found the fire and new hope for the love he wanted. With her heart and mind free of regrets and self-pity, Giorsal responded to his lovemaking in a way that left them both dazed. As he fell asleep with a complacent smile upon his face, Iain wondered fleetingly if all the sisters held such passion. If they did, he doubted the Black Parlan would be in any rush to release Aimil.
Chapter Six
Lachlan Mengue read the words before him yet again, unable to shake free of his disbelief. After his first elated relief over the proof that his children were alive, he had begun to comprehend the outrageous demand for their safe return. It would impoverish him. He doubted that even a king could meet such a ransom. Furthermore, it would take weeks to raise only half of it. To his way of thinking, it was thievery of the lowest sort.
“The man must be mad!” he roared, not for the first time. “I cannae meet this.”
“Will ye send an offer by messenger?” asked Iain.
“Nay, I will go to the rogue myself. I cannae believe that this is any more than a cruel joke.”
“At least we ken now that Leith and Aimil are alive and weel,” said Jennet as she eased her very pregnant body into a seat.
“I will see the proof of that with my own eyes before I even begin to bargain.”
The messenger from Dubhglenn found himself leading a sizeable party back to his laird. Giorsal rode beside her husband, having insisted on going along with an uncharacteristic stubbornness. Since the party traveled under a flag of truce, the men had finally, if grudgingly, complied. Rory Fergueson was noticeably absent although, as Aimil’s betrothed, he had been informed of the venture. Giorsal was glad of it for she did not trust Rory to follow the rules of bloodless negotiation.
Due to a slow start, and having waited fruitlessly for Aimil’s betrothed, they had to camp out. Giorsal found the whole matter adventurous and cheerfully readied the interior of her husband’s tent, but Iain was not particularly cheerful when he joined her.
“What troubles ye, Iain?” she asked as she folded the clothes he shed.