Highland Captive

by Hannah Howell

  Looking around the ill-lit room, she felt the small hope of all that had happened being a nightmare falter and die. She recalled the room from the last brief stay at Rory’s earlier in the year. Glancing up at the cobweb-strewn ceiling, she decided that she recognized them as well. If there were any maids about, they were clearly not made to do any cleaning, she mused. Considering the extreme care Rory took with his personal appearance, she was surprised that he would tolerate living amongst such filth.

  Espying a decanter of wine and a goblet on a scarred table by the bed, she quickly moved toward it. A drink of wine would help her to think, she mused, and wash the dryness of a lingering fear from her mouth. She took a hearty swallow and nearly gagged. After the wine at Dubhglenn, what she drank now tasted little better than vinegar. Rory clearly spent very little money on wine either. Or, she thought crossly, it was purposely chosen to make her sick. She decided that Rory did not know her very well at all if he thought a little sour wine could accomplish that. Sitting on the bed, she sipped from the goblet and tried to think of what to do next.

  A few moments passed before she decided that she was not going to talk herself out of trying to escape. She did not want to stay near Rory any longer than she was forced to. Neither did she think she could calmly wait for her father to arrive for he would either hand her back to Rory or lock her up firmly until the wedding. The only way she would see Parlan again was if she escaped. It would be dangerous but it was the only choice that gave her any chance of having what she wanted and that was to be with Parlan.

  Moving to look out of the window, she glanced down and cursed softly. She had forgotten how high up the room was from the ground, but she suspected that Rory had chosen this room for that reason. Even though she searched, she was not surprised to find that there was nothing in the room that would make an adequate rope. The bedclothes were not only too few but too worn and frayed to be safe.

  The door proved to be securely bolted from the outside. Aimil frowned because she could not remember noticing that the last time she had been at Rory’s. It was as if he had been prepared to hold her prisoner which meant that Rory’s appearance at the copse had been planned.

  There was very little chance that he had accidently come upon her and Parlan in a remote corner of MacGuin land. Someone had told Rory where and when to find her and Parlan. She wondered if that traitor had intended Parlan’s death or her capture or both. If she knew that, she would know better who the traitor was. The reasons for the betrayal would point the way to the betrayer.

  The first person she thought of was Catarine, but she knew some of her readiness to suspect the woman was because she loathed Catarine and would like nothing better than to have a good reason to have the wretch banned from Dubhglenn. She also preferred it to be Catarine rather than the other suspect who came to mind—Artair. It would devastate Parlan to discover that his own brother had betrayed him. Aimil was not sure she would have the heart to tell Parlan if the traitor did prove to be Artair.

  Her troubled thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Rory entered the room. Standing firmly between her and the door, she decided yet again that his physical beauty lacked a certain quality that made him moving to look at. It occurred to her that it could be the coldness in his eyes that stole the beauty from his face. She wondered if Rory ever smiled, then was not sure she wanted to know what might make him smile.

  “And when does my father arrive?”

  “He willnae arrive for I havenae sent for him.”

  “Nay? Weel, I suggest ye set about doing it.”

  “Nay, I think not.”

  “Ye cannae hold me here without at least telling my father where I am.” Aimil did not like the way he studied her.

  “But I can. Ye are my betrothed, my bride.”

  “Aye, but not yet your wife.”

  “That matters not. Your father gave me rights over ye when he agreed to the betrothal.”

  “Ye should at least tell him that he neednae keep collecting the ransom.” She was suddenly desperate to let her father know where she was even if it meant facing his indifference and confinement to her chambers until the wedding.

  “I will in time. I willnae let him pay that whoreson MacGuin. I have uses for your dowry and dinnae wish it depleted.”

  Inwardly, she cursed. She should have known about his need for her dowry. Everything she had seen in the few times she had been at his keep told her that he suffered from a lack of coin. It also explained why he had been so firm about staying betrothed to her despite knowing that she shared the Black Parlan’s bed. She then wondered if she could make a bargain with him. If his only interest was in her dowry, she would give him as much as she could get her hands on.

  “Has my father given ye my dowry yet?”

  “Nay, he willnae even let me borrow on it. I cannae touch it ‘til we wed.”

  That was clearly a sore point with him, and she felt her hopes for a mutually satisfying bargain rise. “Mayhaps I can get ye the coin.”

  “And how would ye do that, my pretty, aside from wedding me whereupon I get it anyway?”

  “I can get it and then ye would have the coin ye need but wouldnae need to marry me.”

  “Mayhaps I wish to wed ye.”

  “Why should ye? We dinnae suit, never have. If ‘tis the coin ye need, then I will get it for ye. There isnae any need for us to wed.”

  “Ye would leave unhonored my dead uncle’s last wish, one your father swore to honor?”

  She suddenly realized that he toyed with her. He was interested in hearing her bargain but only to be amused by how desperately she would try to get him to agree with it. It was hard to control her fury, but she fought to for she knew that raging at him would gain her nothing. She did not doubt that he would find that amusing, too.

  “What game do ye play?” she asked with a calm she did not feel. “Ye dinnae wish to wed me yet hold to the betrothal.”

  “But I do wish to wed ye.” He stepped closer to her and stroked her cheek with his knuckles.

  His touch made her stomach knot, but she hid it. So too did she resist the impulse to pull away. It was a fairly innocent gesture, and she had no real reason to resist it. She suspected that to do so would make him very angry. Nevertheless, it troubled her to have him so close, to have that cold, emotionless gaze fixed so steadily upon her face.

  What she had to do was convince him that he did not want to marry her. She also had to convince him that she had no wish and no intention of wedding him without insulting him and provoking his anger. Recognizing that her own temper was only loosely reined, she decided that it was going to be very difficult to do either.

  “‘Tis not necessary to tie yourself to a lass ye dinnae really want for a promise made to a dead man.”

  “Did I not just say that I wish to wed ye?” He stroked her neck.

  “But why? I ken weel that there is much about me that ye dinnae like.”

  “Because ye are a lovely whore—just like your mother.”

  She slapped his hand away. “My mother was no whore.”

  “Aye, she was. She wasted her beauty upon that fool Lachlan. I could have given her youth and an equal beauty. We would have been a pairing to make the world sick with envy.”

  “And what do ye ken of my mother?”

  “Enough. Ye are just like her. Aye, just like her. Ye too could have had me but ye turned to that whoreson MacGuin, turned to him and made me look the fool.”

  Each step he took nearer to her, she retreated in kind. There was something fearfully unsettling about the way he talked. Aimil sensed that he did not really see her or, at least, see her as Aimil Mengue. What really troubled her was all this talk about her mother. She had not realized that Rory had even known the woman.

  “I was a captive, a prisoner for ransom.”

  “Ye were Parlan MacGuin’s lover, his whore. All these months ye have wallowed in the mud with him.” His hand darted forward and he grasped her tightly by the throat. “Ye h
ave soiled yourself, cast away whatever honor ye had between his sheets.”

  Desperately Aimil tried to ease his grip, a grip so tight it was cutting off her air. She tried to pry his fingers loose, but they were like bands of steel. He seemed oblivious to the way her long nails scored his skin. Aimil suddenly realized that she was the captive of a madman. In thinking he would not kill her, she had made a serious error in judgment.

  “Here now, ye dinnae want to kill the lass.”

  The breath-robbing grip on her throat was suddenly eased, and Aimil fell to her knees. As she massaged her bruised neck and gasped for air, she looked to see who had saved her. Her brief hope that it might be someone she could make an appeal to quickly died. She recognized the burly, sour-faced man calming Rory. Geordie would help no one save for Rory and perhaps himself. She could only think that Geordie had decided that killing her now was not good for Rory. The man did not act out of mercy.

  Seeing that Geordie had left the door open, she glanced at the two men. They seemed too engrossed in their whispers to notice her. Cautiously, careful not to make a sound, she edged toward the door.

  Suddenly, Geordie moved with a speed that was awe-inspiring. He slammed the door and latched it securely. Then he looked down at her with an expression that, in any other man, would be seen as pity, but Aimil doubted that Geordie suffered from that weakness. He had been Rory’s faithful hound for too long.

  “Ye arenae going anywhere, lass. Ye will set right here ‘til Master Rory says otherwise.”

  “Then ye will be a party to my murder.”

  “Oh, he isnae going to murder ye. Not yet, leastwise. Ye need to be alive for the wedding.”

  “Then let us not waste time. He may as weel kill me now for I will never wed him.”

  “I shouldnae be so sure, Mistress Mengue. Our Rory has a way with the lasses, a way to turn ‘em to his hand, ye might say. I would be verra surprised if he cannae change your way of thinking.”

  Before she could reply, she was painfully yanked to her feet. As she watched Rory’s fist hurtle toward her face, she saw his expression. Now she knew what made him smile and she had been right. It was not something she had really wanted to know. Rory Fergueson found joy in inflicting pain.

  His blow sent her flying back against the bed. Although groggy and one eye blinded by the pain of his blow, she managed to elude him when he grabbed for her again. While Geordie did nothing to help her, she was relieved that he was not going to assist Rory either. Twice more she eluded Rory before he landed another punch that sent her reeling.

  She knew she was no match for Rory, but she refused to give up. However, when she tried to gain hold of something to use as a weapon, Geordie was there to stop her. Finally she grew too weak to break free then try to evade Rory. He delivered a blow that sent her slamming into the wall. As blackness overtook her, she wondered if Geordie had misjudged matters for, if Rory kept at her, she was sure she would never survive the night.

  Rory stood over her supine body and watched as Geordie checked her over. “Dead?”

  “Nay, she be a strong lass. Ye best temper your hand some though if ye mean to wed her before ye kill her.”

  “I have learned that lesson, Geordie. Ye dinnae need to keep carping on it. Get those cursed clothes off her and tie her to the bed post.”

  Even as he did as he was ordered, Geordie said, “Mayhaps ye ought to let her recover a wee bit.”

  “She needs her spirit broken, Geordie, and swiftly. I must have her wed to me before she is rescued or her kin comes after her.” He watched closely as Geordie undressed the unconscious Aimil. “She is as fine a piece as her cursed mother ever was. We shall have us a fine time with her.”

  “Now?” Geordie lashed her hands to the bed posts.

  “Nay, let her fash herself over it. She will suspect it, and the wondering about when it might happen will sorely torment her. First she must be punished for letting the Black Parlan between her thighs. Fetch my whip. The wee one. As ye say, I cannae let her die on me yet. There is a wedding she must attend. Move quickly. I want it in my hand before she wakes.”

  Aimil cursed as she awoke. The pain she felt reminded her where she was and what was happening to her. The last thing she wanted was to return to consciousness. There was some measure of safety in unconsciousness only because, if Rory continued to abuse her, she would be unaware. Awake, she would know all too well the pain he dealt her.

  A coolness on her body made her frown then gasp in shock. One horrified glance at her body confirmed her suspicion that she was naked. When she instinctively moved to try and cover her nakedness with her hands, she received another shock. She looked up at her hands in stunned disbelief to see that her wrists were securely bound to the bed post at the foot of the bed. A brief frantic struggle to free her wrists was abruptly stopped when she heard a soft chuckle. At that moment, Rory moved to stand before her.

  “I wouldnae waste what strength ye have left, my sweet whore. Geordie ties a fine secure knot.”

  She forced herself not to look at the small whip he idly slapped against his leg. “Ye will surely die for this, Rory Fergueson.”

  “Shall I? And who shall be your avenger? Your dear father? He cannae even bear to look at ye. The gallant Leith mayhaps? He is still a child and, if your father doesnae stop him from taking up a sword against me, I shall cut him down with ease. Your lover, that whoreson the Black Parlan, mayhaps? I think not. He is most likely dead.”

  “Nay, t’wasnae a fatal wound.” She tried not to let his words weaken her, refused to listen to the part of her that agreed with him.

  “Come, my pretty slut. He had an arrow pierce his thigh. Even a child such as ye has seen enough of war to ken the danger of such a wound. They bleed so freely and, ofttimes, naught can stem the flow.” He shrugged. “And if he lives? What matter? Why should he trouble himself with ye? He has whores aplenty to choose from. He is careful with the lives of his men and willnae risk them simply to return some Lowland slut to his bed. Nay, no matter how good ye were, and ye were good, were ye not? Aye, ye must have been for the Black Parlan to keep ye in his bed for so long. Ye shall have to show me all he taught ye but not yet. Nay, not just yet. As your betrothed and master in the eyes of the law, I have decided to punish ye for your whorish ways.”

  He struck so swiftly that she was barely able to stifle her cry. She braced herself for the second bite of the lash, but it did not come. Instead, he stood staring at her back. The way he held the whip, caressed it lovingly, chilled her.

  “Ah, so like your mother,” he murmured, touching the mark upon her back. “So like Kirstie. Her skin turned livid at the merest violent touch as weel. It took so verra little to bring forth the colors of pain. She too had to be punished for her whorish ways, but I punished her too virulently. She died. Howbeit, I do learn from my errors. Ye will live for a verra long time.”

  His murmured words, the talk of violence and death sounding like idle chatter, made her blood run cold but also confused her. “My mother died from a sickness caught on childbed.”

  “Aye, so your father said. He was too weak, too soft of heart to tell ye the truth. I believe ‘tis past time that ye kenned it. Aye, t’will aid ye to understand what ye must do, to see the wisdom of bending to my will.”

  “Ye will never be my master, Rory Fergueson.”

  “Just as stubborn and foolish as Kirstie but ye will learn. She died defying me, but ye will live long enough to bend. She too scorned me. She too refused to wed me, and I was too young to see what I had to do in time to stop her from wedding another.” He grasped her painfully by the chin and brought his face close to hers. “I waited years for ye to finish growing, to finish becoming like your mother, as I kenned ye would from the moment ye came squalling into this world. I have waited years to correct the mistakes I made with Kirstie. Although I have lost the chance to spill your virgin’s blood, I can still make ye crawl to me. I will have ye begging my forgiveness for spreading your thighs for Parlan
MacGuin.”

  “Nay. I will spread my legs for every pox-ridden beggar in Scotland before I would do that.” She spat in his face.

  That enraged him and soon she almost regretted her defiance. It took Geordie’s interference to bring him back under control. From the curses and furious words Rory had spat at her, she realized she was acting so much like her mother that he was becoming confused, his twisted mind blending the past with the present.

  So too did she finally believe that he had murdered her mother, that her father had lied to them all. What she wished she knew was whether her father knew who was guilty, if he had knowingly promised her to the man whose hands were stained with her mother’s blood.

  She was sure, however, that she did not want to hear any more about how Rory had killed her mother. While a small part of her demanded the truth, a greater part of herself knew that the truth might well be far more than she could bear. Rory, though, seemed intent upon confession. She suspected that he, knowing how hearing the tale would torment her, was using it as yet another means of inflicting pain, one as expedient and successful as his whip. It simply left no marks upon her body.

  “Ah, Geordie, she tries to drive me past reason just as Kirstie did.” Again he grasped her by the chin and forced her to look at him, but he did not draw near enough for her to be able to spit upon him again. “Ye think to escape me by dying but ye willnae. Nay, ye willnae die until I am ready to let ye. I did too much too quickly with Kirstie. I shall pace myself with ye. First the punishment then the possession. I think ye should hear about how I possessed your mother, my sweet whore. T’will do ye good to ken what lies ahead. Mayhaps t’will make ye see the wisdom of giving up this defiance, this contrariness, all the sooner. The first thing ye must do is to agree to our marriage.”