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Highland Captive

Page 21

by Hannah Howell


  “Nay. He said only that someone would pay if she were no longer a maid. I ken now that he meant for Aimil to pay.” He reached out his hand to touch Aimil’s hair lightly, hair exactly like that of the wife he had loved so dearly and had lost. “How much did he make ye pay?”

  “He didnae rape me, Papa,” she replied, looking at him with her mother’s eyes. “He wanted me to fear and fash myself over when he would.”

  Looking at her delicate features, bruised and swollen by Rory Fergueson, Lachlan saw his wife as he had found her that day. The image still churned his stomach and tore at his soul. He felt like weeping knowing that he had nearly given the man another Kirstie to kill.

  “I will clear all trace of the man from the face of this earth.”

  “Nae alone, Mengue. I have a debt or twa to extract from the bastard myself,” Parlan growled. “My cousin’s life for one. This,” he nodded at Aimil, “for another.”

  “I am to ride against my wife’s murderer with my daughter’s debaucher at my side?”

  Aimil stiffened, her swollen eye widening. “He didnae debauch me.”

  “Nay? Ye lie naked at his side, lassie.”

  She blushed deeply even as she puzzled over her father’s apparent lack of anger. “I came here willingly.”

  “T’was him or Rory?”

  “Weel, in a way, Papa. Actually, t’was me or Elfking. T’was a bargain.” She prayed her father would not question it.

  “That cursed horse,” Lachlan drawled. “I kenned t’was a mistake to give him to ye, but I sought to ease the guilt I felt over the way I treated ye.”

  Parlan’s eyes narrowed. He began to grow very suspicious of Lachlan Mengue. The man should be ablaze with righteous anger. Some demand or sword-rattling should occur under the circumstances. Instead, Lachlan looked calm and considering.

  “I think I have been playing your game and not my own,” he said quietly.

  “Mayhaps our games merely collided.” Lachlan made no attempt to deny Parlan’s suspicions.

  “Ye were that confident?”

  “I was wed to one like her. Aye, that confident. Was I wrong to be so?”

  “Nay. Ye have won the game.” Parlan could not help but return the man’s grin. “Do ye wish to finish playing?”

  “Aye. Allow an old man his fun.”

  Confusion was a mild word for what she felt, Aimil decided, as she looked from Parlan to her father and back again. Even Leith and Lagan knew what was going on, judging by the grins on their faces. That it was something to do with her that caused their amusement was all Aimil was sure of and it irritated her. They were playing some male game and leaving her out of it. She scowled at them even as she continued to struggle at guessing what was going on.

  “So ye gave him your innocence in exchange for your horse?”

  “Aye, Papa.” She tried to search his gaze for a clue to what game he was playing, but there was only amusement to be read there which was so unexpected that it left her even more confused.

  “I think ye have paid more than the beast is worth.”

  Again she blushed furiously and stared at him helplessly, unable to think of any reply. The ones that did come to mind would tell Parlan far more than she wanted him to know. She had the sinking feeling that her father knew the state of her heart.

  “Elfking’s a verra fine mount,” she said, and grimaced when her father smiled.

  “I think the debt is now MacGuin’s.”

  “Aye, Mengue, it is and I mean to pay it in full. T’will only be by a priest.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Handfast isnae firm enough.”

  “Papa,” Aimil gasped, realizing that they spoke of marriage. “Ye cannae make the man wed me. I willnae stand for it.”

  Callously, if gently, Parlan pressed her face into the pillow so that she could not speak. “How soon can we find a priest?”

  “As soon as it takes to bring him from my keep where he has suffered my hospitality for this past month,” replied Lachlan.

  “Ready for the wedding that was to take place between Aimil and Rory?” asked Parlan idly, not believing it for a moment.

  “Of course,” Lachlan replied smoothly, and started toward the door.

  “I ask a boon for this sacrifice I make.” Parlan grinned at Aimil’s clearly outraged, if muffled, squeal.

  “And what is that?”

  “That ye hold seeking revenge against Rory Fergueson until I can ride at your side.”

  “Agreed. Coming, Leith?”

  “The old rogue,” Parlan murmured with admiration after Lachlan and Leith had left.

  Released from the silencing folds of the pillow, Aimil snapped, “Ye didnae let me have my say.”

  “Nay. ‘Tis a matter between men, lassie. Now that your father has seen what a beast parades as Rory Fergueson ye are left no maid and with no husband. Ye came to my bed a virgin, and he calls upon my sense of honor to see things set right.”

  She consigned his honor to a dark and uncomfortable place. When he simply chuckled and kissed her forehead, she cursed and turned her face into the pillow. To talk a man like Parlan out of what he saw as the honorable thing to do was impossible, but she struggled to think of a way to do it. She wanted to be his wife but not for honor’s sake. It was his heart she ached for, his love, not simply his good name.

  “Come, Lagan, help me up. I must test this leg. I willnae take my vows before a priest whilst on my back.”

  Startled out of her sulk by her concern for him, she cried, “Ye will open the wound, ye great ox.”

  Gritting his teeth as Lagan helped him stand, he said, “I willnae push it that far, sweeting. Walk me to my dressing room, Lagan. Even if I must be in bed when I marry, I will be dressed fine. I will send Old Meg to ye, lass. Ye too will be done up as fine as possible.” He frowned and glanced at her back. “There must be something ye can don that willnae hurt your back.”

  By the time he reached the chair in his dressing chambers, Parlan was awash with sweat but his wound stayed closed. That showed him that, despite his weakness, he was on the mend. He collapsed into his chair and made quick work of the drink Lagan passed to him. When he saw Lagan frowning, he raised his brows in query.

  “Some sweet words might have soothed her,” Lagan offered quietly.

  “When I give her sweet words, t’willnae be simply to soothe the lass. Let me see what clothes I possess.”

  Picking out the best of Parlan’s attire and laying it on the bed, Lagan mused, “She wants a husband who cares for her.”

  “Ye think I dinnae? Aye, the black and silver will do verra nicely. I will have it freshened.”

  “Aye, I think ye do and mayhaps she suspects that ye do, but a woman needs words. She darenst guess at what her man feels. Can ye not give her a few?”

  Parlan shrugged. “I willnae tell her sweet lies. When I speak love words, t’will be because I feel them. I dinnae now.”

  Recalling the man’s frenzy when he thought Aimil lost to him, Lagan asked, “Are ye certain of that?”

  “Nay, but when or if the words ever leave my lips, I will be. For now ‘tis enough that I like and trust her.”

  “I wonder what Rory will do when he kens that ye have wed Aimil?”

  “If he is wise, he has found a great hole, crawled into it, and pulled the earth over him. T’will do him no good though. As soon as I am weel, I will dig the adder out of his nest.”

  “He isnae sane, Parlan. Ye ken as weel as I that his sort willnae act as ye think they will.”

  “Aye, ye can never tell how a mad dog will jump. A watch must be kept on Aimil at all times. She is never to be left alone.”

  “‘Tis wise. His madness is strongest there. ‘Tis a strange thing. I wonder if his madness started with Lachlan’s wife?”

  “Nay, t’was simply unearthed. That he sees Aimil as her mother is the danger. She must never fall into his hands. She will never escape him a second time and with her would go our child. That she carries my child cou
ld make it worse if he kens it.”

  “Dinnae fash yourself. She will be watched. The lass will-nae be able to turn round for the guard that will be set on her.”

  Aimil noticed her increased guard even before the priest arrived but, for the moment, had too many other concerns to be worried about it. She too wanted to be dressed and on her feet when she was wed. That she would be wed despite any objections she might have grew quickly evident. The marriage was going to be performed no matter what she said or wanted.

  She could not even get anyone who mattered to heed her objections. Lagan, her brother, and her father all kept their distance. So did Parlan. Though he was still weak from his wound, he managed to disappear with remarkable speed any time she even thought of bringing up her objections. Her strange continual exhaustion helped every one of them in their avoidance of her.

  The priest arrived and was made comfortable, but the wedding did not come about immediately. Parlan wanted all the paraphernalia that went with a chief’s wedding or as much of it as could be organized at such short notice. Dubhglenn became a hive of activity as a grand feast was prepared, and word was sent to any who might take offense if not invited.

  So too was the wedding delayed so that the bride and groom could heal enough to endure the festivities. Aimil watched her bruises fade and felt her back heal more each day. What she could not understand was why she continued to suffer from sickness and tiredness. The sickness came and went swiftly, but it worried her and she finally mentioned it to Old Meg.

  “‘Tis often the way of a woman who is with bairn,” the old woman replied tartly, shaking her head over Aimil’s apparent ignorance.

  Aimil hated to do so but she knew she was revealing that she was far more ignorant than Old Meg hinted at as she asked, “What has that to do with me?”

  “I told ye she didnae ken it,” muttered Maggie, who sat working on Aimil’s wedding dress, one with a loose bodice that would not irritate Aimil’s rapidly healing back yet look as fashionable and lovely as possible. “Told ye all that from the verra start.”

  “Do ye mean to say that that great gowk hasnae told ye?” squawked Old Meg, her thin arms flailing like boney wings.

  “Told me what?” asked Aimil in a weak voice for she was beginning to suspect exactly what ailed her.

  “What all of Dubhglenn kens and then some. That ye carry the laird’s bairn. Ye carry the heir we have all waited for.”

  “I am with child,” Aimil repeated, her voice flat. “That is why he rushes to wed me. ‘Tisnae all his honor but his need of an heir.”

  “Ye are a foolish lass. The laird kens weel how to keep from seeding a woman. He has nary a bastard that I ken of for all his wanton ways.” Old Meg shook her grizzled head. “What do ye fash yourself about? Why does any man take a wife? To get a child. ‘Tis the way of the world, lass. Ye cannae change it. Be glad ye have got yourself such a braw laddie with a brave heart and a full purse.”

  “I wouldnae care if his purse held naught and he were weak and sickly,” Aimil snapped. “I want to be loved.”

  Old Meg shook her head again. “Ye are foolish. Few wives find themselves loved. Be thankful for what ye have. ‘Tis a great deal.”

  She knew the old woman was right, but it did not make Aimil feel all that much better. Her heart and soul had been put into Parlan’s large hands, and she wanted a little return for all she had given. Honor, strength, and wealth were indeed fine attributes in a husband, and Parlan had many other fine qualities as well, but she craved his love. It seemed the worst of calamities to be wed to a man she loved as much as life itself but who did not return her love. A lifetime of unrequited love seemed little to be happy about. Even a stern scolding about not indulging in useless self-pity did not really change her feelings about that.

  “Aimil?” Maggie ventured carefully after Old Meg left the room. “Do ye wish to run away?”

  Briefly Aimil contemplated such a move then shook her head. “Nay. Where would I go? I must wed Parlan.”

  “He isnae as fearsome as I had thought he would be for all he is so dark. Aye, even his eyes. Like black pools. He seems a good man.”

  “Oh, aye, he is, Maggie. ‘Tis just that I love him but he doesnae love me. It could be a verra large problem, could give me a lot of pain.”

  “Mayhaps not.” Maggie’s gaze fell to Aimil’s stomach. “Ye will feel the bairn soon. I long for a bairn, but it will never be.”

  “Maggie, it doesnae hurt,” Aimil said gently. “The loving, I mean. With a good, kind, and gentle man, it can be verra fine indeed. A man like Malcolm?”

  A blush suffused Maggie’s face. Malcolm had been very attentive to her, and she had felt some lessening of her fears. Despite that, she still feared lovemaking, its possible good points overshadowed by Rory’s brutal handling. He had left her badly scarred in her mind.

  “I dinnae think I could bear it. I see Rory whenever Malcolm tries to kiss me, see him behind my eyelids.”

  “Then leave your eyes open and the candle lit. Dinnae let Malcolm’s image ever leave your sight. Even once with him will cure your fears. I am verra sure of that. That is, if ye have a mind to and ‘tis marriage Malcolm offers.”

  “Aye, ‘tis wedding me he wants, but I feared to fail him as a wife.” Maggie’s eyes were wide as she reviewed Aimil’s advice, and her hopes rose. “May I go now?” Aimil nodded, and Maggie raced from the room in the hope of finding Malcolm before her courage failed her.

  “Weel, that may be one problem sorted out but ‘tis little done for me.” Aimil sighed as she struggled to sit up.

  “Here, sweeting, let me help you,” said a deep voice that had lately been absent from the room. Parlan came to her bedside. Aimil stared at her husband-to-be as he helped her, his gaze studying the loosely-fitting shift she wore. “Ye could have told me I was carrying your bairn. That is why ye want to be wed, isnae it, because I might be carrying the heir to Dubhglenn?”

  “Aye,” Parlan agreed, and lightly kissed her sulking mouth, “ye are carrying my heir. ‘Tis a good reason to wed ye.”

  She wondered how such a simple statement could hurt so much but fought to hide it. “Is it true that ye have no bairns?”

  He saw something flicker in her eyes but could not read it and decided that Lagan was wrong, that Aimil was a practical girl and did not need sweet words. “None that I ken.”

  “If ye were always so careful, why werenae ye with me?”

  “Because I didnae want to be. I wanted the full pleasure of ye. I trust ye. Aye, and like ye. I didnae care if my seed took root.”

  She sighed inwardly. That was apparently all she was going to get. It did please her, but she still wanted more. Telling herself she was being quite foolish did not ease the wanting. She told herself that she would be wise to accept what he said as enough and set her mind to being happy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In a gesture she admitted to herself was childish, Aimil stuck her tongue out at Parlan’s departing figure. She then met Old Meg’s stern frown with a sweet smile. Even though no one else seemed to agree, she felt she had a right to be annoyed about the way she was being rushed into the marriage. Little heed was given to her objections, of which she honestly admitted there were one or two, or fears, of which she regretfully admitted there were far too many. With a sigh, she got out of bed and let Old Meg assist her in bathing and washing her hair. She decided it was probably petty of her to be so irritated by Parlan’s calm confidence.

  Parlan cursed as he glared at the scar on his leg. It seemed twice as livid and unsightly as it had the day before. He took a walk around the room and swore some more. The stiffness in his leg made him limp. He had sorely wanted to be at his best when he stood with Aimil before the priest, but that was clearly not to be. Cursing was not going to change that but he decided, as he limped around the room, that it soothed his disappointment to indulge in a few hearty rounds of it.

  A soft sound distracted him from his annoyance. He looked up to see th
at Artair had quietly entered the room. Artair had only made a few fleeting visits since the time he had delivered his warning about Catarine, something Parlan still cursed himself for not acting upon immediately. The expression on his brother’s face told Parlan that this visit was not going to be a fleeting one.

  “Such cursing.” Artair moved closer to Parlan. “Doubts about the step ye take? Mayhaps ye should wait.”

  “Nay, I have no doubts. I but curse this scarred and still useless leg. ‘Tis a poor thing to show a bride.”

  “I dinnae think the lass will mind but, if it troubles ye so, wait some more. It should be better before long.”

  “Aye, it should but I willnae wait any longer. Her sweet little belly already starts to round. Last eve I felt the bairn move. I mean to set the name MacGuin on that bairn as quickly as possible.”

  “The bairn isnae due for several months yet.”

  “I ken it. I also ken how swiftly life can be ended, snuffed out in a winking like some tallow candle. What happened with Rory reminded me of that. I repeat, I will set the name MacGuin on that bairn as soon as can be. I have hesitated long enough.” He sat down on his bed and frowned at Artair. “Is that why ye are here? Have ye come to try and talk me out of wedding her?”

  “Nay. ‘Tis your choice. If ye wish to wed the lass, do so. She seems a good lass.”

  “Aye, she is and ‘tis my wish to wed her. So, why are ye here? I ken that something weighs heavily upon ye. Have out with it.”

  “‘Tisnae easy.” Artair nervously paced. “I finally took heed of what ye said. That eve of Rory’s attack?” Parlan nodded. “Oh, I listened when ye spoke and heeded for the moment, as I have always done. Then I walked away and set aside your words. Something else I have always done. They wouldnae leave me be this time. They kept preying upon my mind forcing me to think and think again. I found it an uncomfortable process, this thinking. I have done little of it in my time. Then I saw what Rory Fergueson had done to Aimil, heard what he had done to the lass’s mother, and it frightened me.”

  “‘Tis naught to fash yourself over. It frightened me.”

 

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