Highland Captive

by Hannah Howell

  “Are ye going to command it then?” She nearly laughed at how such a simple action as he was performing had her breathless and eager.

  “I think I might. Unbound and glorious when I am near but bound and kept from tempting others when I am away.”

  He brushed his lips over her cheeks and lightly teased her mouth with his but found that he lacked the patience for such play. Having her near and knowing that he could make love to her had his blood running so hot it made him feel feverish. He kissed her hungrily, and the hunger he sensed in her return kiss severed what little control he had. It had been too long since he had loved her.

  Pushing her down onto the blanket, he quickly began to loosen her clothing. Need controlled him, a need only she could fulfill. When he finally freed her breasts, he pressed his face against their fullness and vainly tried to slow himself down. Over the sound of his own harsh breathing, he could hear hers and realized that she suffered as he did, making all his efforts at control useless.

  “I thought ye were going to chase me.” Aimil finished baring his chest and smoothed her hands over its strong expanse.

  “Havenae I yet? I feel as if I have run miles.”

  He cupped her breast in his hand and gently suckled the hard tip, relishing the flavor his child so often demanded. When she cried out softly and arched against him, he shuddered. He felt dangerously close to release already.

  “Old Meg said I was healed from the birthing, did she?” Since he was already pushing up her skirts and somewhat roughly tugging off her braies, she decided that that was probably a foolish question.

  Placing his hand between her thighs and feeling her warmth, he needed a moment before he could speak. “Aye. What do ye say?”

  Starting to unlace his hose, she whispered, “I say hurry. If ye wish it, I could also say please.” She smoothed her hands over his taut backside, pushing the loosened hose down as she did so.

  “Just say aye.”

  “Aye, Parlan. Aye.”

  She cried out in surprise and relief as he plunged into her. Wrapping her limbs around him, she held him tightly. His heated breath came fast against her neck as he blindly carried them to the heights of passion. It was fast, fierce, and a little rough but, as her release seized her in its blinding grip, she decided that it was also glorious. Even as she cried out, arching to draw him deeper within her, she heard him say her name, felt him clutch her hips, and hold her closer as he sought to bury himself as deeply as possible within her eager body.

  Holding her close and making no move to break the intimacy of their embrace, Parlan savored the lingering effects of the pleasure only she could give him. She could have been as ugly as sin, he mused, and he still would have kept her close for the pleasure she gave him, to revel in the passion they shared. I simply would have kept the candle snuffed more often, he thought, and laughed softly.

  Not ceasing her languid caress, Aimil looked at him curiously as he propped himself up on his elbows to look at her. “And what so amuses ye?” She decided she must have grown more confident of him for she felt only curiosity about his laughter.

  “I had intended a seduction but I think that was more of a ravishment.”

  “Weel, I have no objection to being ravished now and again.” She smiled faintly and kissed his nose.

  “Ye shouldnae make your poor husband suffer so many long weeks without a wee taste of you.”

  “I didnae make ye suffer, t’was your son, but I thank ye for suffering.”

  Slightly easing from their embrace, he gently brushed a few stray wisps of hair from her face. “Why thank me?”

  “Other men would have turned elsewhere when their needs were so long denied.”

  “Now, that wouldnae have been quite fair, seeing as ye too were being denied of something ye favor, too. Oof!” He caught the small fist that had punched him in the side and kissed it. “Besides, lass, why should I seek out something common when I kenned that waiting awhile would give me the best?”

  “The best?” She whispered the words, his seriousness making her nervous.

  “Aye, the verra best. I think I have told ye that before. Do ye doubt me?”

  “Weel, what begins as the best could become common after a while. The fire wanes, and the newness of it all fades.”

  “True, and I ken that that will happen to us in some ways but it cannae stop it being the best. Time and familiarity cannae change that. ‘Tisnae a thing I like to keep reminding ye of but I have had enough women to ken a thing or twa about this. I was no innocent as ye are.”

  “Mayhaps I should taste me another man or twa so I can judge with such surety.”

  “Weel, best ye choose a man ye care naught about, for he will be dead before the sweetness of ye has left his tongue.”

  She nearly gaped at him. Though he spoke quietly and without any apparent ire, the very coolness of his voice and the look in his eyes told her he was completely serious. Her testy remark had been an empty threat, but Parlan’s was chillingly real. She sought a way to ease the sudden tension between them, not only troubled by it but disliking it.

  “Ye mean I cannae leave a trail of broken hearts behind me?”

  Fighting to quiet the sudden fierce jealousy that seized him, and not doing too well, he tried to smile but could tell by the look upon her face that it probably resembled a baring of teeth. “Not unless ye wish to leave a trail of bodies behind ye as weel.”

  “Ye are proving to be a verra possessive husband.” Even though she found that pleasing, she was unsettled by the ferocity of it.

  He traced the delicate lines of her face with his fingers and brushed a kiss over her lips. “Aye, I am. I kenned that when I was so eager to have the priest deliver our vows. I wanted ye marked as mine, only mine. I dinnae plan to let any man change that.”

  “Och, weel, plans are made for changing.”

  Before Aimil could accept that she had heard another voice, Parlan leapt to his feet. One hand hastily, if very loosely, tied his breeches as the other hand grabbed his sword. She did not think she had ever seen anyone move so fast.

  Without thinking, she sprang to her feet and darted behind Parlan. She stared at Rory in disbelief and horror. Not only the realization that he was not dead shocked her but his face. A gruesome sight, the whole left side was little more than one great scar. Ragged and filthy, there was nothing left of the Rory Fergueson she had once known. Not even his eyes were the same. His gaze burned with the strength of his madness.

  She did not understand why he had not struck them down as they had been oblivious to all around them. Rory had never wanted to face Parlan on equal terms before yet, by announcing himself, he had insured that he would. In the grip of his madness and hate, he suddenly seemed to want to do battle. She was not sure that that boded well for Parlan and her, even though Parlan looked ready and eager to fight.

  Parlan felt like screaming out his rage. He had been caught off-guard. Telling himself that he could not know that a man declared dead would suddenly appear to threaten him and Aimil again did not lessen his fury. The first advantage, that of surprise, had gone to Rory. Parlan was determined that he would give the man no other.

  He then almost laughed. One purpose for returning to the spot near the Banshee’s Well was to try to erase the bad memory Aimil had of the place. Instead, that memory seemed intent upon reliving itself. This time, however, Parlan was determined not to let Rory get his hands on Aimil.

  “Get out of here, Aimil.”

  She turned to obey even as she thought that she could not leave Parlan alone with Rory. For a moment she considered riding for help, and wished she had brought Elfking. It was then that she realized that she was staring at empty space where the horses should have been.

  “The horses are gone.” She wondered why she should feel so disappointed and afraid when she had never intended to flee anyway.

  “Aye, ye were so busy ye didnae notice that the beasts, er, wandered away.”

  The soft giggle that es
caped Rory chilled Aimil. Pressed against his back, she felt Parlan shiver. In the flat small sound, one could clearly hear Rory’s madness. She knew that Parlan also heard it and tasted the fear such madness could inspire.

  “Let her go, Rory.” Parlan was not surprised when the man laughed but he had seen no harm in trying for Aimil’s release.

  “And they say I am mad.”

  “They also say ye are dead. Did the Devil spit ye up from hell then because he couldnae stomach ye?”

  “Ye mean to goad me but t’willnae work. That was a clever ploy, wasnae it? It worked just as I had thought it would.”

  “What poor innocent soul did ye murder to play out your game?” Parlan demanded.

  “Some fool from the local tavern. A few coins and the hint of more and he followed me like some faithful puppy.”

  “And died for his error in faith just as Geordie did.”

  “Geordie’s blood stains your hands. ‘Tis your fault I had to kill him,” Rory snarled.

  That broke Aimil’s stunned silence. “Ye cannae blame us for that murder. Ye took his life with your own hands.”

  “Because of ye!” he screamed then forcibly restrained himself. “I couldnae move, couldnae act, because ye hunted me. I had to put an end to that. T’was the only way. Ye had to think me dead. Geordie understands. He kens that I must have my vengeance, that ye must pay for all ye have done—both of ye.

  “Ye were to be mine, Aimil, but ye chose this Highland rogue instead. Aye, rutting with him without a care or shame. So like your mother. Then ye had that Devil of a horse ruin my face. There is so much ye must pay for, my pretty whore.”

  “I would be wary of what ye say, Rory, or I may need to cut your tongue from your mouth before I kill you,” Parlan challenged him.

  “Such boasting. Killing ye will be no more trouble for me than swatting some bothersome fly.”

  “‘Ware, Parlan.” Aimil lightly touched his taut arm. “He means to dull your skill by blinding ye with fury.”

  “I ken it.” He spoke softly through gritted teeth as he tried to speak to her without Rory hearing as well as fight the anger the man stirred in him. “Ye are to flee the moment the battle begins and I hold his attention.”

  “Nay, I willnae leave you.”

  “Ye will flee, woman. Curse ye, how can I fight my best if I must worry about ye? Run to Dubhglenn and get help.”

  “By the time I could reach Dubhglenn, even if I were a swift runner, ye would be thrice dead. Aye, he could have buried ye and brought the pope himself from Rome to pray over your grave.”

  “So be it but at least ye will still be alive.”

  “Mayhaps living without ye isnae something I can view with any ease,” she said softly.

  Despite their desperate situation, he felt his heart give an odd skip at her words. It was the first time she had put any hint of her feelings into words. He mused, a little crossly, that she had chosen the worst possible time for doing it. He wanted to hold her close, to make love to her, and to drag even more such declarations from her. Instead he faced a man who could attack at any moment and who meant to see him and Aimil dead. When they were both safe again, he would find a way to make her pay some penance for her ill-timing.

  “Then do it for the bairn. He deserves better than to be left an orphan.”

  That tender statement cut her to the heart. For a moment, seeing Parlan in such danger, she had forgotten their son and his needs. She had to think of their child. Although she knew Lyolf would be well cared for and loved, no one could replace his true parents.

  “Aye, our son. He needs us both, Parlan.”

  “I intend for him to have us both for many a year yet to come. Ye will run, Aimil, for my peace of mind, if naught else.”

  She made no reply, and he took that to mean that she would obey him. He turned his full attention upon Rory. Rory did have skill and, if madness had finally given him courage, the man could prove a formidable opponent. Parlan was confident of his own skill but did not give into a false cockiness. Skill did not always determine the outcome of a fight. He also knew that, if Rory proved to be his equal, even the smallest of errors could prove fatal.

  “Come, Parlan MacGuin, are ye ready to meet your fate?”

  “Do ye think ye are man enough to deal it out to me?”

  “As easily as I did to your foolish cousin. What was her name? Margaret? Aye, aye, that was it. A weak, puling lass.”

  That nearly broke Parlan’s control. He could see poor Morna’s body in his mind’s eye, knew that Aimil’s mother and Catarine had undoubtedly looked the same, and ached to put an end to the life of the man standing before him. A soft word from Aimil stopped him when he would have charged at Rory, a mistake that could have cost him and Aimil dearly. He wished he knew Rory well enough to force the man into acting foolishly but his knowledge concerned Rory’s crimes and he doubted that the man could be angered by mentioning them.

  “If she was puling, t’was most like for the lack of a man.” Aimil saw Rory flush and knew she had found his weak spot. “That is why she was going to leave ye, wasnae it? She had discovered that your skill as a lover didnae match your beauty. Fine to look at but boring to bed.”

  She was startled by the swiftness and ferocity of his response. For a moment she feared Parlan had also been caught off-guard, but he met Rory’s attack without hesitation. Parlan’s only other move besides joining in the battle with apparent eagerness was to push her away. He then turned over even that fragment of his attention to the fight.

  Aimil knew that Parlan assumed she would now obey his order to flee. She had more or less agreed to. It was something she realized she could not do, not even when she thought of their child. She did run, however, but only to the edge of the clearing to hide there, out of sight yet able to watch. Parlan would be soothed by the thought that she was safe or soon would be, and she would be able to stay close in case he should need her.

  To flee and not to know how he fared until it was all over was not something she could do. If Parlan should lose, a thought she dreaded, and she had fled, she knew she would then spend her whole life tormented by the thought that she could have helped him, might have been able to do something that would have saved him. Although it was an agony to watch him fighting for his life, she stayed, her fists pressed to her mouth to stop herself from screaming.

  Parlan fought coolly, with a strained detachment he was finding harder to maintain. Rory was good, very good. Parlan wondered if the madness the man suffered honed his skills. There certainly seemed to be more strength in Rory than any man should possess. For the first time since his youth, Parlan was not sure that he would win.

  “Why do ye struggle so against the inevitable? Ye will die, Parlan MacGuin, and then I shall go after Aimil.”

  “She has fled you, Rory. Ye willnae get your filthy hands upon the lass.” Parlan hissed a curse when Rory’s sword nicked his side.

  “The lass will be easy enough to catch. She is on foot, and I ken where there is a horse.”

  Fear for Aimil gnawed at him but Parlan fought it. It could steal his skill and he needed all he had. Although he had inflicted as many small wounds upon Rory as Rory had upon him, Rory seemed far less troubled by them. Parlan could feel himself losing strength as he bled. Rory’s smile told Parlan that the man had guessed at his growing weakness.

  A new fear suddenly seized him as he felt the ground crumble beneath his heels. So intent had he been on the battle, he had let himself be driven to the very edge of the Banshee’s Well. Even as he struggled to elude that new danger, Rory laughed and then lunged. Knowing he would not be able to parry the sword headed straight for his vitals, Parlan sidestepped. The ground gave way beneath his feet, and he fell into the hole, barely managing to latch onto the less than firm earth around the edge. Cursing viciously, he tried to pull himself up before Rory could act but knew it was fruitless even before Rory laughed again. He cried out as Rory’s foot caught him full in the face, sending Parlan
plummeting down the hole. As he fell, Parlan thought he heard Aimil cry out then knew only blackness.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Parlan! Nay!”

  Aimil thought of nothing save that Parlan had plunged to his death. She bolted from her hiding place and raced to the Banshee’s Well even though a part of her mind kept screaming that there was nothing she could do. The sensible side of her urged her to flee to Dubhglenn but she was not feeling very sensible after watching Parlan swallowed up by the earth.

  Her headlong flight toward the hole was abruptly stopped by Rory. He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her to a halt. The pain of nearly having her arm wrenched from its socket as well as being flung to the ground dimmed the hysteria by which she had been seized. Now she could see her error very clearly. She had put herself into Rory’s hands, and Parlan had died trying to save her from this very fate.

  Thinking of Parlan’s death, her fear turned to fury. The loathing she felt for the man laughing at her seemed a living thing inside her. A small part of her feared that she could easily turn as mad as Rory but she was too furious to care about that.

  “Whoreson,” she hissed as she got to her feet. “Ye will rot in hell for this.”

  “Oh? And do ye mean to send me there, my fair slut?” He struck her across the face.

  Stumbling backward, Aimil fought against screaming. The warm salty taste in her mouth told her she had cut it, but she simply spit the blood out. This time she had plenty of room to move in, and there was no Geordie to stop her from grasping some weapon. Rory would find it not so easy to brutalize her this time, and if she was lucky, she might even strike a blow or two for Parlan.

  Parlan stared up at the small circle of light. It took him a few moments to recall where he was and how he had gotten there. Then he recalled the scream he had heard as Rory had kicked him into the hole, a sound that told him that Aimil had not run away as he had told her to. That could easily mean that Rory now held her. If that madman got his hands on Aimil, she was as good as dead. That thought was enough to make Parlan try to struggle to his feet, something his body was loath to do.