Highland Captive

by Hannah Howell

  As he had fought dizziness and pain, he had heard Aimil’s cry as he had fallen. There had been such a heartrending agony in that cry that he had almost responded to it. He then knew that he could not shake it from his mind because it told him something that was very important to him. Aimil did care for him, quite possibly loved him. No woman could produce such a sound unless she did.

  Deciding that it was a poor time to ponder such things, he grit his teeth and started to make his way out of the hole. Although the rocky sides of the hole were not smooth, they were not rough enough either to make for an easy climb. A place to grip onto was hard to find. Parlan cursed his slow progress and his pain as he inched his way back to the surface. If Aimil and I live through this, he thought furiously, I will most assuredly beat her for her gross disobedience.

  His hands were quickly skinned and oozing blood which made his climb even more difficult. As he got nearer to the top, he heard Aimil fighting Rory and that gave him the strength to force himself onward. He only prayed that he reached the top in time to save her from any and all of the cruelty Rory wished to inflict upon her.

  Aimil bit down hard on Rory’s hand which tried to shackle her wrists. With a bellowed oath, he released her to clutch at his hand. She quickly scrambled to her feet and backed away from where he had tried to pin her to the ground.

  She sensed that the Banshee’s Well was but a step or two behind her. In one quick move she could enter that pit and join Parlan in death but she could not do it. In that first frantic moment after watching him die, she could easily have hurled herself after him but her will to survive had reasserted itself. Despite the grief that ate away at her, yet had not been given any release, she could not repress the need to try to stay alive.

  “Ye will pay dearly for that, my pretty whore.”

  “Ye are forever trying to make others pay for what ye bring upon yourself.”

  “Bring upon myself?” He touched his mutilated cheek. “Do ye think I would bring such as this upon myself? Ye did this to me. Ye and that hellborn stallion of yours!” His voice rose with every word until he screamed at her.

  “Nay, ye attacked us and got all ye deserved. Now the outside of ye is as loathsome as the inside. Now all can see your ugliness.”

  She was not surprised by his attack when he bellowed with rage and lunged at her. What she had hoped for did not happen, however. When she neatly eluded him, he was able to halt himself before he plummeted down the hole. He turned on her far more quickly than she had planned for as well. Her attempt to escape his second lunge failed, and she was badly winded when he tackled her to the ground. Before she could regain it and the strength to fight him, he had her pinned beneath him.

  “Did ye really think ye could escape me again, Kirstie?”

  A shiver ran down Aimil’s spine. She had known that Rory had seen her mother in her, that his twisted mind had seen a chance to avenge her mother’s imagined slights upon him. It was chilling, however, to know that he no longer even saw her, that he saw only Kirstie Mengue—a woman he had brutally murdered years ago. Rory’s madness was truly complete now.

  It also made Aimil angry that he thought she was Kirstie whom he intended to abuse then kill. Somehow it seemed almost an insult and unfair that he no longer even knew whom he was going to murder. She wanted him to know who fought him and whose blood was on his already blood-soaked hands but knew that was impossible. There was no reasoning with a madman.

  “Ye willnae find this murder such an easy one, Rory Fergueson.” She struggled to shake him off her but he resisted her efforts with apparent ease, which caused her to feel a dangerous sense of resignation.

  “Ye brought this upon yourself.” He began to undo her clothing. “Ye turned from my love.”

  “Ye dinnae ken what love is. Ye ken only hate and pain.” Her squirming to thwart his efforts to strip her was briefly halted when he struck her hard across the face with an indifference that was chilling.

  “Oh, but I do ken what love is. I love ye, Kirstie. I could have made it so beautiful between us but ye wouldnae let me. Ye gave all I craved to Lachlan, parted your sweet thighs for him when ye wouldnae even part your lips for me. That must be punished. It must be.”

  “Ye cannae punish someone for going where their heart commands.”

  “Your heart should have chosen me. Me! I could have given ye everything. We could have been the envy of the world. Nowhere would there have been a pair as fair to the eyes as we. Instead ye chose that fool who never treated ye as ye should have been treated. He took ye nowhere, simply kept ye in that heap of stone, and filled your belly with bairns. Ye should have been laughing, gay, and admired at courts over the world not sweating upon a childbed for that fool.” He roughly bared her breasts. “These were made to be admired by a lover not tugged at by greedy bairns.”

  When his hand moved over her breasts, she gagged. It seemed her rape was inevitable. Unless he made some error soon that she could take advantage of, there was no way she saw of breaking free of him and evading that abuse. Although she hated it, she resigned herself to it, waiting for that moment when his release would weaken him. If she could keep her mind clear, despite the horror he would inflict, she might make good use of that weakness.

  Suddenly she realized that he had stopped, even though his hand still rested upon her breast. He sat upon her and stared at something behind her head, something she could not see no matter how hard she tried to turn round. Whatever it was, she thought, it horrified Rory. His face was the color of parchment, his mouth was agape, and his eyes were open so wide they bulged.

  Parlan found the added strength to pull himself up and out when he saw Rory on top of Aimil. The sight of Rory’s hand touching her breast enraged Parlan and this time he made no effort to fight that. He needed the strength it gave him. Rory had nearly defeated him when he had been at his full strength, but now he was battered, bruised, and bleeding. Rage might lend him a fleeting, if false, strength that would not last long, but he would take what he could get.

  It puzzled him that Rory made no move to stop him. He stared at Parlan in horror, but said and did nothing. Watching him carefully for the attack he was sure would come, Parlan collected his sword which lay where he had dropped it when he had fallen. Mayhaps the mad fool thinks I am a ghost, he mused, and liked the idea of proving to Rory that he was very much alive.

  “Release her, Rory, and prepare to die.”

  “The Devil,” Rory whispered as he scrambled off Aimil and away from Parlan. “‘Tis the Devil himself.”

  Aimil paid little heed to Rory. She rolled out of his reach and quickly stood up to stare at Parlan. The sight of him battered but still alive made her weak with emotion. It took all her strength to stop herself from running to him and clinging to him, touching him to assure herself that he really was standing there.

  “Ye are alive. Sweet God, Parlan, I had thought ye dead.”

  “Wheesht, lass, a wee tumble cannae send me to my Maker. Now, get out of the way as ye should have done before.” He scowled at Rory. “What ails this fool? Ye cannae run this time, Rory Fergueson.”

  Turning at last to look at Rory, Aimil frowned. He was trembling, visibly shaking as if he had lost all control over his body. Then she heard the words he muttered as he backed away, his hands held out as if to ward off something. “The Devil. ‘Tis the Devil come out of hell.”

  ““The Devil will rise up from hell and pull ye down with him,’” Aimil murmured, repeating her mother’s curse.

  “What is that?” Parlan demanded.

  “He thinks ye are the Devil come to drag him into hell. ‘Tis what my mother’s dying curse was—that the Devil would rise up out of the earth and drag him down into hell. Ye rose up out of the earth, Parlan. In his madness, he thinks the curse has come true.”

  “Weel, I surely mean to send him to hell.” He grimaced as he stared at the quivering man. “Though, I find it hard to strike at a man who is drooling like some brainless fool and has soile
d his braies in his fear.”

  “Think of the blood that fair drips from his hands and it may come easier.”

  He nodded slowly and advanced upon Rory.

  As if some higher power had relayed to Rory Parlan’s reluctance to kill him, Rory began to shake free of terror’s grip. Instead of surrendering meekly and whimpering to the Devil he had thought had come for him, Rory decided to fight. Even as Parlan struck him, Rory found the strength and the will to raise his sword and deflect the blow.

  While Aimil felt pleased that Parlan would not have to cut Rory down coldbloodedly, she hated to see Rory fight back. Parlan was hurt. She saw it in the way he moved and by the ominous dark stains upon his clothing. She clasped her hands tightly and prayed harder than she ever had before. While she could not bring herself to pray outright for a man’s death, even Rory’s, she did pray strenuously for Parlan to win, to live.

  She moved out of the way, even ready to flee if the need arose. This time she would obey Parlan although she continued to pray that she would not have to. She knew now, however, that even though she would grieve until the day she died if Parlan was taken from her, her need to live was so strong that she could not willingly join him in death nor did she think he would even want her to. In fact, she knew he would be furious if he thought she had even contemplated such a thing.

  When a frantically battling Rory managed to add to Parlan’s wounds with a dangerous slash to Parlan’s side, Aimil nearly screamed. Watching Parlan fight for his life, she decided, was the surest way to drive herself mad. She saw every swing of Rory’s sword as a mortal threat even though she knew Parlan was a very skilled fighter.

  Then she tensed, her gaze fixed intently upon Rory. He was very close to the edge of the gorge. If he fell down there, he would have no chance of survival. Parlan was pressing him hard, and she began to think that Rory’s fall was inevitable.

  “Your murdering days are over, Rory Fergueson. Ye willnae send another lass into the grave.”

  “Nay, I willnae let her curse come true. I will come to hell in my own sweet time.”

  “The sweet time is now, Rory. If I die doing it, ye will pay for all the horror ye have done.”

  “I gave none of them any less than what they asked for. Whores, the lot of them.”

  “Even the lowest of whores doesnae deserve what ye do to a lass. The ghosts of those ye have slaughtered cry out for vengeance.”

  “Let them cry, Satan. I willnae be taken before I am ready.”

  “No one can choose their time, Rory, especially not filth like you.”

  Parlan saw how close to the edge Rory was. For a brief moment he hesitated in pushing the man any further. A part of him strongly objected to the battle ending that way, wanted to end Rory’s life himself. Good sense prevailed, and Parlan regretfully knew that he was not sure he could fight any longer. He was stiff and sore from his fall and had several wounds that bled and weakened him. No matter how it occurred, the battle had to be ended as quickly as possible. Sighing, Parlan lunged, forcing Rory back that final step.

  Rory hovered on the brink of the ravine for an instant, his arms waving frantically as he sought to regain his balance. With a scream of denial, he fell, his cry abruptly cut off as his body smashed upon the rocks below.

  Aimil immediately rushed toward Parlan. He looked unsteady, and she feared he might follow Rory into the ravine. Upon reaching him, she tugged him back from the edge. He began to collapse, and, when she tried to help him stay upright, she was pulled down with him until they both knelt upon the ground. She was frightened by the weakness he displayed.

  “Parlan?”

  “Is he dead? I was unable to see.” He fought to regain some strength but realized that, for now, he had none left.

  Although she did not want to, she cautiously moved to the edge of the ravine and looked down. Her stomach was turned by what she saw, despite the knowledge that the threat to her and those she loved was now ended. Rory lay upon the rocks below, his body broken, twisted grotesquely, his blood staining the stones. Hastily, she moved back to Parlan’s side.

  “Aye, quite dead. Broken beyond repair. How is it that your fall didnae do much the same to ye?”

  “There were no rocks at the bottom.” He smiled crookedly. “I near to broke more than I care to think on though.”

  “Are ye sure ye havenae broken anything?”

  “Nay, not fully sure. I may have cracked a rib or twa. ‘Tis naught. But let me catch my breath and we will head back to Dubhglenn.”

  “On foot? Ye will never make it.”

  Before he could argue, she left him. He gave in to the need to lie down as he watched her collect up a few things to tend to his wounds. After a few moments of thought, he decided she was right. He would not be able to walk to Dubhglenn. He was fairly sure he would not have been able to ride either, even if they could find their mounts. What he was not really sure of was what to do next.

  The moment Aimil returned and started to do what little she could to tend his wounds, he stopped puzzling over the problem. Pain combined with curiosity about what wounds he had suffered diverted him. He soon saw that he was a lot worse off than he had thought. It had indeed been mostly his fear for Aimil, his need to try and save her, that had been all that had carried him on.

  “Ye will have to go back to Dubhglenn and get help, Aimil.” He watched her closely as she knelt by his side.

  Tossing aside the scrap of cloth she had used to bathe his wounds and sitting back on her heels, she grimaced. She had been afraid that he would say that. Leaving him here alone was the last thing she wanted to do but she could see no other course open to her. He needed more help than she could give him. So too there was no way to get him back to Dubhglenn without aid or, at least, a mount, both of which were at Dubhglenn.

  “I hate to leave ye here alone.”

  “The weather is fine and the dark is hours away, sweeting. I think ‘tis the least dangerous course for me.”

  She hated to admit it but she nodded. “I certainly cannae carry ye back to Dubhglenn.”

  “Nay, and I fear ye would have to but a few steps down the road.” He reached out to touch her cheek, the bruises Rory had inflicted becoming livid. “Are ye sure ye are able? He didnae hurt ye more than I can see or ye have told me?”

  “Nay. He but slapped me about, was rough. Ye rose up like some avenging angel before he had a chance to do his worst.”

  “I feel it was a fine show. A shame I couldnae see it myself. Go on, dearling. Hie to Dubhglenn but dinnae push yourself too hard. I will be safe enough here.” He patted the sword she had placed at his side.

  Bending forward, she kissed him then got to her feet. There were not that many dangers about, especially now that Rory was dead, yet it worried her to leave him alone when he was so weak. The unexpected could always happen and, for now, Parlan could put up little defense against anything. After tending his wounds, she was surprised he had faced Rory that final time and won. The only way to end her worry was to get help as fast as she could. As she started out for Dubhglenn, she prayed that someone had been given reason enough to come and look for her and Parlan.

  “Not dead? Are ye sure?” Lagan stared at Lachlan in horror. “But, Parlan buried the man.” Malcolm and Artair, who flanked him, nodded agreement.

  “Someone was buried, but it wasnae Rory Fergueson. I couldnae believe t’would end so simply, so bloodlessly. I had them dig up the body.” He smiled grimly at the shocked surprise of the three younger men. “There was enough left for me to be certain that it wasnae Rory. Aye, t’was Geordie but not Rory.”

  “He has played us a fine trick. Even killed the only friend he has ever had to make it work. We hunted him too weel. He had to shake us off his heels.”

  “And he did.” Artair cursed viciously. “Parlan set aside his doubts as foolishness.”

  “So I had feared. Where is he? Where is my daughter?” Lachlan asked worriedly.

  “They have traveled to a secluded sp
ot to be alone for a wee while, the same spot where Rory found them before.”

  “Then I suggest that we ride there as swiftly as we can. He could weel find them there again and, since a man usually has but one reason to get his woman alone, they may be less than alert.”

  In but moments, Lagan, Artair, and Malcolm were riding out of Dubhglenn with Lachlan, Leith, and their men. Artair found some grim amusement in riding with men he had raided so often in the past. He also felt a deep fear for Parlan and Aimil. In bettering his relationship with Parlan and coming to know Aimil, he had gained a sense of family he had no wish to lose.

  Aimil heard the approach of several mounts and nearly panicked, so strained were her nerves. She realized that they came from the direction of Dubhglenn but decided some caution would be wise. Seeking cover behind a tree, she watched as they drew into view and felt weak with relief when she recognized them. The instant they had passed, she darted out of her hiding place and called to them, almost able to smile when they reined in and turned back with a little confusion and a lot of swearing.

  “He found you,” Lachlan stated flatly as he saw his daughter’s bruises.

  “Aye, but I am not too sorely hurt. Parlan remains back at the Banshee’s Well for he didnae fare as weel.”

  Artair helped her mount behind him, a little astounded at the depth of the relief he felt and suspecting that he was a little bit in love with his brother’s tiny wife. “He lives? He won?”

  “Aye, he won. Rory lies dead and shattered at the bottom of the ravine. Parlan needs tending to though.”

  “Then we best hie to the big fool and fetch him back to Old Meg’s less than tender mercies,” Lagan said, even as they all spurred their mounts into a gallop.

  Parlan half sat up with surprise when the horsemen came into view. His grip on his sword was instantly released when he recognized Lagan in the lead. He not only wondered how help had arrived so soon but why Aimil had brought back so many men.