Highland Captive (10 page)

“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 time. 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.

Parlan
MacGuin yawned and rested his head comfortably upon the breasts of the small
woman sprawled in sleep at his side. He hoped that what flared between them
would not fade. It was much too good to lose. As sleep took him, he
acknowledged to himself that he was also determined that Rory Fergueson would
die before he ever touched 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.