Highland Captive (25 page)

“There
is no way he could have kenned where ye would be. T’wasnae a habit of yours to
go there. Nay, nor Aimil’s.”

“That
occurred to me. I fear we have a traitor in our midst. Someone told him where
we would be and when. For Rory to find us, that low traitor must have crept to
Rory last night. I want the whoreson found.”

“He
will be, Parlan.” Lagan was not sure it would be easy to find the traitor for
the confusion caused by Leith’s and Aimil’s attempt to escape would have
provided a very good diversion, insuring that few noticed any mysterious
comings and goings.

At
that moment Catarine burst into the room. Artair, a little stiff from his
healing lash wounds, followed at a more discreet pace. Catarine put on a show
of great distress until Parlan crossly told her to shut her mouth and stop
pestering him.

Hiding
her anger, she stood quietly while Parlan told Artair what had happened. She
bitterly cursed Rory Fergueson for it was clear that the man had never meant to
honor his part of the bargain, had intended Parlan’s murder from the start.
When mention was made of a traitor, she felt an alarm of fear but pushed it
aside. Her man-at-arms would never betray her and the only other one who knew
of her betrayal was Rory, who, if he ever came face to face with Parlan, would
undoubtedly be dead before he could expose her. She relaxed as she decided that
she had little to fear. What she needed to concentrate upon was ingratiating
herself with Parlan by helping to tend to his wounds, to nurse him until he
healed. By then she was certain she would have him snared.

When
Leith entered the room, Parlan did not have to hear the younger man say that
they had failed, he could read in it the man’s face. With a raging roar, Parlan
struggled to his feet. He did not need Old Meg’s furious babble to tell him
that had been a mistake. The pain that ripped through him and the sudden rush
of warmth pouring down his leg told him that all he had succeeded in doing was
opening his wound, which would only delay him more.

He
cursed everybody and everything as he was pushed back down upon his bed. The
restitching and rebandaging of his leg severely strained his hold on
consciousness. When Old Meg handed him something to drink, he groggily did so
only to realize too late what she had given him. With a foul oath, he threw the
goblet across the room.

“Ye
old corbie, I dinnae want to sleep.”

Not
in the least quailed by his anger, Old Meg retorted sharply, “Ye may not want
it, ye young fool, but ‘tis what ye need.”

“I
need to go after Aimil.”

“Ye
need to give that great hole in your leg time to close. Ye have just seen what
happens when ye move.”

“I
dinnae have time.” Frustration and despair gnawed at Parlan as he felt the
potion Old Meg had given him start to cloud his mind, pulling him toward a sleep
he did not want. “I must free Aimil from that hellhound.”

“He
willnae kill her, Parlan.”

“Nay,
he willnae, Leith.” Parlan’s eyes closed as blackness began to overcome him. “Nay,
I dinnae think he will kill her, but I ken weel that he will soon have the poor
lass wishing that he would.”

Chapter Fourteen

Groaning
softly, Aimil made the final struggle toward consciousness with reluctance. Her
whole body ached. It took her a few moments to discern that one pain amongst
the many was greater than the others. Muttering a curse, she gingerly touched
her throbbing jaw. After another few minutes she recalled why her jaw hurt, and
a sudden panic forced her that last step into awareness. Her eyes wide, she
glanced around fearfully and with a sigh of relief, saw that she was alone.

Realizing
her thoughts were clouded by her discomfort, she slowly sat up, fighting
dizziness as she did so. Carefully, she eased herself off the crude bed. With
slow steps she walked to a basin and pitcher that stood upon a rough table. After
washing her face in the cold water, she leaned wearily against the wall and
dabbed herself dry with the coarse cloth left by the bowl.

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 have 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.