Highland Captive (26 page)

Seeing
that Geordie had left the door open, she glanced at the two men. They seemed
too engrossed in their whispers to notice her. Cautiously, careful not to make
a sound, she edged toward the door.

Suddenly,
Geordie moved with a speed that was awe-inspiring. He slammed the door and
latched it securely. Then he looked down at her with an expression that, in any
other man, would be seen as pity, but Aimil doubted that Geordie suffered from
that weakness. He had been Rory’s faithful hound for too long.

“Ye
arenae going anywhere, lass. Ye will set right here ‘til Master Rory says
otherwise.”

“Then
ye will be a party to my murder.”

“Oh,
he isnae going to murder ye. Not yet, leastwise. Ye need to be alive for the
wedding.”

“Then
let us not waste time. He may as weel kill me now for I will never wed him.”

“I
shouldnae be so sure, Mistress Mengue. Our Rory has a way with the lasses, a
way to turn ‘em to his hand, ye might say. I would be verra surprised if he
cannae change your way of thinking.”

Before
she could reply, she was painfully yanked to her feet. As she watched Rory’s
fist hurtle toward her face, she saw his expression. Now she knew what made him
smile and she had been right. It was not something she had really wanted to
know. Rory Fergueson found joy in inflicting pain.

His
blow sent her flying back against the bed. Although groggy and one eye blinded
by the pain of his blow, she managed to elude him when he grabbed for her
again. While Geordie did nothing to help her, she was relieved that he was not
going to assist Rory either. Twice more she eluded Rory before he landed another
punch that sent her reeling.

She
knew she was no match for Rory, but she refused to give up. However, when she
tried to gain hold of something to use as a weapon, Geordie was there to stop
her. Finally she grew too weak to break free then try to evade Rory. He
delivered a blow that sent her slamming into the wall. As blackness overtook
her, she wondered if Geordie had misjudged matters for, if Rory kept at her,
she was sure she would never survive the night.

Rory
stood over her supine body and watched as Geordie checked her over. “Dead?”

“Nay,
she be a strong lass. Ye best temper your hand some though if ye mean to wed
her before ye kill her.”

“I
have learned that lesson, Geordie. Ye dinnae need to keep carping on it. Get
those cursed clothes off her and tie her to the bed post.”

Even
as he did as he was ordered, Geordie said, “Mayhaps ye ought to let her recover
a wee bit.”

“She
needs her spirit broken, Geordie, and swiftly. I must have her wed to me before
she is rescued or her kin comes after her.” He watched closely as Geordie
undressed the unconscious Aimil. “She is as fine a piece as her cursed mother
ever was. We shall have us a fine time with her.”

“Now?”
Geordie lashed her hands to the bed posts.

“Nay,
let her fash herself over it. She will suspect it, and the wondering about when
it might happen will sorely torment her. First she must be punished for letting
the Black Parlan between her thighs. Fetch my whip. The wee one. As ye say, I
cannae let her die on me yet. There is a wedding she must attend. Move quickly.
I want it in my hand before she wakes.”

Aimil
cursed as she awoke. The pain she felt reminded her where she was and what was
happening to her. The last thing she wanted was to return to consciousness.
There was some measure of safety in unconsciousness only because, if Rory
continued to abuse her, she would be unaware. Awake, she would know all too
well the pain he dealt her.

A
coolness on her body made her frown then gasp in shock. One horrified glance at
her body confirmed her suspicion that she was naked. When she instinctively
moved to try and cover her nakedness with her hands, she received another
shock. She looked up at her hands in stunned disbelief to see that her wrists
were securely bound to the bed post at the foot of the bed. A brief frantic
struggle to free her wrists was abruptly stopped when she heard a soft chuckle.
At that moment, Rory moved to stand before her.

“I
wouldnae waste what strength ye have left, my sweet whore. Geordie ties a fine
secure knot.”

She
forced herself not to look at the small whip he idly slapped against his leg. “Ye
will surely die for this, Rory Fergueson.”

“Shall
I? And who shall be your avenger? Your dear father? He cannae even bear to look
at ye. The gallant Leith mayhaps? He is still a child and, if your father
doesnae stop him from taking up a sword against me, I shall cut him down with
ease. Your lover, that whoreson the Black Parlan, mayhaps? I think not. He is
most likely dead.”

“Nay,
t’wasnae a fatal wound.” She tried not to let his words weaken her, refused to
listen to the part of her that agreed with him.

“Come,
my pretty slut. He had an arrow pierce his thigh. Even a child such as ye has
seen enough of war to ken the danger of such a wound. They bleed so freely and,
ofttimes, naught can stem the flow.” He shrugged. “And if he lives? What
matter? Why should he trouble himself with ye? He has whores aplenty to choose
from. He is careful with the lives of his men and willnae risk them simply to
return some Lowland slut to his bed. Nay, no matter how good ye were, and ye
were good, were ye not? Aye, ye must have been for the Black Parlan to keep ye
in his bed for so long. Ye shall have to show me all he taught ye but not yet.
Nay, not just yet. As your betrothed and master in the eyes of the law, I have
decided to punish ye for your whorish ways.”

He
struck so swiftly that she was barely able to stifle her cry. She braced
herself for the second bite of the lash, but it did not come. Instead, he stood
staring at her back. The way he held the whip, caressed it lovingly, chilled
her.

“Ah,
so like your mother,” he murmured, touching the mark upon her back. “So like
Kirstie. Her skin turned livid at the merest violent touch as weel. It took so
verra little to bring forth the colors of pain. She too had to be punished for
her whorish ways, but I punished her too virulently. She died. Howbeit, I do
learn from my errors. Ye will live for a verra long time.”

His
murmured words, the talk of violence and death sounding like idle chatter, made
her blood run cold but also confused her. “My mother died from a sickness
caught on childbed.”

“Aye,
so your father said. He was too weak, too soft of heart to tell ye the truth. I
believe ‘tis past time that ye kenned it. Aye, t’will aid ye to understand what
ye must do, to see the wisdom of bending to my will.”

“Ye
will never be my master, Rory Fergueson.”

“Just
as stubborn and foolish as Kirstie but ye will learn. She died defying me, but
ye will live long enough to bend. She too scorned me. She too refused to wed me,
and I was too young to see what I had to do in time to stop her from wedding
another.” He grasped her painfully by the chin and brought his face close to
hers. “I waited years for ye to finish growing, to finish becoming like your
mother, as I kenned ye would from the moment ye came squalling into this world.
I have waited years to correct the mistakes I made with Kirstie. Although I
have lost the chance to spill your virgin’s blood, I can still make ye crawl to
me. I will have ye begging my forgiveness for spreading your thighs for Parlan
MacGuin.”

“Nay.
I will spread my legs for every pox-ridden beggar in Scotland before I would do
that.” She spat in his face.

That
enraged him and soon she almost regretted her defiance. It took Geordie’s
interference to bring him back under control. From the curses and furious words
Rory had spat at her, she realized she was acting so much like her mother that
he was becoming confused, his twisted mind blending the past with the present.

So
too did she finally believe that he had murdered her mother, that her father
had lied to them all. What she wished she knew was whether her father knew who
was guilty, if he had knowingly promised her to the man whose hands were
stained with her mother’s blood.

She
was sure, however, that she did not want to hear any more about how Rory had
killed her mother. While a small part of her demanded the truth, a greater part
of herself knew that the truth might well be far more than she could bear.
Rory, though, seemed intent upon confession. She suspected that he, knowing how
hearing the tale would torment her, was using it as yet another means of
inflicting pain, one as expedient and successful as his whip. It simply left no
marks upon her body.

“Ah,
Geordie, she tries to drive me past reason just as Kirstie did.” Again he
grasped her by the chin and forced her to look at him, but he did not draw near
enough for her to be able to spit upon him again. “Ye think to escape me by
dying but ye willnae. Nay, ye willnae die until I am ready to let ye. I did too
much too quickly with Kirstie. I shall pace myself with ye. First the
punishment then the possession. I think ye should hear about how I possessed
your mother, my sweet whore. T’will do ye good to ken what lies ahead. Mayhaps
t’will make ye see the wisdom of giving up this defiance, this contrariness,
all the sooner. The first thing ye must do is to agree to our marriage.”

“I
would rather become the bride of Satan himself and spend my wedding night
amongst hell’s tormented souls.”

Aimil
began to think that she would make that wish come true if she agreed to wed
Rory. If he was not the Devil himself, he was surely one of Satan’s closest
minions. With each stroke of the lash, Rory revealed another sickening detail
of the murder of her mother. Inwardly, she wept bitter tears. Nothing her
mother could have ever done had warranted such a horrible fate. Aimil began to
think that even Satan would balk at accepting such an evil, twisted soul as
Rory’s.

She
struggled against letting her pain, fear, and grief weaken her spirit. Thinking
about how she must live to tell the truth about Rory helped. Someone had to see
that he paid dearly for the vicious murder of her mother, and she was the only
one, besides Geordie, who knew of his guilt, the only one who could see that he
was brought to justice. That thought alone kept her spirit strong.

Finally
Geordie stopped Rory. Geordie was, Aimil realized, the only rein upon Rory’s
madness. Without Geordie, Rory’s evil would undoubtedly have come to light a
long time ago. She deemed him as guilty as Rory, his calloused hands as soaked
in blood as his master’s. By helping Rory to hide his sickness, Geordie had
undoubtedly insured more deaths than she cared to think upon. As she waited for
the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness, she listened to the two men talk,
their voices distorted as they came to her through ears ringing with pain.

“She
will need to rest some before ye set upon her again, or ye will be killing this
one too quickly as weel.”

“And
that I must never do. I will have from her what I couldnae gain from her
mother. I have waited too long for it to lose it now.” Rory grasped Aimil by
the chin and shook her head until she opened her eyes a bit to glare at him. “Aye,
ye curse me just as she did. She damned me as she lay there dying. She told me
that if I hurt ye the Devil would rise up and drag me into hell. Weel? Where is
he?”

“He
will come for you yet, Rory Fergueson, though I am thinking even he will find
ye too foul.” She closed her eyes again, refusing to look into his soulless
eyes.

“I
dinnae think t’was wise to tell her about her mother. What if she tells
someone?”

“She
willnae.”

“How
can ye be so certain of that?”

“Because
soon she willnae have the strength nor the will to betray me. I will break this
lass. Soon, aye, soon, she will crawl to me and think only of what she can do
to please me.”

“And
then what will ye do to her?”

As
Aimil finally sank into blackness, she heard Rory softly reply, “I will let her
die and with her will go the truth about Kirstie Mengue’s death.”

Chapter Fifteen

Aimil
woke to more pain than she thought any body should have to bear. If this was to
be her treatment at Rory’s hands, she knew she would not last long. That he had
not yet raped her seemed small consolation. One more hurt would hardly have
mattered.

Through
her swollen eyes, she saw the door open. If Rory tried to beat her anymore, she
knew he would kill her. Panic seized her, but she was unable to move her
battered body. In stead of Rory, it was a buxom, young maid and Aimil’s terror
receded. For now, at least, she would have a respite from that madman’s
attentions.

“Who
are ye?” she rasped as the young woman set a bowl of water down on the table
near the bed.

“Maggie.
He did ye weel, didnae he? I am here to try and mend ye.”

“So
that he may have at me again?” She grit her teeth against a scream when the
girl began to wash her back.

“Aye.
He wants ye to last awhile yet.”

Noticing
the faintly discolored skin around Maggie’s eyes, Aimil said, “He has had at ye
as weel.”

“There
isnae a wench here that hasnae been done. He is a madman, a bastard.”