Highland Captive (34 page)

“He
says he intends to change.”

“Aye,
so he told me. Dinnae ye think he can?” She trailed her fingers up his inner
thigh, and felt him tremble slightly.

“I
daren’t. He has disappointed me far too often. I will help him all I can
though, not just sit back to see if he falters. Aimil, are ye listening to me?”

“Oh,
aye, I cling to your every word.”

Since
her small, clever hand was stroking him in a way that made thinking very
difficult, Parlan rather doubted the veracity of her claim. His grin faded into
a soft groan of enjoyment as her tongue gently lathed his nipples. He decided
that there were a lot better things to do on one’s wedding night than talk.
Closing his eyes, he reveled in the way she could make him feel and knew that
she shared that feeling, a thought that both comforted and stirred him.

He
grimaced when her caresses moved over the rough scar on his leg, the pinch of
his vanity causing him to be concerned over how she saw it. “Nay, come away
from that ugliness, dearling. I had hoped that t’would be faded more before
now.”

Although
she moved so that she was held tightly in his arms and could kiss his cheek,
she had to smile. She heard his concern about his scar in his voice. It amused
her to think that a man like Parlan should be troubled about his appearance.

“A
wee scar doesnae trouble me.”

“’Tis
hardly a wee scar.”

“Wheesht,
wee enough when it sits upon a man as strong and fine of line as ye are, Parlan
MacGuin.”

Unsettled
by her flattery, he muttered, “Fine of line? Ye speak of me as ye would your
stallion.”

“Ye
mean the horse ye married me for?”

“Married
ye for Elfking, did I?”

“Aye.
Ye can admit the truth. I ken how weel ye like to ride him.”

“Aye,
I do, but there is something I fancy more than riding Elfking.”

“Oh?
And what is that?”

Gently
pushing her onto her back, he growled, “Riding Elfking’s lady.”

“Ye
are a crude man, husband.”

“Be
quiet and kiss me, wife.”

Aimil
decided that it was a very good time to practice a little wifely obedience.

Chapter Nineteen

“Must
I go?”

Parlan
looked at Aimil who wore only a shift and was sprawled upon her stomach on
their bed. “Ye would send me off alone?”

Looking
at the crestfallen face he made, she giggled. “Poor, wee laddie.” She grimaced
and sat up as her child moved within her, making lying upon her stomach very
uncomfortable. “Ye truly wish me to come along?” Placing a hand over her
rounding stomach, she delighted in the feel of her child’s life and idly
wondered how unattractively noticeable the changes in her shape were.

“I
wouldnae ask ye otherwise. Why are ye reluctant to go?” He moved to stand by
the bed as he finished donning his doublet.

“Weel,
I would prefer to be looking my best when I meet your closest allies.”

Biting
back a smile, he bent down and kissed her then started out of the room. “Ye
look bonnie enough to turn any man’s head. Get your clothes on, lass, and I
will send Maggie to help ye with the packing. We must leave Dubhglenn before
the noon of the day arrives.”

Sighing,
she got off the bed. He did not understand and she doubted that she could make
him. While she was delighted to be carrying his child, the way it was swiftly
changing the shape of her body did not please her at all. She often felt
awkward, even misshapen and knew that the feeling would only grow stronger as
she grew rounder. Although he showed no lessening of his passion for her, she
was not feeling her prettiest nor too capable of inspiring and holding onto his
passion.

That,
she mused, was not the feeling she wished to hold when she came face to face
with his past. She knew there would be women at the Dunmore keep who had shared
Parlan’s bed in the past. There was also a good chance that at least one of
those women would be sure to remind her of that fact and even intend to repeat
it despite the presence of a wife. Even at her most confident, Aimil knew she
would find that difficult to deal with. She did not want to face it when her
waistline was little more than a memory.

Giving
a soft, self-derisive laugh, she admitted that, waist or no waist, a part of
her also wished to go. Worse, it was for the same reason she did not want to
go. His former lovers were there, and she did not want him to go without her.
The presence of his wife, rounding with child or not, would help push aside
most temptation. And that, she decided wryly as Maggie entered, was why she
would be riding at Parlan’s side when he left Dubhglenn.

“Do
ye need a rest, sweeting?” Parlan asked when they had been riding for an hour.

“Nay,
I am fine. ‘Tis a good brisk day for riding, and I feel little discomfort when
on Elfking’s back.” She patted her mount’s neck. “I thought, mayhaps, that ye
would be riding him.”

“Nay,
not this time. Ye look grand on the beast. When I rode into the Dunmores that
last time, I thought on how it would look if ye rode in on Elfking and I upon
Raven. T’will be a fine show.”

Although
she laughed, she saw the truth of his words when they rode into the Dunmore
bailey a few hours later. The admiration on so many faces was embarrassing to
endure. Aimil noticed that Parlan had little trouble with it, and had to smile.
He did like to put on a fine show as he called it.

After
being led to their chambers, she joined Parlan in washing away some of the dust
of the journey. The way the maids who brought them their heated water ignored her
and greedily eyed a half-naked Parlan annoyed her. Parlan seemed oblivious to
it and she tried very hard to follow his example. It was not easy, however, and
she found it even less so as the evening wore on. Even Lord Dunmore’s fulsome
daughter, Janet, seemed more flirtatious and inviting than was appropriate.

When
they retired for the night, she held Parlan close and knew there was a hint of
desperation in her lovemaking. That he sensed it as well was proven by his
quizzical glances but he asked nothing and she offered no hints. She did not
want him to know that she battled with a gut-twisting jealousy for he had done
nothing to deserve the poison such emotion could arouse. She held him tightly
and prayed that she could continue to control her jealousy.

By
the next afternoon she was beginning to think that an impossible task. Needing
some time alone, she wandered out to the stables. As she brushed down Elfking,
she began to calm the emotions that knotted her stomach only to glance up and
see Janet sauntering toward her. Aimil mused ruefully that peace would clearly
not be something she could enjoy until they were back at Dubhglenn. Wherever
she turned at the Dunmores, there seemed to be someone only too eager to remind
her that her husband was once a man of healthy appetites who had never
hesitated to satisfy them.

“I
cannae believe that the Black Parlan would wed some Lowland wench.”

And
there
,
Aimil thought crossly,
is another source of annoyance, something else that
gnaws at my temper threatening to break my weak control over it
. There were
several of the Dunmore clan who held only contempt for anyone not of the
Highlands and they made little or no attempt to hide it. Janet added to that
with her constant throwing of lures at Parlan. She was twice the annoyance,
Aimil mused, as she got ready to answer the woman’s slurs yet try to prevent
any trouble.

“Ah,
weel, life has always been strewn with surprises.” Judging by the look upon
Janet’s face, Aimil decided that she had kept her voice as calm and amiable as
she had hoped to, that she had succeeded in keeping her seething anger out of
her voice.

“How
verra amusing.” Janet moved closer to Elfking’s stall. “I would never have
thought Parlan a man to be caught by a bairn.”

“The
bairn didnae catch him.”

“Nay?
‘Tis why he wed ye. Ye somehow tricked him into letting his seed take root. I
never would have thought some Lowland slut to be that canny as to get Parlan to
err as he never has before.”

“That,
of course, is assuming that it was an error.”

“Of
course it was. A MacGuin would never taint his line with the blood of some
Lowlander.”

It
was very hard but Aimil continued to try to control her temper over Janet’s
continuous slurs. Her pride was rebelling against taking such blows. She knew
many an insult about Highlanders with which to battle Janet’s cuts but she
refused to use them. Not only did she find that sort of thing distasteful but
she could not bring herself to insult what was also Parlan’s heritage. She
certainly did not want him to hear that she had and she knew that Janet would
not hesitate to tell him. She also wished that she would not be pushed to
trading insults with the woman. It lacked a certain amount of dignity and
maturity—both of which she wanted to maintain in this confrontation with one of
Parlan’s past lovers.

“Taint?
Nay, rather strengthen. It can never hurt to bring in fresh blood.”

“If
ye hadnae come along, it would have been Dunmore blood, my blood, that would
have run in his heir’s veins.”

“Ye
are certain of that, are ye?”

“Aye,
verra certain. Even if my father hadnae spoken of it so often, I had the heat
of Parlan’s love words against my skin to tell me. A man doesnae speak to a
woman as he did to me whilst we pleasured each other unless he intends more
than a night’s pleasure.”

Aimil
sternly told herself not to listen but her mind drew pictures of Janet and
Parlan together, locked in an intimate embrace. It cut her badly, fueling her
jealousy to a fever pitch. The only thing that kept her from flying at the
woman was a loathing of letting Janet know how jealous she was. She suspected
that jealousy was what Janet wanted to provoke in her although, for what
reasons beyond self-satisfaction, Aimil was not sure.
Probably to make me
appear a shrew to Parlan
, Aimil thought crossly,
or even to turn him
from my bed whereupon she will so graciously offer him hers
. Aimil felt
strongly inclined to hit the woman.

“Any
woman is a fool to believe what a man says when he is but trying to part her
thighs.”

“T’was
more than that,” Janet hissed.

“Was
it?” Aimil looked at the woman coldly. “Then why is it that I am wed to the
Black Parlan and not ye?”

Deciding
that retreat was her wisest option, Aimil started out of the stable, but Janet
grabbed her by the arm. The woman yanked her back then slapped her across the
face. Aimil decided that that was not something she would silently endure or
walk away from. Moving swiftly, she got a good grip upon Janet, dragged the
cursing woman toward the muck pile and tossed her in. Ignoring Janet’s screams
and curses, Aimil then strode out of the stable and headed straight for her
chambers. She did not want to be around when Janet’s state became more widely
known which she was certain it would be as soon as Janet pulled herself from
the mire.

Parlan
gaped along with everyone else in the hall when a muck-covered Janet staggered
in. An overpowering stench of the stables preceded the clearly enraged woman as
she approached the table. Even before the woman spoke, Parlan began to suspect
that Aimil was involved. He had sensed that Janet was testing Aimil’s patience
but he had hoped that Aimil would prove to have more control, would understand
the importance of keeping things amiable.

“God’s
teeth, lass,” grumbled Lord Dunmore, “why are ye in such a state?”

“She
did this to me, that Lowland slut.”

“‘Ware,
lass.” Lord Dunmore cast a wary glance at Parlan. “‘Tis Lord MacGuin’s wife ye
speak of.”

“I
dinnae care who she wed. She had no right to do this to me.”

Parlan
held his temper as she ranted on. He hoped that Lord Dunmore would calm her
down and get her to leave quickly as he was so evidently trying to do. Then
something Janet said drew his full attention.

“Ye
hit my wife?” He spoke softly but coldly as he slowly rose to his feet in the
suddenly quiet hall.

Paling
slightly, Janet strove to defend her actions. “She insulted me.”

“She
is with child. Ye dinnae strike a woman with child. She could have fallen or
been hurt in other ways. And if she did insult ye, ‘tis but fair payment for
all the ones ye have flung at her head since we arrived.” He bowed slightly to
Lord Dunmore. “If ye will excuse me, m’lord, I must see how my wife fares.” He
strode out of the hall.

Lord
Dunmore glared at his daughter. “Ye fool lass. If ye werenae so covered in
muck, I would slap you.”

“For
hitting some Lowland slut?”

“For
hitting the Black Parlan’s woman. ‘Tis clear that he prizes the lass. Aye, and
I prize the alliance too much to risk it for your folly. Ye will stay to your
chambers until he leaves and best ye pray that he doesnae decide to pay this
back with far more than one cold smile.”