Highland Captive (41 page)

“Aimil,
the man must be found.”

“And
ye must do the searching.”

“Mayhaps
I could stay here and send others yet not be cried a coward but I willnae do
that.”

“Nay,
I didnae think so.”

“Aimil,
Rory must be found and killed. He is a threat to all of us. What matters to me
is that he is a threat to ye and our child. I mean to hunt him in every corner
of this land. Aye, and elsewhere if the whoreson slips free of Scotland’s
boundaries. It must be done for, until he rots in hell as he deserves, ye and
the bairn arenae safe. ‘Tis my duty as your husband. My duty as a father. Aye,
as a man.”

She
wrapped her arms around him, tugged him closer, and laid her head against his
chest. “Ye will be verra careful?”

“Aye,
sweeting. More careful than I have ever been in my life.” Kissing the top of
her head, he glanced at his sleeping son. “I have more of a reason to be
careful now.” He smiled down at her when she glanced up at him. “A wee wife
that gives me bonnie, braw sons and a son I wish to see as a man, to see what
mistakes I have made with him.”

His
words hurt even as they flattered. He was clearly pleased to have her as his
wife, but she ached to be more than the wife who gave him strong sons. It was,
however, a beginning. She was not foolish enough to scoff at the bond the tiny
infant had created between her and Parlan. What she needed to do was make it
stronger and all-encompassing.

“Ye
willnae make mistakes.” She gave him no resistance when he silently and gently
urged her to lie back down.

He
smiled faintly when she yawned then grew serious as he looked at his son. “I
will. ‘Tis something I wager cannae be avoided. Ah, Aimil, though I rejoice in
the gift ye have given me, I tremble when I think of the responsibility that
comes with it.”

Although
she felt weary and wanted to rest, she brought his hand to her mouth and kissed
his palm. “‘Tis a heavy one but I dinnae fear that ye cannae carry it. Aye, ye
will carry it weel with few stumbles.”

“Such
trust ye have in me.”

“I
have seen ye with Artair.”

“Ah,
ye mean the brother I had beaten.”

“As
ye had to.”

“I
was angry.”

“But
‘tisnae the only thing that prodded ye and t’was an honest fury, one that had
cause. Do ye think he would be as he is now if he didnae ken that? Ye couldnae
treat him different from all the rest. That would have hurt him more than the
lash. Ye have never deserted him. That is what has stayed in his heart. In all
his follies, he kenned ye were there for him if the need arose. That is how ye
raise a child.”

“Love
your son, Parlan. Let him ken it. Aye, he will falter and ye will have to
punish him be it with strength or word. Teach him honor and right from wrong.
‘Tis all any can do for a child. If he still turns out bad”—she shrugged—“‘tis
God’s will and no fault of yours. I have never seen a child who was loved and
kenned it turn bad, however. Nay, not when ‘tis a love tempered with guidance
and strength.”

“Such
wisdom from a lass who has but born her first child.”

She
colored slightly with pleasure at his sincere words. “I may be wrong.”

“I
think not. Such sensible advice could never be wrong. If followed, I cannae see
how one could err. I dinnae believe in bad seeds either for I have seen good
come from rot. Aye, and I ken that t’was because they found the guidance and
love they needed elsewhere.”

“Ye
raised Artair, Parlan, and, though he faltered some, he is a good man and tries
to be better. Find strength in that.” She tried and failed to smother a yawn. “Ye
dinnae think Rory is a bad seed? I cannae believe my father could befriend a
man who could raise such a monster yet my father loved Rory’s father as a
brother.”

“Rory
isnae a child turned bad. He is ill. We ken naught of how he was raised. A man
who is a good friend for another man neednae be a good father. Aye, and there
is other kin to consider, others that could have turned Rory, even his mother.
Even so, with a madness such as Rory’s, it could have been there at birth, a
deformity no eye could see. Thank God men like Rory are the exception to the
rule.”

Seeing
her yawn again, he smiled and lightly kissed her. “Rest, dearling.”

“‘Tis
an order I shall have no trouble obeying,” she murmured even as her eyes
drifted closed.

He
sat for a long time, holding her hand and watching her sleep. The contentment
he felt made him smile for it seemed to be fed by such simple things. A pretty
wife and a son were fine things but not so difficult to gain. There was far
more to it than that and he knew it. Soon he would have to give more careful
thought to it all.

For
the moment, however, there was little time for soul-searching. Aimil and his
son were in danger. What was of the greatest importance at the moment was to
find Rory Fergueson and kill him. Until that was done, whatever happiness and
contentment he or Aimil could find would only be fleeting.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Even
as the door to his chambers was still swinging open, Parlan was on his feet,
his sword in his hand. A small part of him acknowledged that it was highly
unlikely that any attacker could reach his chambers with no other warning
sounded but weeks of fruitlessly searching for Rory had left him tense. He
noted fleetingly that his wife slept peacefully on.

“Here
now, Parlan, ‘tis Artair. No need for that.”

Setting
his sword aside, Parlan lit a candle. “Surprising a man can get ye killed. What
is it? ‘Tisnae yet dawn.”

“Weel,
I didnae think ye would wish to wait for this news.”

He
frowned at Aimil. “Shouldnae we go elsewhere to talk so that we dinnae wake
her?”

“There
is little that will wake her yet. The bairn was fretful most of the night, and
she is exhausted. When Aimil is tired, she can sleep though a battle of
thousands raged around her. What news?”

“We
may have found Rory.”

Parlan
immediately began to get dressed. “Where?”

“But
twa hours ride from here.”

“So
close?”

“Aye,
but, if this is the whoreson, ye neednae worry. He is dead. ‘Tis a corpse we
must go to view.”

Although
keenly disappointed that he was not about to come to swordpoint with Rory,
Parlan also felt hopeful. He ached to take revenge against the man but, more
than that, he ached for an end to the constant watchfulness and fear. It would
be a shame if Rory had died by any other than his hand but it would also be a
cause for celebration.

“Tell
me about it.”

“A
fire it was, in a small house outside of a wee village. From what little the
folk say about the twa men who were there it sounds like Rory and his faithful
dog, Geordie. They have both died. Lagan and I feel certain ‘tis them, but ye
ought to have a look.”

“Aye,
and Leith for he kens the man better. ‘Tis why he lingered here after his
father left. Rouse him and I will join ye in the hall.”

The
sun was beginning to rise when they set out for the village. With each new
detail Lagan and Artair supplied, Parlan’s hopes were raised yet he tried to
rein them in. That Rory’s threat could be ended so conveniently seemed too good
to be true. Parlan had expected it to cost him far more than an early-morning
ride to view a corpse.

An
acrid smell tainted the air as they reined in before the ruined cottage. Two
blanket-shrouded shapes were on the ground, and three of Parlan’s men lingered
nearby, coming alert when he arrived. Since the house was little more than
ashes, Parlan was not sure the bodies would be recognizable. Artair and Lagan
had said the corpses were burnt, but only now did Parlan see that there was a
chance that they were burned beyond any hope of recognition. Hesitantly, he
started toward the bodies.

“I
ken I willnae enjoy this,” muttered Leith as he fell into step beside Parlan. “They
willnae be a pretty sight.”

“Nay,
they willnae. Nevertheless, we have to be certain ‘tis the pair we search for.”

“Aye,
ye dinnae want to ease your guard before ye are verra certain indeed. That
could be a deadly folly.” Leith took a deep breath and reached for the blanket.
“I have always detested fires and their consequences.”

When
Leith pulled the blanket back, he paled and gagged softly, something Parlan
sympathized with. He had been right. There was not much left that was
recognizable. Steadying himself, he helped Leith closely examine each body then
joined the younger man in making a hasty retreat from the scene. When they were
several yards away, Parlan silently offered Leith a drink from the wineskin he
had snatched from his saddle.

After
taking a long drink, Leith handed the wineskin back to Parlan. “Weel, ye cannae
tell much by looking at them save that one was tall and slim and one was short
and burly. What little remains of the clothing and hair indicate that the tall
one was fair and dressed fine. I have made my judgment on what few belongings
survived the fire with them.”

“The
ring?”

“Aye,
‘tis Rory’s. So was the dagger and the sword. Rory often displayed them for he
was proud of them.”

“And
the other man is Geordie?” Parlan rinsed his mouth with wine to wash the acrid
taste of smoke and death from it and then took another long drink.

“Aye.
Strange but I feel no doubt about that.”

“Without
Rory he wouldnae be a danger. Rory would always be. Kenning that ye are wary.
‘Tis all.”

“Aye.
A lot weighs upon my word. I cannae think of any way a man would get Rory’s
possessions and be with Geordie as weel. It must be Rory.”

“T’would
seem so,” Parlan agreed.

“So
your worries are at an end. Ye seem little pleased.”

“I
am pleased yet, at the moment, I am both angry and regretful. The whoreson has
slipped beyond my reach again and this time to a place where none can hunt him
down.” He smiled crookedly. “I have no wish to ride into hell before my time is
due.”

“Ye
wished to send Rory there by your own hand. ‘Tis verra easy to understand.
Father shares that wish. I ken he will share your torn feelings about this—glad
the swine is dead but verra sorry t’wasnae by his hand. This lacks the
satisfaction revenge craves.”

“Aye.
Mayhaps that is why I am slow to accept the ending. I didnae see it or cause
it.”

“So
ye suspect it.” When Parlan nodded, Leith sighed. “Cut down by sword or fire,
dead is dead. Do we bury them?” He finally turned to look back at the bodies.

“T’would
be fitting and just to leave them for the carrion but I have ne’er done so, so
why begin now. Aye, we bury them.”

Although
he cursed himself for a fool, knowing Rory would never have honored his remains
if the situations had been reversed, Parlan saw to the burials. He could not
leave a body, any body, for the carrion. The thought turned his stomach. In a
way, he also hoped that the act of burying the pair would make him accept their
deaths which he still had some difficulty doing.

“T’was
a waste of our time and sweat but ‘tis done,” Artair said as he shared the
water Parlan had drawn from the well and joined his brother, Leith, and Lagan
in washing off. “I wouldnae be surprised to see the ground spit them out.”

Parlan
laughed softly. “Aye, neither would I. Mark the graves, Wallace,” he called to
one of his men.

“Why
trouble with it? There cannae be any who will care where they rest. Weel,
except, mayhaps to spit upon the bones.”

“There
are those who wished that pair dead yet arenae here to see it. Marked graves
might do as weel, Artair.”

“Aimil?”

“Mayhaps
her. My word on it might be enough. Then again the man bred a deep fear in her,
one that haunts her dreams. My word might not be enough to still that.
Sometimes the sight of a grave is needed to make one really believe in a death,
especially in one like this, one that she needs to ken is true. Poor lass
hasnae liked wishing for Rory’s death but she also kenned that t’was the only
way we would be free of the threat of him.”

“Aye,
and I think my father may need to see it.”

“True,
Leith. His need to see Rory Fergueson dead might even have been greater than
mine. Do ye travel now to tell him?”

“Aye,
I shall leave from here. Tell Aimil I shall visit again soon,” Leith called as
he strode toward his horse.

“I
never thought we would be kin and friends with Lowlanders.” Artair shook his
head as he watched Leith ride off.

“Weel,
there hasnae been much blood spilt between our clans.” Parlan walked toward his
mount and the others fell into step with him. “That eases the way. Being so
near to the border of the Highlands, I think ones such as the Mengues are more
akin to us than the true Lowlanders. There is much that they do that follows
our way. Ye can see that in the way that Leith goes too and fro so easily.”