Highland Captive (44 page)

“The
best?” She whispered the words, his seriousness making her nervous.

“Aye,
the verra best. I think I have told ye that before. Do ye doubt me?”

“Weel,
what begins as the best could become common after a while. The fire wanes, and
the newness of it all fades.”

“True,
and I ken that that will happen to us in some ways but it cannae stop it being
the best. Time and familiarity cannae change that. ‘Tisnae a thing I like to
keep reminding ye of but I have had enough women to ken a thing or twa about
this. I was no innocent as ye are.”

“Mayhaps
I should taste me another man or twa so I can judge with such surety.”

“Weel,
best ye choose a man ye care naught about, for he will be dead before the
sweetness of ye has left his tongue.”

She
nearly gaped at him. Though he spoke quietly and without any apparent ire, the
very coolness of his voice and the look in his eyes told her he was completely
serious. Her testy remark had been an empty threat, but Parlan’s was chillingly
real. She sought a way to ease the sudden tension between them, not only
troubled by it but disliking it.

“Ye
mean I cannae leave a trail of broken hearts behind me?”

Fighting
to quiet the sudden fierce jealousy that seized him, and not doing too well, he
tried to smile but could tell by the look upon her face that it probably
resembled a baring of teeth. “Not unless ye wish to leave a trail of bodies
behind ye as weel.”

“Ye
are proving to be a verra possessive husband.” Even though she found that
pleasing, she was unsettled by the ferocity of it.

He
traced the delicate lines of her face with his fingers and brushed a kiss over
her lips. “Aye, I am. I kenned that when I was so eager to have the priest
deliver our vows. I wanted ye marked as mine, only mine. I dinnae plan to let
any man change that.”

“Och,
weel, plans are made for changing.”

Before
Aimil could accept that she had heard another voice, Parlan leapt to his feet.
One hand hastily, if very loosely, tied his breeches as the other hand grabbed
his sword. She did not think she had ever seen anyone move so fast.

Without
thinking, she sprang to her feet and darted behind Parlan. She stared at Rory
in disbelief and horror. Not only the realization that he was not dead shocked
her but his face. A gruesome sight, the whole left side was little more than
one great scar. Ragged and filthy, there was nothing left of the Rory Fergueson
she had once known. Not even his eyes were the same. His gaze burned with the
strength of his madness.

She
did not understand why he had not struck them down as they had been oblivious
to all around them. Rory had never wanted to face Parlan on equal terms before
yet, by announcing himself, he had insured that he would. In the grip of his
madness and hate, he suddenly seemed to want to do battle. She was not sure
that that boded well for Parlan and her, even though Parlan looked ready and
eager to fight.

Parlan
felt like screaming out his rage. He had been caught off-guard. Telling himself
that he could not know that a man declared dead would suddenly appear to
threaten him and Aimil again did not lessen his fury. The first advantage, that
of surprise, had gone to Rory. Parlan was determined that he would give the man
no other.

He
then almost laughed. One purpose for returning to the spot near the Banshee’s
Well was to try to erase the bad memory Aimil had of the place. Instead, that
memory seemed intent upon reliving itself. This time, however, Parlan was
determined not to let Rory get his hands on Aimil.

“Get
out of here, Aimil.”

She
turned to obey even as she thought that she could not leave Parlan alone with
Rory. For a moment she considered riding for help, and wished she had brought
Elfking. It was then that she realized that she was staring at empty space
where the horses should have been.

“The
horses are gone.” She wondered why she should feel so disappointed and afraid
when she had never intended to flee anyway.

“Aye,
ye were so busy ye didnae notice that the beasts, er, wandered away.”

The
soft giggle that escaped Rory chilled Aimil. Pressed against his back, she felt
Parlan shiver. In the flat small sound, one could clearly hear Rory’s madness.
She knew that Parlan also heard it and tasted the fear such madness could
inspire.

“Let
her go, Rory.” Parlan was not surprised when the man laughed but he had seen no
harm in trying for Aimil’s release.

“And
they say I am mad.”

“They
also say ye are dead. Did the Devil spit ye up from hell then because he
couldnae stomach ye?”

“Ye
mean to goad me but t’willnae work. That was a clever ploy, wasnae it? It
worked just as I had thought it would.”

“What
poor innocent soul did ye murder to play out your game?” Parlan demanded.

“Some
fool from the local tavern. A few coins and the hint of more and he followed me
like some faithful puppy.”

“And
died for his error in faith just as Geordie did.”

“Geordie’s
blood stains your hands. ‘Tis your fault I had to kill him,” Rory snarled.

That
broke Aimil’s stunned silence. “Ye cannae blame us for that murder. Ye took his
life with your own hands.”

“Because
of ye!” he screamed then forcibly restrained himself. “I couldnae move,
couldnae act, because ye hunted me. I had to put an end to that. T’was the only
way. Ye had to think me dead. Geordie understands. He kens that I must have my
vengeance, that ye must pay for all ye have done—both of ye.

“Ye
were to be mine, Aimil, but ye chose this Highland rogue instead. Aye, rutting
with him without a care or shame. So like your mother. Then ye had that Devil
of a horse ruin my face. There is so much ye must pay for, my pretty whore.”

“I
would be wary of what ye say, Rory, or I may need to cut your tongue from your
mouth before I kill you,” Parlan challenged him.

“Such
boasting. Killing ye will be no more trouble for me than swatting some
bothersome fly.”

“‘Ware,
Parlan.” Aimil lightly touched his taut arm. “He means to dull your skill by
blinding ye with fury.”

“I
ken it.” He spoke softly through gritted teeth as he tried to speak to her
without Rory hearing as well as fight the anger the man stirred in him. “Ye are
to flee the moment the battle begins and I hold his attention.”

“Nay,
I willnae leave you.”

“Ye
will flee, woman. Curse ye, how can I fight my best if I must worry about ye?
Run to Dubhglenn and get help.”

“By
the time I could reach Dubhglenn, even if I were a swift runner, ye would be
thrice dead. Aye, he could have buried ye and brought the pope himself from
Rome to pray over your grave.”

“So
be it but at least ye will still be alive.”

“Mayhaps
living without ye isnae something I can view with any ease,” she said softly.

Despite
their desperate situation, he felt his heart give an odd skip at her words. It
was the first time she had put any hint of her feelings into words. He mused, a
little crossly, that she had chosen the worst possible time for doing it. He
wanted to hold her close, to make love to her, and to drag even more such
declarations from her. Instead he faced a man who could attack at any moment
and who meant to see him and Aimil dead. When they were both safe again, he
would find a way to make her pay some penance for her ill-timing.

“Then
do it for the bairn. He deserves better than to be left an orphan.”

That
tender statement cut her to the heart. For a moment, seeing Parlan in such
danger, she had forgotten their son and his needs. She had to think of their
child. Although she knew Lyolf would be well cared for and loved, no one could
replace his true parents.

“Aye,
our son. He needs us both, Parlan.”

“I
intend for him to have us both for many a year yet to come. Ye will run, Aimil,
for my peace of mind, if naught else.”

She
made no reply, and he took that to mean that she would obey him. He turned his
full attention upon Rory. Rory did have skill and, if madness had finally given
him courage, the man could prove a formidable opponent. Parlan was confident of
his own skill but did not give into a false cockiness. Skill did not always
determine the outcome of a fight. He also knew that, if Rory proved to be his
equal, even the smallest of errors could prove fatal.

“Come,
Parlan MacGuin, are ye ready to meet your fate?”

“Do
ye think ye are man enough to deal it out to me?”

“As
easily as I did to your foolish cousin. What was her name? Margaret? Aye, aye,
that was it. A weak, puling lass.”

That
nearly broke Parlan’s control. He could see poor Morna’s body in his mind’s
eye, knew that Aimil’s mother and Catarine had undoubtedly looked the same, and
ached to put an end to the life of the man standing before him. A soft word
from Aimil stopped him when he would have charged at Rory, a mistake that could
have cost him and Aimil dearly. He wished he knew Rory well enough to force the
man into acting foolishly but his knowledge concerned Rory’s crimes and he
doubted that the man could be angered by mentioning them.

“If
she was puling, t’was most like for the lack of a man.” Aimil saw Rory flush
and knew she had found his weak spot. “That is why she was going to leave ye,
wasnae it? She had discovered that your skill as a lover didnae match your
beauty. Fine to look at but boring to bed.”

She
was startled by the swiftness and ferocity of his response. For a moment she
feared Parlan had also been caught off-guard, but he met Rory’s attack without
hesitation. Parlan’s only other move besides joining in the battle with
apparent eagerness was to push her away. He then turned over even that fragment
of his attention to the fight.

Aimil
knew that Parlan assumed she would now obey his order to flee. She had more or
less agreed to. It was something she realized she could not do, not even when
she thought of their child. She did run, however, but only to the edge of the
clearing to hide there, out of sight yet able to watch. Parlan would be soothed
by the thought that she was safe or soon would be, and she would be able to
stay close in case he should need her.

To
flee and not to know how he fared until it was all over was not something she
could do. If Parlan should lose, a thought she dreaded, and she had fled, she
knew she would then spend her whole life tormented by the thought that she
could have helped him, might have been able to do something that would have
saved him. Although it was an agony to watch him fighting for his life, she
stayed, her fists pressed to her mouth to stop herself from screaming.

Parlan
fought coolly, with a strained detachment he was finding harder to maintain.
Rory was good, very good. Parlan wondered if the madness the man suffered honed
his skills. There certainly seemed to be more strength in Rory than any man
should possess. For the first time since his youth, Parlan was not sure that he
would win.

“Why
do ye struggle so against the inevitable? Ye will die, Parlan MacGuin, and then
I shall go after Aimil.”

“She
has fled you, Rory. Ye willnae get your filthy hands upon the lass.” Parlan
hissed a curse when Rory’s sword nicked his side.

“The
lass will be easy enough to catch. She is on foot, and I ken where there is a
horse.”

Fear
for Aimil gnawed at him but Parlan fought it. It could steal his skill and he
needed all he had. Although he had inflicted as many small wounds upon Rory as
Rory had upon him, Rory seemed far less troubled by them. Parlan could feel
himself losing strength as he bled. Rory’s smile told Parlan that the man had
guessed at his growing weakness.

A
new fear suddenly seized him as he felt the ground crumble beneath his heels.
So intent had he been on the battle, he had let himself be driven to the very
edge of the Banshee’s Well. Even as he struggled to elude that new danger, Rory
laughed and then lunged. Knowing he would not be able to parry the sword headed
straight for his vitals, Parlan sidestepped. The ground gave way beneath his
feet, and he fell into the hole, barely managing to latch onto the less than
firm earth around the edge. Cursing viciously, he tried to pull himself up
before Rory could act but knew it was fruitless even before Rory laughed again.
He cried out as Rory’s foot caught him full in the face, sending Parlan
plummeting down the hole. As he fell, Parlan thought he heard Aimil cry out
then knew only blackness.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Parlan!
Nay!”

Aimil
thought of nothing save that Parlan had plunged to his death. She bolted from
her hiding place and raced to the Banshee’s Well even though a part of her mind
kept screaming that there was nothing she could do. The sensible side of her
urged her to flee to Dubhglenn but she was not feeling very sensible after
watching Parlan swallowed up by the earth.

Her
headlong flight toward the hole was abruptly stopped by Rory. He grabbed her by
the arm and yanked her to a halt. The pain of nearly having her arm wrenched
from its socket as well as being flung to the ground dimmed the hysteria by
which she had been seized. Now she could see her error very clearly. She had
put herself into Rory’s hands, and Parlan had died trying to save her from this
very fate.