Highland Captive (15 page)

“Ye
are still a prisoner in a way.”

“I
ken it. They will watch me closely and never arm me for I may, nay, must try to
take ye from here when the chance for it comes.”

“Aye.
Parlan will think on what he would do if he were ye and act accordingly.”

“Have
ye never wondered why we have seen naught of the man ye are to wed?”

“Nay,
not much. Did our father give any reason for Rory’s absence?”

“Nary
a one. They have told him of each move, but he fails to journey here. It would
seem your betrothed is loath to face the Black Parlan.”

“Parlan
hates him. He would like to see him dead. I am certain of it. Rory mayhaps kens
that and he has always been fond of his own skin.”

“Ye
feel sure Parlan hates Rory, verra sure?”

“Aye.
‘Tis there to hear in the way he speaks the man’s name. I dinnae ken why
though. Do ye?”

Leith
shook his head. He hated to lie to Aimil but he did not want to reveal to her
just how black Rory was. At the moment she only objected to the marriage
intended for her. He did not wish to give her reason to be terrified. So too he
still hoped to stop the wedding, and there was no sense in frightening her over
a thing that was not to be. Neither could he tell her that to stop the marriage
was one reason he lingered at Dubhglenn. Meeting her smile, he silently hoped
Parlan could prevent it as he had stated he would.

Leith’s
ransom had been easier for Lachlan to get than Parlan had hoped. He now feared
that the time he needed to end the marriage plans for Aimil was not to be given
to him. Rory continued to be careful and a careful man took time to catch.
Frowning over that problem, Parlan let Lagan into his chambers.

“Artair’s
back.”

“Where?”

“In
his chambers readying himself to dine.”

“Hoping
to slip past me and avoid my anger.”

“Still
angry with him?”

“Nay.
S’truth, I am more weary of him and his ways.”

“That
may be for the best. A man with his ways cannae be shouted or coaxed out of
them. He can only pull himself out.”

“So
ye think I should leave him in his mire and let him crawl out on his own, if
and when he has a mind to.”

“Aye,
though it sounds hard, he being your brother and only near kin. Howbeit, ye
cannae tell how such a one thinks. If ye coddle them, they may think ye are
weak and flaunt their vices. If ye scold and bellow, they may grow to resent
ye, even hate ye. Seems to me that the safest course to follow is to leave him
be. He kens weel that ye disapprove. Leave it at that. Then he can only blame
himself for what he is.”

“Or
blame me for not caring...”

Lagan
grimaced. “Aye, there is that chance. Sometimes such ones blame others no
matter what.”

“Weel,
‘tis a thought. I havenae got anywhere with him with any other ploy. He wallows
in drink and tempts the pox at every turn.” Parlan suddenly smiled slightly. “Will
he be surprised to see how the wee lad he caught has changed! Now why do ye
frown?”

“Artair
caught the pair.”

“Aye,”
Parlan murmured, then asked carefully, “what matter that?”

“They
were his booty. He may feel he has a right to the enjoying of it.”

“Then
he will be quickly enlightened. In fact, let us search him out and see that he
is told how matters stand here before he even meets Aimil.”

Aimil
made her way to the hall from the lower floor’s privies, glad that Lagan was
not about. He was a nice man, but it got tiresome to have him forever at her
heels, infringing upon her privacy. As she neared the end of a dim hallway, she
came face to face with the man who had captured her and Leith. Suddenly she
found herself wishing that Lagan was dogging her heels. Artair made her very
nervous.

“Weel,
where have ye come from, me pretty? Now, dinnae run away. Why the lad’s
clothes?”

To
her dismay, Artair was not as drunk as she had first thought. He nimbly caught
her when she tried to dash past him. With equal agility, he pinned her against
the wall in such a way that she feared it would be impossible to use the means
of defense Leith had taught her. She wondered if Artair had met with the trick
before.

She
noted that he was much akin to Parlan in looks, being tall, darkly handsome and
well-built but that was his only resemblance. Aimil was amazed at how clearly
his features were stamped with his weaknesses. Even as she thought on that, she
frantically sought a way out of her dilemma, finally grabbing at the one thing
she felt sure would work to stop him.

“I
belong to Parlan,” she cried as she tried to twist away from the hand that
traced her curves.

“Oh
ho, do ye now? Where did he find you?” His eyes suddenly widened then narrowed
as he looked her over. “By God’s santy,” he breathed. “Ye are the Mengue lad. I
must have been weel in my cups that day not to see it.” He took off her bonnet
and roughly mussed her neatly tied back hair. “Weel, ye are my prize then.
Parlan will see that.”

“Nay,”
she gasped, trying to avoid the kiss he tried to press upon her mouth. “I am
Parlan’s.” She could not believe that assertion was not enough to stop Artair.

He
ignored her, his gaze fixed upon the thick waves of bright hair he had freed. “B’Gad,
that is lovely. Be still, wench,” he growled. “I brought ye here so ye are my
prize. I willnae trouble or waste time asking Parlan about it.”

A
soft cry escaped her when he roughly grabbed her by the throat, his fingers
gripping her jaw so that she could not turn her head. Her stomach rolled when
he slammed his mouth against hers. Try as she would, she could not get her leg
between his to cripple him briefly with a blow to the groin and then,
hopefully, escape. Instead, she sank her teeth through his lip, filling her
mouth with the warm, salty taste of his blood and nearly making herself ill.

He
jerked away from her with a bellow of pain, blood streaming down his chin. Even
as she broke free of his loosened grip, he grasped her by the arm and backhanded
her across the face, hard enough to send her sprawling. She tried to gather her
dazed wits to scramble out of his reach, but he caught her up by the front of
her pourpoint and slapped her again. Aimil thought, a little wildly, that
Artair clearly did not adhere to his brother’s ways. Groggily, she lay watching
as he reached for her a third time, spitting curses her ringing ears could not
understand, only to hear a roar of fury and see Artair flung aside like a
bundle of rags.

She
was not really surprised to see Parlan. She had recognized the roar. What did
surprise her was the extent of the fury her pain-blurred gaze could see in him.
That Artair could see it too was revealed by the stark terror on his face.

The
only clear thought in her head was to stop something terrible from occurring
between the brothers. If Parlan only meant to beat Artair, she would not care.
However, Parlan’s blind rage did not make her confident that he would know when
to stop. With a cry, she forced her aching body to move and flung herself at
him, clasping her arms tightly around his neck and wrapping her legs around his
waist. She hoped that, if only because of the time it would take him to
dislodge her, a little sanity would soon prevail.

Parlan
instinctively put his arms around her, but it was awhile before he could
unclench his fists. His breath came in harsh gasps, and he briefly squeezed his
eyes shut as he fought the red haze that had encircled his mind the instant he
had seen Artair strike Aimil. The first clear thought he had was that he had
come very close to trying to kill his own brother. In a cold, flat voice he
ordered twenty lashes for Artair.

“Parlan,”
gasped Artair as Lagan grabbed him by the arms and pinned them behind him.

“Now.
Quickly. Before I change my mind and banish him instead.”

Peering
at Artair, Aimil noticed that he was ghost-white as Lagan dragged him away. “Parlan...”

“Say
nothing.”

She
pressed her lips together and buried her face in his neck as he strode to their
chambers. She stayed silent as cold cloths were applied to her face in hopes of
keeping the swelling down and lessening the bruises. Even through the meal they
ate in their chambers, she said not a word.

Plenty
of words swirled in her mind, but she bit them back. Not only was she unsure of
what to say but Parlan looked too cold and too remote to make her brave speech.
She feared she had failed miserably in stopping something terrible from
happening between the brothers. Along with that fear was the deeper one that he
would blame her for the trouble. It would be unfair for she had done nothing to
tempt Artair, but that did not mean that Parlan might not think she had or that
Artair might not claim she had.

When
Lagan arrived, she retreated to the bed to sit huddled amongst the pillows. He
sent her a brief look of sympathy, and her fears eased a little. If he did not
blame her for what had occurred, then perhaps Parlan would not either.

“Is
it done?”

“Aye,
Parlan. Old Meg’s tending him.”

Parlan
nodded curtly then moved to stare out the window into the moonlit bailey. Lagan
gave Aimil an encouraging smile. He thought that she looked very much like a
frightened child awaiting punishment. With one last glance at Parlan’s stiff
back, he slipped from the room and headed straight for Artair’s chambers.

“Where’s
Parlan? Doesnae he mean to come and gloat?” Artair rasped when Lagan strode in.

Glancing
at the marks upon Artair’s back, Lagan realized that Malcolm had not held back
at all. “Ye are a fool, Artair.”

“What
did I do save to try for a wee bit of pleasure?”

“It
looked to me as if ye were planning to beat her senseless. Is that your idea of
pleasure?”

“Nay.”
Artair’s gaze flinched away from Lagan’s for he was ashamed of his lack of
control. “She bit clean through my lip.”

“Your
mouth shouldnae have been anywhere near hers. She is Parlan’s.”

“Isnae
she one of the Mengue pair? I caught them. By rights she should be my prize.”

“She
is in Parlan’s bed. That gives him rights. She isnae there as a prize either.
They made a bargain.”

“Weel,
what matter that? He had no right to have this done to me.”

Artair
sounded very much like a sulky, little boy, and Lagan shook his head in a
gesture of disgust. “Ye got the same he would have given anyone else who tried
to do what you did.”

“I
am not just anyone else. I am his brother, his heir.”

“Ye
are a drunkard and a foolish boy. Nay, dinnae whine and act wounded or
insulted. Ye should be at his side, not me.”

“He
doesnae want me there,” Artair groused with a whine to his voice, despite
Lagan’s warning.

“Nay,
he doesnae for he cannae trust ye to do as ye should or even to be sober enough
to try. There isnae room for tolerance or second chances when lives are at
stake as they so often are. He cannae risk it.”

“He
never gave me a chance.”

“By
the time ye were old enough to be of any use, ye had tasted the pleasures of
flesh and drink and were wallowing in them.”

“What
has that to do with all this?”

“More
than I dare to hope ye would understand. If ye werenae so sodden with drink or
trying to avoid the scold ye ken ye deserve by running to the fleshpots, ye
would ken what goes on here. Ye would ken that that lass is Lachlan Mengue’s
youngest daughter not some lowborn wench or whore. Ye would ken what it would
mean if she was hurt. Ye would ken she was to be wed to Rory Fergueson and ye
would ken how hard your brother is trying to stop that and why.” Lagan strode
to the door, fed up with trying to talk sense into his young cousin. “Ye would
ken as weel that, with each passing day, the wee lass ye were slapping about
and planning to rape draws nearer to becoming the mistress of Dubhglenn.” He
slammed the door after him, leaving Artair stunned and full of questions.

Lagan
found Malcolm in the hall. Getting a tankard of ale, he sat down opposite the
man. He recalled that he had had nothing to eat yet but, at that moment, was
not particularly hungry.

“Ye
didnae hold back on the lash.”

“Nay,
I didnae. He deserved every stroke and nae just for trying to hurt that poor,
wee lass.” Malcolm shook his head. “I must say, I am surprised that the laird
ordered it done. I have often thought him too soft on Artair.”

“Ye
wouldnae if ye had been there. He was close to killing the boy.”

“What
stayed his hand?”

“‘Tis
hard to beat a man to death when there is a woman clinging to ye. It was enough
to make him pause and clear his head some. I ken that is why Aimil did it. Then
he offered Artair the lashes or banishment.”

“Jesu,”
whispered Malcolm. “‘Tis not just a lusting he suffers then.”

“Nay.
God alone kens what it is he does feel. Especially right now. He hasnae said a
word. The poor lass sits there wondering if she will be blamed but doesnae
speak. ‘Tis a strange mood gripping him. I left him staring out the window.”