Highland Captive (24 page)

He
ignored her cries for him when she neared her crest. She had barely recovered
from her intense release when he employed all his skill to renew her desire.
Although he wanted to enjoy the way she was so wild and free when caught in
passion’s grip, he finally had to answer his own need. He entered her, his
passion too strong to control, but she met his fierceness equally and
tirelessly. When he felt her inner tremors begin, he thrust more deeply and
cried out as his own release tore through him. Collapsing upon her and holding
her close, he savored the way her trembling body greedily accepted his seed.

Aimil
lay very still, listening to the man sprawled half-atop her breathe. She was
certain they had both fallen asleep after their wild lovemaking but was not
certain as to how long they might have slept. Looking at the sun would give her
some idea of time but that meant she would have to open her eyes and she did
not really want to face the man she sensed was awake and watching her. With
wakefulness had come the recollection of their unrestrained lovemaking in the
bright sunlight, and she was feeling somewhat embarrassed. Knowing she was
still naked did not help ease it.

Parlan
smiled as he saw her eyelids flicker. He suspected that her reluctance to let
him know that she was awake was due to embarrassment. It was growing late,
however, and he could not allow her the luxury of hiding for much longer. There
was another reason he hesitated and that was because he thought her glorious
lying beneath the sun, none of her beauty hidden from his sight. Once he forced
her to move, she would quickly put her clothes back on.

“Aimil,”
he finally called softly, “I ken ye are awake.”

“Nay,
I am fast asleep.”

“Keeping
your eyes shut doesnae change the fact that I can see all your charms.”

She
wondered if she could hit him if she swung toward the sound of his voice then
decided that it was not worth the effort for he would undoubtedly block her
blow with ease. “Aye, but I cannae see ye seeing it.”

“How
sensible of ye.” He easily caught her by the wrist when she blindly swung one
small fist at him then tugged her into his arms. “Are ye embarrassed, loving?”

“Nay,
why should I be embarrassed?” She wondered if he knew how stupid a question
that was. “I am only rolling about outside with my arse bared to the sun like
some hedgerow whore. Why should I find that embarrassing?”

“Weel,
if I now tossed ye a wee coin, patted that lovely arse, and strolled off, then
ye might have a right to feel like some hedgerow whore but ye have naught to
fash yourself about. Unless, of course, ye think ‘tis true that the sun can
burn tender skin.” He laughed when she suddenly covered her backside with her
hands.

“Ye
are a wretched, wretched man, Parlan MacGuin,” she grumbled as she pushed free
of his arms and began to dress quickly. “Ye have no care for a lass’s
sensibilities. Just because ye are accustomed to rolling about here, there, and
God kens where.”

“Actually,”
he interrupted even as he dressed with a little more leisure, “while I cannae
say for certain that I have never been with a lass out in the air, I cannae
recall having such a sweet time of it or planning it so carefully.”

“Ye
planned to seduce me out here where all can see?”

“Weel,
I didnae notice many folk hereabouts but, aye, I did.” When she finished
dressing, he reached out to grasp her by the hand. “Lass, dinnae taint a free
and beautiful moment with regrets and worries. Ye found pleasure. Where is the
harm?”

“Ye
dinnae understand. ‘Tisnae where we did it but, weel, the way we carried on.”
She sighed as words failed her.

“Ah.”
He kissed her palm. “Look at me, Aimil. Come, look at me, for I want to be sure
ye listen to me.”

Although
she blushed, she finally met his gaze. “I ken ye dinnae treat me like a whore,
but I cannae help but feel that I act one at times.”

“Nay,
dearling, ye never do. Wheesht, lass, ye enjoy it and ‘tis a rare whore who
does. She seeks coin not pleasure, and she doesnae often get to choose her man
but must lie down with the one who has the coin. Neither do ye lie down for any
man like Catarine does, to feed vanity or a hunger that must have many men and
often to be satisfied. Nor do ye do it to make gain in some manner, again like
Catarine who is always plotting to catch a rich husband between her greedy
thighs. Those are the things that make a woman a whore.

“As
far as how we have acted here, t’was but our giving into our passion which runs
hot and fine, and, only for each other. Neither am I given to strange ways or
fancies. If I enjoy it and ye enjoy it, who can say ‘tis wrong?”

“None
really if t’was even their business to do so.” She smiled crookedly. “‘Tis just
all so new.”

“Weel,
I hope it always will be in some ways.” He smiled when she looked confused,
then he sat up straighter. “Now, there is one other thing we must talk on.” He
hesitated, frowning at his hand which lay palm down upon the ground.

“Parlan?”

“Hush
a moment, lass.”

His
sudden tension began to make her nervous. Then she too tensed, feeling
something, certain she had heard something yet unable to name it. When it
became recognizeable, she stared at Parlan with growing horror.

“Get
on your mount.” Parlan leapt to his feet then yanked her up.

Aimil
needed little prodding. Horsemen were riding their way and fast. She only felt
that that meant trouble.

To
her dismay, their alertness to the danger had come too late. They were barely
ready to mount when the horsemen came into view. Her fear grew in leaps and
bounds when she recognized Rory.

“Kill
him! Kill the Black Parlan!”

The
frantic scream chilled Aimil, but she had no time to think about it. Parlan
grabbed her hand and raced for the wood, giving up on trying to flee on their
mounts who had become panicked over the sudden intrusion of armed men. She
heard Parlan grunt then curse as they entered the thick wood but she gave
little thought to it until they stopped. Parlan tugged her down beside him as
he sprawled behind a fallen tree thickly surrounded by brush. Looking to him
for some further instruction, she saw that an arrow had pierced his leg.

“Nay.”
He stopped her when she reached to extract the arrow. “T’will bleed too freely
and we havenae the time to tend it. We must elude that swine for an hour or so,
mayhaps less.”

“Someone
will come?”

“Aye.
I had to make a bargain with my men. My time without them hanging about was
limited. Mayhaps we can circle back to the horses.”

That
did prove to be a possibility, but Aimil was not certain they could accomplish
it. It seemed that they crept through the wood for hours while a ranting,
cursing Rory and his sullen men searched for them. With each passing moment and
each step taken, Parlan grew visibly weaker. She felt sure he could not hold
out much longer, and if he became too weak or unconscious, Rory would have
them. It was not really necessary to listen to the threats echoing through the
wood to know that Rory would not take Parlan prisoner, that the man intended
nothing less than murder. Rory was clearly after revenge for wrongs he felt had
been done him.

By
the time they reached the place where they had dined and loved such a short
time ago, Aimil had to support Parlan. Her fear was replaced by concern for
him. He needed his wound tended to and quickly. So too was she certain that,
although she loathed the idea of falling into Rory’s hands, her life was not in
danger. It was, therefore, more important to get Parlan out of Rory’s reach.

“Leave
me, lass,” Parlan rasped when they came into sight of where they had left the
horses to find that a nervous Elfking alone remained.

“Nay.
I have little desire to aid Rory in murdering ye.”

“And
I have little desire to see that hellhound get his hands upon ye. Leave me here
and flee while ye can.”

She
ignored him and called softly to Elfking. The fact that Parlan had no strength
to enforce his command added to her concern for him. It made it all too clear
that his condition was worsening. When Elfking reached them, she helped a
complaining Parlan onto the horse’s back.

“The
reins, lass. I cannae reach them.”

“I
will get them in a moment. Are ye secure?”

“Aye.”

Hearing
Rory’s men, she smiled faintly. Parlan was going to be furious, but she had no
choice. His life was at risk. She only wished her time with Parlan did not need
to end but she doubted that he would try to fetch her back once she was gone.

“Elfking,
go home.” She slapped her horse on his rear flank, and Elfking bolted. “Home,
Elfking. Ride!”

“Aimil!”

Ignoring
Parlan’s angry bellow, she turned to face Rory and his men who were closing in
on her. She knew that if she could give Elfking a few moments lead there would
be no catching him. To keep Rory and his men occupied for that few moments, she
let them see her then bolted.

Her
way back into the cover of the wood was quickly blocked. For a moment she kept
the mounted men in a confused knot as they tried to follow her nimble, elusive
moves. Then several men dismounted to chase her. She was not really surprised
when she was neatly tackled an instant later. She was roughly pulled to her
feet and dragged before Rory. The look in his eyes made her heartily wish she
had found a way to go with Parlan.

“Ye
dress like a whore.” Rory studied her lad’s attire with scorn.

“Ye
ken their style of dress weel, do ye?” Aimil wished she felt as calm as she
sounded then bit back a cry when he backhanded her, causing her teeth to score
the inside of her mouth, drawing blood.

“Where
is your lover, that whoreson, the Black Parlan?”

“On
Elfking and halfway to Dubhglenn by now. Out of your reach.”

He
knew she was right, that he had lost part of the prize he had sought. “Ye will
pay dearly for that, ye slut.”

With
a detachment that seemed odd to her, she watched his fist come at her. Not
surprised by his brutality, the blow to her jaw caused pain to explode in her
head. As she slipped into unconsciousness, she prayed that Parlan was able to
stay on Elfking, that he would reach Dubhglenn and safety.

Parlan
heartily swore at the mount he clung to, but there was no stopping or turning
the animal. The reins swung out of his reach, nearly impossible to get ahold of
even if he had not been weakened by his wound. He was enraged by Aimil’s trick
yet understood why she had done it. Most of his anger came from the knowledge
that he had failed in protecting her from Rory.

Left
with no choice, he clung to Elfking and resigned himself to being taken back to
Dubhglenn. He could only hope that there would still be time to snatch Aimil
from Rory before the man reached the security of his keep. Parlan tried not to
think about what Rory would do to her, but the knowledge refused to be ignored,
tormenting him as he rode.

When
Elfking finally reached Dubhglenn, Parlan was barely conscious. As he was
lifted from Elfking’s back, he noticed that his men were readying themselves to
ride out. Espying his horse, he realized that his riderless mount had alerted
his men to the trouble. He then found himself confronted by Leith.

“Where
is my sister?”

“Rory
holds her. Ride quickly. Mayhaps luck will be with us and we can intercept
them.” He started to move toward Raven only to have Malcolm and Lagan restrain
him. “I must...”

“Ye
must get that wound seen to.” Lagan urged him toward the keep. “The men can
ride without ye this once.”

The
truth of that was ascertained even as Parlan was pulled toward the keep. With
Leith at the fore, Parlan saw his men ride out. He ached to be with them but
knew that Lagan was right, that he had to have his wound tended. In his present
state he would have been a hindrance, and speed was vital if his men were to
catch up with Rory and rescue Aimil. For now he would have to swallow his pride
and let others do what was necessary. He could only pray that they would be
successful.

It
did not take long for Parlan to realize that his wound was far more serious
than he had thought. The removal of the arrow was an agony, but he grimly clung
to consciousness. What worried him, and the ones nursing him, was how difficult
it was to stop the bleeding. It was not its affect upon his own well-being that
worried him the most but how it would affect his ability to try and rescue
Aimil if his men failed to stop Rory.

“What
happened?”

Revived
a little by a strong drink after Old Meg had stitched and tightly bound his
thigh, Parlan told Lagan all he could recall. Parlan realized that he had
noticed less than he usually did in such a situation. In the past, even the
smallest detail of a battle or an attack had not escaped his attention. He
realized that he had been too concerned with trying to save Aimil from Rory for
Parlan to exercise his usual alertness. It troubled him because he feared he
may have missed some important detail.