Highland Captive (30 page)

“Some
sweet words might have soothed her,” Lagan offered quietly.

“When
I give her sweet words, t’willnae be simply to soothe the lass. Let me see what
clothes I possess.”

Picking
out the best of Parlan’s attire and laying it on the bed, Lagan mused, “She
wants a husband who cares for her.”

“Ye
think I dinnae? Aye, the black and silver will do verra nicely. I will have it
freshened.”

“Aye,
I think ye do and mayhaps she suspects that ye do, but a woman needs words. She
darenst guess at what her man feels. Can ye not give her a few?”

Parlan
shrugged. “I willnae tell her sweet lies. When I speak love words, t’will be
because I feel them. I dinnae now.”

Recalling
the man’s frenzy when he thought Aimil lost to him, Lagan asked, “Are ye
certain of that?”

“Nay,
but when or if the words ever leave my lips, I will be. For now ‘tis enough
that I like and trust her.”

“I
wonder what Rory will do when he kens that ye have wed Aimil?”

“If
he is wise, he has found a great hole, crawled into it, and pulled the earth
over him. T’will do him no good though. As soon as I am weel, I will dig the
adder out of his nest.”

“He
isnae sane, Parlan. Ye ken as weel as I that his sort willnae act as ye think
they will.”

“Aye,
ye can never tell how a mad dog will jump. A watch must be kept on Aimil at all
times. She is never to be left alone.”

“‘Tis
wise. His madness is strongest there. ‘Tis a strange thing. I wonder if his
madness started with Lachlan’s wife?”

“Nay,
t’was simply unearthed. That he sees Aimil as her mother is the danger. She
must never fall into his hands. She will never escape him a second time and
with her would go our child. That she carries my child could make it worse if
he kens it.”

“Dinnae
fash yourself. She will be watched. The lass will-nae be able to turn round for
the guard that will be set on her.”

Aimil
noticed her increased guard even before the priest arrived but, for the moment,
had too many other concerns to be worried about it. She too wanted to be
dressed and on her feet when she was wed. That she would be wed despite any
objections she might have grew quickly evident. The marriage was going to be
performed no matter what she said or wanted.

She
could not even get anyone who mattered to heed her objections. Lagan, her
brother, and her father all kept their distance. So did Parlan. Though he was
still weak from his wound, he managed to disappear with remarkable speed any
time she even thought of bringing up her objections. Her strange continual
exhaustion helped every one of them in their avoidance of her.

The
priest arrived and was made comfortable, but the wedding did not come about
immediately. Parlan wanted all the paraphernalia that went with a chief’s
wedding or as much of it as could be organized at such short notice. Dubhglenn
became a hive of activity as a grand feast was prepared, and word was sent to
any who might take offense if not invited.

So
too was the wedding delayed so that the bride and groom could heal enough to
endure the festivities. Aimil watched her bruises fade and felt her back heal
more each day. What she could not understand was why she continued to suffer
from sickness and tiredness. The sickness came and went swiftly, but it worried
her and she finally mentioned it to Old Meg.

“‘Tis
often the way of a woman who is with bairn,” the old woman replied tartly,
shaking her head over Aimil’s apparent ignorance.

Aimil
hated to do so but she knew she was revealing that she was far more ignorant
than Old Meg hinted at as she asked, “What has that to do with me?”

“I
told ye she didnae ken it,” muttered Maggie, who sat working on Aimil’s wedding
dress, one with a loose bodice that would not irritate Aimil’s rapidly healing
back yet look as fashionable and lovely as possible. “Told ye all that from the
verra start.”

“Do
ye mean to say that that great gowk hasnae told ye?” squawked Old Meg, her thin
arms flailing like boney wings.

“Told
me what?” asked Aimil in a weak voice for she was beginning to suspect exactly
what ailed her.

“What
all of Dubhglenn kens and then some. That ye carry the laird’s bairn. Ye carry
the heir we have all waited for.”

“I
am with child,” Aimil repeated, her voice flat. “That is why he rushes to wed
me. ‘Tisnae all his honor but his need of an heir.”

“Ye
are a foolish lass. The laird kens weel how to keep from seeding a woman. He
has nary a bastard that I ken of for all his wanton ways.” Old Meg shook her
grizzled head. “What do ye fash yourself about? Why does any man take a wife?
To get a child. ‘Tis the way of the world, lass. Ye cannae change it. Be glad
ye have got yourself such a braw laddie with a brave heart and a full purse.”

“I
wouldnae care if his purse held naught and he were weak and sickly,” Aimil
snapped. “I want to be loved.”

Old
Meg shook her head again. “Ye are foolish. Few wives find themselves loved. Be
thankful for what ye have. ‘Tis a great deal.”

She
knew the old woman was right, but it did not make Aimil feel all that much
better. Her heart and soul had been put into Parlan’s large hands, and she
wanted a little return for all she had given. Honor, strength, and wealth were
indeed fine attributes in a husband, and Parlan had many other fine qualities as
well, but she craved his love. It seemed the worst of calamities to be wed to a
man she loved as much as life itself but who did not return her love. A
lifetime of unrequited love seemed little to be happy about. Even a stern
scolding about not indulging in useless self-pity did not really change her
feelings about that.

“Aimil?”
Maggie ventured carefully after Old Meg left the room. “Do ye wish to run away?”

Briefly
Aimil contemplated such a move then shook her head. “Nay. Where would I go? I
must wed Parlan.”

“He
isnae as fearsome as I had thought he would be for all he is so dark. Aye, even
his eyes. Like black pools. He seems a good man.”

“Oh,
aye, he is, Maggie. ‘Tis just that I love him but he doesnae love me. It could
be a verra large problem, could give me a lot of pain.”

“Mayhaps
not.” Maggie’s gaze fell to Aimil’s stomach. “Ye will feel the bairn soon. I
long for a bairn, but it will never be.”

“Maggie,
it doesnae hurt,” Aimil said gently. “The loving, I mean. With a good, kind,
and gentle man, it can be verra fine indeed. A man like Malcolm?”

A
blush suffused Maggie’s face. Malcolm had been very attentive to her, and she
had felt some lessening of her fears. Despite that, she still feared
lovemaking, its possible good points overshadowed by Rory’s brutal handling. He
had left her badly scarred in her mind.

“I
dinnae think I could bear it. I see Rory whenever Malcolm tries to kiss me, see
him behind my eyelids.”

“Then
leave your eyes open and the candle lit. Dinnae let Malcolm’s image ever leave
your sight. Even once with him will cure your fears. I am verra sure of that.
That is, if ye have a mind to and ‘tis marriage Malcolm offers.”

“Aye,
‘tis wedding me he wants, but I feared to fail him as a wife.” Maggie’s eyes
were wide as she reviewed Aimil’s advice, and her hopes rose. “May I go now?”
Aimil nodded, and Maggie raced from the room in the hope of finding Malcolm
before her courage failed her.

“Weel,
that may be one problem sorted out but ‘tis little done for me.” Aimil sighed
as she struggled to sit up.

“Here,
sweeting, let me help you,” said a deep voice that had lately been absent from
the room. Parlan came to her bedside. Aimil stared at her husband-to-be as he
helped her, his gaze studying the loosely-fitting shift she wore. “Ye could
have told me I was carrying your bairn. That is why ye want to be wed, isnae
it, because I might be carrying the heir to Dubhglenn?”

“Aye,”
Parlan agreed, and lightly kissed her sulking mouth, “ye are carrying my heir.
‘Tis a good reason to wed ye.”

She
wondered how such a simple statement could hurt so much but fought to hide it. “Is
it true that ye have no bairns?”

He
saw something flicker in her eyes but could not read it and decided that Lagan
was wrong, that Aimil was a practical girl and did not need sweet words. “None
that I ken.”

“If
ye were always so careful, why werenae ye with me?”

“Because
I didnae want to be. I wanted the full pleasure of ye. I trust ye. Aye, and
like ye. I didnae care if my seed took root.”

She
sighed inwardly. That was apparently all she was going to get. It did please
her, but she still wanted more. Telling herself she was being quite foolish did
not ease the wanting. She told herself that she would be wise to accept what he
said as enough and set her mind to being happy.

Chapter Seventeen

In a
gesture she admitted to herself was childish, Aimil stuck her tongue out at
Parlan’s departing figure. She then met Old Meg’s stern frown with a sweet
smile. Even though no one else seemed to agree, she felt she had a right to be
annoyed about the way she was being rushed into the marriage. Little heed was
given to her objections, of which she honestly admitted there were one or two,
or fears, of which she regretfully admitted there were far too many. With a
sigh, she got out of bed and let Old Meg assist her in bathing and washing her
hair. She decided it was probably petty of her to be so irritated by Parlan’s
calm confidence.

Parlan
cursed as he glared at the scar on his leg. It seemed twice as livid and
unsightly as it had the day before. He took a walk around the room and swore
some more. The stiffness in his leg made him limp. He had sorely wanted to be
at his best when he stood with Aimil before the priest, but that was clearly
not to be. Cursing was not going to change that but he decided, as he limped
around the room, that it soothed his disappointment to indulge in a few hearty
rounds of it.

A
soft sound distracted him from his annoyance. He looked up to see that Artair
had quietly entered the room. Artair had only made a few fleeting visits since
the time he had delivered his warning about Catarine, something Parlan still
cursed himself for not acting upon immediately. The expression on his brother’s
face told Parlan that this visit was not going to be a fleeting one.

“Such
cursing.” Artair moved closer to Parlan. “Doubts about the step ye take?
Mayhaps ye should wait.”

“Nay,
I have no doubts. I but curse this scarred and still useless leg. ‘Tis a poor
thing to show a bride.”

“I
dinnae think the lass will mind but, if it troubles ye so, wait some more. It
should be better before long.”

“Aye,
it should but I willnae wait any longer. Her sweet little belly already starts
to round. Last eve I felt the bairn move. I mean to set the name MacGuin on
that bairn as quickly as possible.”

“The
bairn isnae due for several months yet.”

“I
ken it. I also ken how swiftly life can be ended, snuffed out in a winking like
some tallow candle. What happened with Rory reminded me of that. I repeat, I
will set the name MacGuin on that bairn as soon as can be. I have hesitated
long enough.” He sat down on his bed and frowned at Artair. “Is that why ye are
here? Have ye come to try and talk me out of wedding her?”

“Nay.
‘Tis your choice. If ye wish to wed the lass, do so. She seems a good lass.”

“Aye,
she is and ‘tis my wish to wed her. So, why are ye here? I ken that something
weighs heavily upon ye. Have out with it.”

“‘Tisnae
easy.” Artair nervously paced. “I finally took heed of what ye said. That eve
of Rory’s attack?” Parlan nodded. “Oh, I listened when ye spoke and heeded for
the moment, as I have always done. Then I walked away and set aside your words.
Something else I have always done. They wouldnae leave me be this time. They
kept preying upon my mind forcing me to think and think again. I found it an uncomfortable
process, this thinking. I have done little of it in my time. Then I saw what
Rory Fergueson had done to Aimil, heard what he had done to the lass’s mother,
and it frightened me.”

“‘Tis
naught to fash yourself over. It frightened me.”

“Ye
dinnae understand. I saw myself in him, saw what I could become.”

“Nay,
laddie. Ye are but misguided. Rory Fergueson is mad, totally mad and thoroughly
evil.”

“Aye,
but when did he turn so? When did he stop but slapping a lass now and again and
take to beating them, enjoying the pain he could inflict? When did he stop
taking unwilling lasses because he let his lust rule him and begin to enjoy
their unwillingness, their shame, and their hurt? I take unwilling lasses, let
my lust rule me, and use my strength against them. When does that stop being
the act of a drink-besotted, unthinking lad and become the sickness that
infects Rory Fergueson?”

Parlan
frowned. He wanted to ease the fear he read in his brother’s face but could not
find the right words. While he did not believe that the evil which tainted Rory
could have the humble beginning Artair described, neither could he ignore the
logic of Artair’s words. He simply did not know enough about such madness to
give Artair the firm denial to his fears that he sought. However, neither could
he believe that his brother held the seed of such evil.