Highland Captive (39 page)

“Artair,”
Aimil cried hoarsely, relief momentarily diverting her from her discomfort. “I
see Dubhglenn. We are nearly there.” When he did not reply, she grew worried. “Artair?”

“Aye,
little mother, I am still amongst the living. ‘Tis good to hear that we are so
close for I fear I cannae hold onto ye verra much longer. T’would be verra fine
indeed if to this success we could add Parlan’s not finding out about this
folly.”

Easily
recognizing the tall figure that stood at the gate watching them, Aimil sighed.
“I fear our luck isnae that good.”

“Nay,
even if the wound I suffer could be kept a secret, we must tell him how close
Rory has come.”

“Verra
true but I wasnae meaning that. I fear ‘tisnae only Rory lurking at Dubhglenn.
Parlan has returned early.”

Rousing
himself to look over Aimil’s shoulder, Artair groaned. “And here he comes
looking as black as he ever has.”

“Ye
could always give into that faint ye have fought so weel until now.”

“And
leave ye to face his wrath alone?”

“If
‘tis too bad, I have my own retreat I can make. By the time I bring his child
into the world, he should have calmed some.”

The
alarm Parlan had felt upon seeing the pair return upon only Elfking had turned
mostly to anger by the time he reached their side. “How could ye be so
thoughtless, so foolish? What has happened?” Even as he bellowed at her, his
gaze swept over her as he carefully searched her for some sign of injury and,
despite her paleness, found none. “I begin to think ye witless.”

Exhausted
and in increasing pain, Aimil felt very inclined to bellow right back at
Parlan. Artair diverted her, however. Although she had made the suggestion in
jest and knew Artair had not seen it as serious, she knew he was about to
faint. She clung very tightly to Elfking so that she would not be dragged out
of the saddle when Artair finally fell.

“I
think ye best catch Artair. He has stayed conscious as long as he was able.”

Startled,
Parlan moved quickly to catch the falling Artair. Leith helped him carry the
unconscious, young man back into Dubhglenn. Parlan silently cursed himself for
not seeing what Artair’s condition was because he had been too concerned for
Aimil.

Aimil
followed them into Dubhglenn on Elfking. Her father quickly moved to help her
dismount so that she could go after Parlan who was already inside of the keep,
shouting orders that would swiftly bring all Artair might need. A look upon her
father’s face told Aimil that he knew what ailed her, but she curtly shook her
head. A shrug was his only reply, but she knew it meant he would not say
anything for the moment. She needed to see that Artair was fine before she gave
into her own needs for she felt responsible for his wound.

She
entered Artair’s chambers, faintly aware of her father closely following her.
Parlan and Old Meg, with Leith and Malcolm aiding as they could, were already
busy caring for Artair. Aimil stood to the side, out of the way. Her hope that
she would also be out of mind was quickly shattered by Parlan.

In
the one look he shot her way, Aimil saw how angry he was. She had not really
anticipated such fury but she supposed she should have. So too did she reluctantly
admit that he had some right to that anger. In one innocent bid for a moment’s
freedom in the sun, she had put three lives at risk, one not even really begun.
She suspected it was risking the child’s life which angered him the most. That
tweaked at her only slightly for she could easily understand it. It was a
substantial part of the annoyance she felt with herself.

Parlan
fought desperately to control his anger. He knew it was bred by his fear for
Aimil more than by anything she had done. She looked pale and weary, not able
to deal with his ire at the moment. Knowing that she had undoubtedly already
been through enough and that, in her condition, she should not be pushed too
far or too hard, he was determined not to unleash that anger on her. Despite
his efforts, it came through in his voice, making it clipped and cold.

“What
happened and no evasions.”

The
chill in his voice only hurt her fleetingly, and she realized she was simply
too burdened with other worries and too weary to get upset by the fact that he
seemed to hate her. “Ye will get no evasions nor half-truths for this is too
important. T’was Rory.”

“Aye,
I ken it.”

“‘Tis
why ye came back early.”

“Aye,
t’was said he was on the border and I feared he would be mad enough to come
near Dubhglenn. I had but hoped that ye wouldnae be foolish enough to place
yourself within his grasp.” He winced for that was argumentative and he did not
wish to carry on like that, especially not when he needed information.

Aimil
knew she was poorly when she did not immediately bristle in response to that
prod. “Quite.” She hurriedly described where she and Artair had been attacked,
and Parlan immediately sent Malcolm to begin a search. “He was mildly wounded,
Malcolm, if that is of any help to ye,” she called after him and he
acknowledged her comment with little hesitation in carrying out his orders from
Parlan. “I would think the man would be far away by now but then I would never
have thought he would come so close to here.”

“Nay,
neither would I but he wants ye.”

“Aye,
he does and I fear I may have given him yet another reason to hunt me.”

“The
bairn?” Parlan felt sure that the sight of a very pregnant Aimil must have
enraged Rory.

“Well,
I cannae say how he feels about that though I do ken that it wouldnae have
stopped him from doing whatever he wished to. Nay, ‘tis his face. Elfking has
destroyed Rory’s fine face.”

“Elfking
has?”

Nodding,
Aimil hesitated a moment before replying for Old Meg was stitching Artair’s
wound and Parlan had to hold his brother for, although still unconscious,
Artair could still move dangerously in reaction to the pain Old Meg had to
inflict. Aimil also relaxed at the way Old Meg kept glancing her way. The woman
had clearly guessed her condition but, as with her father, had decided to let her
be the one to speak. Aimil decided that was going to be soon if only because
she was passing the point where she could suffer in silence, could hide the
forces tearing through her body.

“It
seems Elfking doesnae appreciate my being attacked or mayhaps ‘tis Rory
Fergueson he doesnae like. He attacked the man. One of his strikes tore the
flesh from the side of Rory’s face. T’will never heal right. He will be
horribly scarred. The left side. It may aid ye in finding him. Although, I
would have thought a man like Rory would have been easily noticed anywhere he
went. Oh, he is also looking poorly. Dirty and ragged, I mean. None of his fine
elegance left for him.”

“A
man running for his life cannae afford the time nor the coin to make himself
pretty.”

“Nay,
I suppose not.” Seeing that the tending of Artair was finished, she asked, “How
does he fare?”

“He
has lost a lot of blood,” replied Old Meg, “but I ken that the laddie will
heal.”

“Thank
God. I thought his wound didnae look a mortal one but t’was only a fleeting
look I got before he was mounted behind me and we were racing for Dubhglenn.
Weel, I will seek my bed now.”

“‘Tis
about time,” muttered Lachlan.

“I
needed to ken how Artair fared. I couldnae bear to think my idea had cost him
too dearly.”

“Your
folly, ye mean,” Parlan growled as he strode over to her, already plotting the
stern lecture he would give her.

She
almost felt sorry that she was going to deprive him of the argument he so
clearly intended. “Not now, Parlan.”

He
was startled by her tart response then grew angry. “What do ye mean—‘not now’?
We are going to talk, lass, and now.”

“I
am afraid this really has to wait, Parlan”—she grit her teeth as a contraction
tore through her—“until after I have the bairn.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“What
is taking so long?”

Artair,
awake and sitting up in his bed, nearly grinned as he watched his brother pace
the room. Never had he seen Parlan in such a state. If he did not sympathize,
did not have a few worries himself concerning how Aimil fared, he knew he would
find Parlan’s agitation a source of amusement. It was also interesting to watch
his brother for Parlan was yet again revealing that Aimil meant more to him
than perhaps even he realized.

“Bairns
take awhile to enter the world.”

“And
when did ye become so knowledgeable about bairns and the having of them?”

“Quite
recently actually. I feared Aimil would have the bairn in the saddle, that
t’would appear with the first pain. Aimil told me what little I do ken now.”

“She
was in labor when she was riding?”

“Weel,
whilst returning to Dubhglenn. Didnae she tell ye?”

“Nay,
I have had little time to speak to her since then.”

“Oh,
weel, t’was Elfking’s rearing whilst attacking Rory. She wasnae thrown but
t’was the rough ride that, as she said, jolted the bairn into recalling that he
must come out sometime. She was laboring the whole way back to Dubhglenn, poor
lass.”

Parlan
resumed his pacing, sipping at the ale Malcolm had brought him earlier. He felt
like drinking far more heavily but did not wish to be drunk when his child
finally arrived, and considering the time it was taking, that would have been
assured. It was a decision he almost regretted making, however, for he felt
that a good wallow in drink might ease the fear that gnawed at him. So tempting
was the thought of it that he had finally left the company of Leith and Lachlan
who were indulging heavily as they waited. They were drowning their concerns
for Aimil as he heartily wished he could.

“Mayhaps
I should return to her side. At least then I would ken what is happening.”

“Aye,
and ye would get underfoot again which is why Old Meg told ye to leave. She
also said ye fret too much and that that isnae good for the lass. She has her
own fears to battle without ye looming over her and adding to them.”

“True
enough. ‘Tis the pain she is in. I keep wishing to put an end to it.” Parlan
sprawled on a bench by the window.

“Only
the bairn’s birth can put an end to it and weel ye ken it. Come, she is in good
hands, and her pain will soon end.”

“Aye,
I ken it. ‘Tis that I never took much notice of the whole matter, of childbirth
or,” he added softly, giving voice to some of his fears, “the dangers it holds.
Suddenly I can recall too many women who never rose from their childbeds. Aimil
is such a wee, delicate lass and she has grown so large with this bairn. It
seemed too much for her to carry yet alone birth.”

“Aye,
a wee lass and delicate-looking but nae delicate. Dinnae sit there thinking
only of that for it feeds your fear for her. Think instead on how she suffered
at Rory’s hands yet escaped and returned here all the while carrying the bairn.
Think instead on how she rode back here, bringing me along, and was in labor
yet wasnae harmed by it. Aye, think on the spirit and strength I ken weel were
the reasons ye wed her. ‘Tisnae a weak, faint-hearted lass birthing your bairn
now.”

“Nay,
‘tisnae. Ye are right. I must keep that in mind. Howbeit, I wish there was
another way to beget children.”

Aimil
panted and wondered why God could not have found another way for a woman to
become a mother. Putting the bairn into her womb was exceedingly enjoyable but
it seemed unfair that she should do all the suffering in payment for that
pleasure for Parlan had quite enjoyed himself as well. She knew the church had
a vast list of reasons for her suffering but she had never believed them and,
she thought crossly as another contraction gripped, if they were true, it was
still unfair.

“I
think I am glad now that ye made Parlan leave, Old Meg. I ken weel that I must
look verra poorly.”

“Aye,
ye arenae verra bonnie at the moment. Ye are near to done. It willnae be long.”

“It
seems like years.” She glanced at Maggie who gently bathed her face and who was
now gently rounded with Malcolm’s child. “Mayhaps ye shouldnae be here. Ye
cannae like seeing it take so long.”

“I
have seen many a birth, and ye arenae really taking so long. Aye, and ‘tis
going weel. I hope mine does as weel.”

“If
ye say so.” Aimil’s doubt was clear to hear in her voice. “I still say it feels
like years.”

“Weel,
‘tis a big bairn, I am thinking.” Old Meg nodded vigorously. “Aye, ‘tis a fine
braw son ye will give my laddie.”

“Mayhaps
t’will be a fine braw daughter.” Aimil managed a faint smile when Maggie
giggled.

“Nay,
the MacGuins always have a son first. Aye, for as far back as any can tell ye.
Ye will have a son, lass.”

Something
told Aimil she would too but she was suddenly too busy to say so. Her child had
finally decided to make his final push for the freedom of her body, and her
body worked furiously to grant him that wish. For most of her labor, she had
made little sound, pride making her determined not to scream and wail as some
women did but when her child finally broke free of her body, she could not
restrain a scream that left her throat sore and which she suspected they had
heard in Aberdeen.