Highland Captive (45 page)

Thinking
of Parlan’s death, her fear turned to fury. The loathing she felt for the man
laughing at her seemed a living thing inside her. A small part of her feared
that she could easily turn as mad as Rory but she was too furious to care about
that.

“Whoreson,”
she hissed as she got to her feet. “Ye will rot in hell for this.”

“Oh?
And do ye mean to send me there, my fair slut?” He struck her across the face.

Stumbling
backward, Aimil fought against screaming. The warm salty taste in her mouth
told her she had cut it, but she simply spit the blood out. This time she had
plenty of room to move in, and there was no Geordie to stop her from grasping
some weapon. Rory would find it not so easy to brutalize her this time, and if
she was lucky, she might even strike a blow or two for Parlan.

Parlan
stared up at the small circle of light. It took him a few moments to recall
where he was and how he had gotten there. Then he recalled the scream he had
heard as Rory had kicked him into the hole, a sound that told him that Aimil
had not run away as he had told her to. That could easily mean that Rory now
held her. If that madman got his hands on Aimil, she was as good as dead. That
thought was enough to make Parlan try to struggle to his feet, something his
body was loath to do.

As
he had fought dizziness and pain, he had heard Aimil’s cry as he had fallen.
There had been such a heartrending agony in that cry that he had almost
responded to it. He then knew that he could not shake it from his mind because
it told him something that was very important to him. Aimil did care for him,
quite possibly loved him. No woman could produce such a sound unless she did.

Deciding
that it was a poor time to ponder such things, he grit his teeth and started to
make his way out of the hole. Although the rocky sides of the hole were not
smooth, they were not rough enough either to make for an easy climb. A place to
grip onto was hard to find. Parlan cursed his slow progress and his pain as he
inched his way back to the surface.
If Aimil and I live through this
, he
thought furiously,
I will most assuredly beat her for her gross disobedience
.

His
hands were quickly skinned and oozing blood which made his climb even more
difficult. As he got nearer to the top, he heard Aimil fighting Rory and that
gave him the strength to force himself onward. He only prayed that he reached
the top in time to save her from any and all of the cruelty Rory wished to
inflict upon her.

Aimil
bit down hard on Rory’s hand which tried to shackle her wrists. With a bellowed
oath, he released her to clutch at his hand. She quickly scrambled to her feet
and backed away from where he had tried to pin her to the ground.

She
sensed that the Banshee’s Well was but a step or two behind her. In one quick
move she could enter that pit and join Parlan in death but she could not do it.
In that first frantic moment after watching him die, she could easily have
hurled herself after him but her will to survive had reasserted itself. Despite
the grief that ate away at her, yet had not been given any release, she could
not repress the need to try to stay alive.

“Ye
will pay dearly for that, my pretty whore.”

“Ye
are forever trying to make others pay for what ye bring upon yourself.”

“Bring
upon myself?” He touched his mutilated cheek. “Do ye think I would bring such
as this upon myself? Ye did this to me. Ye and that hellborn stallion of yours!”
His voice rose with every word until he screamed at her.

“Nay,
ye attacked us and got all ye deserved. Now the outside of ye is as loathsome
as the inside. Now all can see your ugliness.”

She
was not surprised by his attack when he bellowed with rage and lunged at her.
What she had hoped for did not happen, however. When she neatly eluded him, he
was able to halt himself before he plummeted down the hole. He turned on her
far more quickly than she had planned for as well. Her attempt to escape his
second lunge failed, and she was badly winded when he tackled her to the
ground. Before she could regain it and the strength to fight him, he had her
pinned beneath him.

“Did
ye really think ye could escape me again, Kirstie?”

A
shiver ran down Aimil’s spine. She had known that Rory had seen her mother in
her, that his twisted mind had seen a chance to avenge her mother’s imagined
slights upon him. It was chilling, however, to know that he no longer even saw
her, that he saw only Kirstie Mengue—a woman he had brutally murdered years
ago. Rory’s madness was truly complete now.

It
also made Aimil angry that he thought she was Kirstie whom he intended to abuse
then kill. Somehow it seemed almost an insult and unfair that he no longer even
knew whom he was going to murder. She wanted him to know who fought him and
whose blood was on his already blood-soaked hands but knew that was impossible.
There was no reasoning with a madman.

“Ye
willnae find this murder such an easy one, Rory Fergueson.” She struggled to
shake him off her but he resisted her efforts with apparent ease, which caused
her to feel a dangerous sense of resignation.

“Ye
brought this upon yourself.” He began to undo her clothing. “Ye turned from my
love.”

“Ye
dinnae ken what love is. Ye ken only hate and pain.” Her squirming to thwart
his efforts to strip her was briefly halted when he struck her hard across the
face with an indifference that was chilling.

“Oh,
but I do ken what love is. I love ye, Kirstie. I could have made it so
beautiful between us but ye wouldnae let me. Ye gave all I craved to Lachlan,
parted your sweet thighs for him when ye wouldnae even part your lips for me.
That must be punished. It must be.”

“Ye
cannae punish someone for going where their heart commands.”

“Your
heart should have chosen me. Me! I could have given ye everything. We could
have been the envy of the world. Nowhere would there have been a pair as fair
to the eyes as we. Instead ye chose that fool who never treated ye as ye should
have been treated. He took ye nowhere, simply kept ye in that heap of stone,
and filled your belly with bairns. Ye should have been laughing, gay, and
admired at courts over the world not sweating upon a childbed for that fool.”
He roughly bared her breasts. “These were made to be admired by a lover not
tugged at by greedy bairns.”

When
his hand moved over her breasts, she gagged. It seemed her rape was inevitable.
Unless he made some error soon that she could take advantage of, there was no
way she saw of breaking free of him and evading that abuse. Although she hated
it, she resigned herself to it, waiting for that moment when his release would
weaken him. If she could keep her mind clear, despite the horror he would
inflict, she might make good use of that weakness.

Suddenly
she realized that he had stopped, even though his hand still rested upon her
breast. He sat upon her and stared at something behind her head, something she
could not see no matter how hard she tried to turn round. Whatever it was, she
thought, it horrified Rory. His face was the color of parchment, his mouth was
agape, and his eyes were open so wide they bulged.

Parlan
found the added strength to pull himself up and out when he saw Rory on top of
Aimil. The sight of Rory’s hand touching her breast enraged Parlan and this
time he made no effort to fight that. He needed the strength it gave him. Rory
had nearly defeated him when he had been at his full strength, but now he was
battered, bruised, and bleeding. Rage might lend him a fleeting, if false,
strength that would not last long, but he would take what he could get.

It
puzzled him that Rory made no move to stop him. He stared at Parlan in horror,
but said and did nothing. Watching him carefully for the attack he was sure
would come, Parlan collected his sword which lay where he had dropped it when
he had fallen.
Mayhaps the mad fool thinks I am a ghost
, he mused, and
liked the idea of proving to Rory that he was very much alive.

“Release
her, Rory, and prepare to die.”

“The
Devil,” Rory whispered as he scrambled off Aimil and away from Parlan. “‘Tis
the Devil himself.”

Aimil
paid little heed to Rory. She rolled out of his reach and quickly stood up to
stare at Parlan. The sight of him battered but still alive made her weak with
emotion. It took all her strength to stop herself from running to him and
clinging to him, touching him to assure herself that he really was standing
there.

“Ye
are alive. Sweet God, Parlan, I had thought ye dead.”

“Wheesht,
lass, a wee tumble cannae send me to my Maker. Now, get out of the way as ye
should have done before.” He scowled at Rory. “What ails this fool? Ye cannae
run this time, Rory Fergueson.”

Turning
at last to look at Rory, Aimil frowned. He was trembling, visibly shaking as if
he had lost all control over his body. Then she heard the words he muttered as
he backed away, his hands held out as if to ward off something. “The Devil.
‘Tis the Devil come out of hell.”

““The
Devil will rise up from hell and pull ye down with him,’” Aimil murmured,
repeating her mother’s curse.

“What
is that?” Parlan demanded.

“He
thinks ye are the Devil come to drag him into hell. ‘Tis what my mother’s dying
curse was—that the Devil would rise up out of the earth and drag him down into
hell. Ye rose up out of the earth, Parlan. In his madness, he thinks the curse
has come true.”

“Weel,
I surely mean to send him to hell.” He grimaced as he stared at the quivering
man. “Though, I find it hard to strike at a man who is drooling like some
brainless fool and has soiled his braies in his fear.”

“Think
of the blood that fair drips from his hands and it may come easier.”

He
nodded slowly and advanced upon Rory.

As
if some higher power had relayed to Rory Parlan’s reluctance to kill him, Rory
began to shake free of terror’s grip. Instead of surrendering meekly and
whimpering to the Devil he had thought had come for him, Rory decided to fight.
Even as Parlan struck him, Rory found the strength and the will to raise his
sword and deflect the blow.

While
Aimil felt pleased that Parlan would not have to cut Rory down coldbloodedly,
she hated to see Rory fight back. Parlan was hurt. She saw it in the way he
moved and by the ominous dark stains upon his clothing. She clasped her hands
tightly and prayed harder than she ever had before. While she could not bring
herself to pray outright for a man’s death, even Rory’s, she did pray
strenuously for Parlan to win, to live.

She
moved out of the way, even ready to flee if the need arose. This time she would
obey Parlan although she continued to pray that she would not have to. She knew
now, however, that even though she would grieve until the day she died if
Parlan was taken from her, her need to live was so strong that she could not
willingly join him in death nor did she think he would even want her to. In
fact, she knew he would be furious if he thought she had even contemplated such
a thing.

When
a frantically battling Rory managed to add to Parlan’s wounds with a dangerous
slash to Parlan’s side, Aimil nearly screamed. Watching Parlan fight for his
life, she decided, was the surest way to drive herself mad. She saw every swing
of Rory’s sword as a mortal threat even though she knew Parlan was a very
skilled fighter.

Then
she tensed, her gaze fixed intently upon Rory. He was very close to the edge of
the gorge. If he fell down there, he would have no chance of survival. Parlan
was pressing him hard, and she began to think that Rory’s fall was inevitable.

“Your
murdering days are over, Rory Fergueson. Ye willnae send another lass into the
grave.”

“Nay,
I willnae let her curse come true. I will come to hell in my own sweet time.”

“The
sweet time is now, Rory. If I die doing it, ye will pay for all the horror ye
have done.”

“I
gave none of them any less than what they asked for. Whores, the lot of them.”

“Even
the lowest of whores doesnae deserve what ye do to a lass. The ghosts of those
ye have slaughtered cry out for vengeance.”

“Let
them cry, Satan. I willnae be taken before I am ready.”

“No
one can choose their time, Rory, especially not filth like you.”

Parlan
saw how close to the edge Rory was. For a brief moment he hesitated in pushing
the man any further. A part of him strongly objected to the battle ending that
way, wanted to end Rory’s life himself. Good sense prevailed, and Parlan
regretfully knew that he was not sure he could fight any longer. He was stiff
and sore from his fall and had several wounds that bled and weakened him. No
matter how it occurred, the battle had to be ended as quickly as possible.
Sighing, Parlan lunged, forcing Rory back that final step.

Rory
hovered on the brink of the ravine for an instant, his arms waving frantically
as he sought to regain his balance. With a scream of denial, he fell, his cry
abruptly cut off as his body smashed upon the rocks below.

Aimil
immediately rushed toward Parlan. He looked unsteady, and she feared he might
follow Rory into the ravine. Upon reaching him, she tugged him back from the
edge. He began to collapse, and, when she tried to help him stay upright, she
was pulled down with him until they both knelt upon the ground. She was
frightened by the weakness he displayed.