Highland Captive Page 2

  Aimil was a little startled at how vengeful she could feel as she held her brother and wept with frustration and grief. In all the time they had been in the pit, no one had even asked their names so she knew that ransoming was no hope to cling to yet. From things said, she knew her only chance for Leith was if Black Parlan, the much-feared laird of the MacGuins, returned in time. It struck her as funny that she should wish for the return of a man often used by nursemaids as a bogey to scare their charges into obedience. Her laugh had an hysterical note to it, however, so she abruptly stopped.

  Clutching Leith whose breathing grew more terrifyingly rasping, she began a slow rocking motion. It was vital that she retain her wits, but she feared that they were beginning to slip. Being held captive in a damp, black hole that was far from fresh of smell was hard to endure. To be kept there to watch her brother slowly die was a torture beyond bearing. At this point, she mused, she would willingly sell her soul to Satan to gain some care for Leith. As she began to pray for the Black Parlan’s return, she wondered if she was doing just that.

  Catarine Dunmore stretched very much like a contented cat. It had taken a lot of time and work to get the Black Parlan into her bed but it had been worth it. He made all her other lovers seem like fumbling boys or eunuchs. Watching him as he stood staring out the window, she let her gaze greedily roam over his large, muscular frame. She had him now and he would not slip away. A well-earned confidence in her ability led her to believe that one night in her bed would be enough to secure him.

  “Come back to bed, Parlan,” she purred, licking her lips when he turned, giving her a full view of his endowments.

  Eyes so dark brown they were nearly black studied the woman on the bed with little expression. Parlan did not like Catarine but could not deny that she had serviced him very well indeed. There was, however, something repulsive about her insatiable appetite. He cared less about the state of her emotions, but he did not particularly care to be seen as little more than a well-proportioned staff that happened to have a man attached. She could no doubt have done as well with some inanimate object shaped appropriately.

  Inwardly, he sighed as he moved toward the bed where she wantonly displayed her indisputable charms. They did nothing for him now that his need had been dulled. Noting the anger that settled upon her lovely face as he reached for his clothes, he began to form his farewell. It had to be phrased carefully for she was attached to his family. If he insulted her in any way, her anger would be formidable and he did not want to be troubled with it. Her kin were anxious to get her wed and that made her a little dangerous.

  As he pulled on his trunk hose, he watched her sardonically. She would probably accept an offer to leave his pintle behind, he mused bitterly. After her avaricious attentions, the poor abused fellow would likely be useless for a few days anyway. He smiled to himself at the track his thoughts had taken. Parlan knew he could not really complain. He had succumbed to her invitation solely because he wished use of the skill for which she was so well-noted.

  Even six months ago he would have climbed back into her bed, ready for more. Lately, however, he suffered from a malaise of dissatisfaction. Once his initial lust was sated he lost interest in the woman. At but eight and twenty he felt sure his virility was not waning. The problem was not how much he wanted but what he wanted. It was plainly not to be found in the arms of Catarine Dunmore.

  “Ye cannae mean to leave now. The night is still young.”

  “Aye, but the dawn comes early and I begin the long trek back to Dubhglenn then,” he murmured without glancing her way.

  “Ye truly are leaving?” It was difficult but she managed to keep from screaming the words in anger and frustration.

  “I must. I have been gone near to a month and ‘tis folly to leave Artair in charge for so long.” He frowned, caught up in thoughts of all his brother could do wrong in his absence.

  “Surely ye need not fear that he would try to usurp your place.”

  “Nay, but he plays the role too seriously and with little thought. I have plans afoot and I cannae risk his ruining them.”

  She knew better than to ask what those plans were. Sitting up, she adjusted her hair so that it did not hide the full curves she knew were attractive to men. It was ending far too soon. She needed more time to entrap him completely. Her family was urging her to take another husband. Parlan MacGuin would suit her fine. She could not catch him by crying over lost virtue or seduction, for her lack of celibacy since her husband’s untimely death two years ago was far too well known. There were, however, a number of routes to the marriage bed. Yet each one required time. She could not allow this chance to slip away. Unfortunately, it looked very much as if Parlan was going to yank it away.

  “Come, Parlan,” she crooned, reaching out to caress his manhood and hiding her anger over his evident disinclination, “what is one more night?”

  “Too long,” he replied succinctly as he put on his pourpoint and stepped out of her reach. “All is readied for the journey. I cannae forestall it.”

  Gritting her teeth against the curses she wished to hurl at him, she queried, “When do you plan to return this way?”

  Parlan wondered if the woman knew how obvious she was in her ploys. “I cannae say. ‘Tis a busy time of the year.”

  “I must return home soon myself,” she lied smoothly. “Mayhaps I could stop at Dubhglenn on my way.”

  “If ye like.” He hoped fervently that she would not as he gave her a light kiss. “Take care, Catarine.”

  As soon as he was gone, Catarine gave vent to her fury, demolishing her quarters, then keeping her servants busy most of the night restoring it to order. Parlan would not get away so easily with using her like some tavern wench, she vowed. She would give him time to settle his business then go to stay at his keep. Once there and in his bed, she was certain she would win the game.

  Dawn found Parlan on the road and riding hard for Dubhglenn, his keep. Although he partook of the delights of town, he did not like being away from his home. If Artair was older and less rash, he would be sent on some of the necessary trips to town. Unfortunately, Parlan knew Artair would either spend his time soaked in drink and wenching, or make them new enemies they did not need. It saddened him but Artair’s unreliability was why Lagan Dunmore was the man most often at Parlan’s side. He could only hope that during his absence Artair had done nothing too terrible.

  When Parlan finally reached Dubhglenn two days later, he knew immediately upon riding into the bailey that something was not right. The people he met greeted him jovially but with a poorly disguised air of relief. There was also that air of someone waiting to speak but not wishing to be the one to carry tales. Parlan was about to demand explanations when he espied the horse.

  Speechless with admiration, he did not even inquire about where the animal had come from, but merely spent long moments studying the fine points of the stallion. The animal was at least a hand taller than his own, very impressive mount. The horse’s lines indicated strength as well as speed. The white coat of the beast was startling in its purity. Parlan was ready to test how far the stallion’s tense, aggressive stance could be tried when Malcolm and Lagan returned to Dubhglenn. They wasted no time in moving to speak to Parlan.

  “Have ye seen this magnificent animal?” enthused Parlan, slowly becoming aware of the men’s tension.

  “Aye, I have seen him.” Malcolm turned to one of the men lurking nearby. “How fare the laddies?”

  “Nae too weel. The older one be sickening something fierce and the wee one has condemned the lot of us to seven kinds of hell.”

  “And weel we deserve them,” cried Lagan who got no argument. “Has naught been done? Has no one tended to them?”

  “Aye, they be fed and watered regular,” protested another man but weakly.

  “I gave them extra blankets last eve but I fear the wee one be right when he says they will only be used as a shroud,” added the first man.

  “Hold!” The silence t
hat immediately met Parlan’s bellow was a tense one. “What lads?” he snarled.

  “Artair raided the Ferguesons,” Lagan explained, knowing that would displease Parlan because it was done without his consent. “As we rode back to Dubhglenn, we chanced upon twa laddies in Mengue colors and seized them.”

  “How wee are the laddies?”

  “One must be nearing twenty, mayhaps a year or twa less,” replied Malcolm. “A man by some’s reckoning but still a laddie by mine. The other cannae be more than twelve.”

  “What ransom has been asked?”

  “None,” Lagan answered reluctantly. “They rot in the pit awaiting your return so that ye can decide upon it.”

  Malcolm and Lagan followed Parlan as he strode into the keep. Several other men followed hesitantly. When Parlan’s request for Artair met with the word that the young man was sleeping off yet another long night of whiskey and women, Parlan’s fury was a glory to behold. Usually brave men scattered before him as he made his way to the dungeons where the sound of a soft keening greeted his ears.

  The grate was speedily opened, and Parlan looked into the hole, a lantern held inside its depths. He saw a small, slightly-built boy holding a larger one, rocking and weeping softly. The elder boy was evidently dangerously ill. Suddenly the small lad became aware of the intruders and looked up. Even streaked with filth and tears, the small face had a delicate beauty that seemed strange for a boy. It was not even marred when that face was contorted into a snarl of hate and rage. Parlan noted all of that as he struggled to control his ever-growing anger with his brother.

  At any other time the dark, imposing face peering down at her would have made Aimil at least hesitant, but she had no thought of caution when she held her dying brother in her arms. “Carrion! Filthy corbies! Ye have come too early to pick at this flesh.”

  “Get them out of there. Now!” Parlan snarled as he moved back from the pit’s opening, his voice clipped with fury.

  Chapter Two

  For a moment Aimil doubted that she had heard right. It quickly became apparant that the Black Parlan himself was there, biting out commands in a deep voice that barely escaped being a very feral snarl. With her brother’s vital needs at the fore of her thoughts, she neither asked nor cared if they meant to free her too. Once Leith was lifted out, she started to sit down again.

  “Ye as weel, laddie,” Parlan called, failing to keep all his fury at Artair out of his voice despite his efforts to stay calm so as not to frighten the boy.

  She slapped away the hands that were offered to assist her, scrambling up the rope by herself. The time spent in a pit in which she could barely lie down had sapped her strength, but she refused to reveal that. In fact, she had practiced some odd exercises several times a day to keep her strength up for Leith’s sake. It had served its purpose for she was able to stand without wavering badly. The last thing she wanted was for these men to espy any weakness in her.

  “Dinnae touch me, swine,” she hissed when, as they began to leave the dungeons, a hand moved to assist her.

  Parlan was unused to being spoken to like that but he quelled an instinctive burst of anger. Later, he would even find amusement in the thought of the seething, somewhat filthy boy. For now he only wanted to ease the dangerous situation Artair had created. Despite the dirt, there was no mistaking the richness of the boys’ attire, which meant that they were of a high standing within the Mengue clan. An incident such as this could easily provoke a blood feud that could last for generations. That was the very last thing Parlan wanted or needed.

  When they reached a room that could be secured from the outside, the MacGuins hastily attended to Leith who was for the most part, unconscious. Aimil stood out of the way but watched their every move. Even though the tending was late in coming, she could appreciate the speed with which the men stripped Leith, bathed him, and lay him on a clean bed to nurse his wounds. By some miracle the wounds had not yet festered even though they had not healed as much as they should have. There was yet some danger for Leith.

  “Your names,” Parlan rapped out, no longer worried that his anger would frighten the boy.

  Aimil did not quail beneath the man’s penetrating, dark gaze. “Shane and Leith Mengue. ‘Tis Leith ye have almost murdered.”

  Swearing colorfully and with admirable diversity, Parlan continued to help in tending young Leith Mengue’s wounds. He too saw it as a miracle that the boy’s wounds had not festered filling his blood with a deadly poison. Even if the boy lived, which seemed imminently possible now, such harsh treatment of the Mengue heir could provoke the very feud Parlan hoped to avoid. The little Mengue boy certainly looked eager to begin one, he mused.

  A man of his times, Parlan did in truth like a good battle or the thrill of a raid. It was the blood feuds he detested, feuds where hate passed from generation to generation, with the initial cause for the feuds becoming distorted, even forgotten. More often than not, the cause was one where, if it had occurred within the clan, a settlement would have come about quickly between the original antagonists. Instead whole clans tore at each other, killing each other wherever and whenever they were able, using up their resources in a long, bloody, seemingly unending feud. What truly annoyed him was how those feuds so often interfered at a time when unity was desperately needed, such as against an enemy like the English.

  His thoughts came to an abrupt halt when Artair stumbled into the room, but Parlan’s fury had to wait to be vented.

  Aimil recognized the man who had ordered that she and Leith be put into the hole, knew from things said that it was this man who had kept them there, who had drunk and wenched while her brother slowly died. Her delicate hands curled into claws, and she lunged at Artair.

  Artair saved his eyes only by a quick raising of his arms. Two men grabbed Aimil before she was able to inflict much damage but it was a few moments before she stopped hurling curses and threats at Artair, and was calm enough to be released. In the confusion the feminine manner of her attack went unnoticed. When she moved to stand by the head of the bed where Leith rested, she was not ready to forgive any MacGuin. But she did note that Artair was getting anything but praise for his actions from Black Parlan. It was clear that he had acted completely of his own accord, something that was clearly an old bone of contention between the two men.

  “I see ye found the prisoners,” Artair began weakly for Parlan’s face was dark with rage.

  “I nearly had naught but corpses. Did ye never think that they might be worth more alive?”

  “No one told me.” Artair’s excuses were abruptly cut off by a sound blow from Parlan’s broad hand that sent Artair slamming into a wall.

  “Ye were already too drunk to heed a word said. Fool! Ye have done your best to kill Lachlan Mengue’s heir. Do ye ken what that would have meant? Do ye ken what that would have brought down about our heads?”

  “The Mengues arenae strong enough to beat us,” cried Artair only to suffer another blow from his enraged brother.

  “Nay, mayhaps not, but they have ties to the MacVerns and the Broths. Aye, and those bastards, the Ferguesons.” Pinning Artair to the wall, he snarled, “They also have power in court and could easily bring the king’s wrath upon our heads.” He released his hold so abruptly that Artair fell to the floor. “Murder it would have been called and murder it would have been. If the king didnae put us to the horn, declare us outlaws, we would still have to deal with four clans at our throats plus God alone kens how many others for t’would be a righteous vengeance.”

  “I dinnae ken what ye are so angry about,” sputtered Artair. “The lad still lives and he will bring a fine ransom.”

  “Get out!” bellowed Parlan. “Get out before I stuff ye in that accursed hole and forget ye for a week.”

  There was no hesitation in Artair’s obedience to that command. When Parlan was in such a fury, retreat was the better part of valor. After seeing Leith Mengue’s precarious state of health, Artair was guiltily aware of his culpability.
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  Parlan turned his attention to the delicate boy called Shane. “Now we shall get ye cleaned up.”

  “I dinnae need your help. I can weel clean myself,” Aimil snapped. “Aye, and I will do so once I ken that Leith fares weel.”

  “He willnae fare weel if he is forced to smell ye all the while,” growled Parlan, then ordered his men to fetch some fresh bath water.

  Aimil started to tell the big man just where he could put his bath water when Leith weakly touched her arm and rasped, “Clean up, brat, before ye fall ill as weel. Ye do stink a bit.”

  Clasping his hand briefly, she teased in a shaky voice, “Ye were no rose yourself until a wee bit ago.”

  “I cannae believe I stank quite so foul.” His smile faded as he was seized by a violent fit of coughing ending their banter.

  Lagan moved to aid Leith in the drinking of a hot, strong broth that had been delivered. Aimil watched her bath prepared and hoped that the MacGuins would accede to her demand for privacy. There was no need of a guard within the room, and the very thought of what could happen if they discovered she was female sent chills up her spine.

  “Here be some clean things for ye to don,” said Malcolm as he set some clothes upon the bed. “These should fit. I even brought a new bonnet for ye as ye seem right fond of the things.” He frowned at the dirty bedraggled bonnet that sat firmly upon her head. “Do ye never take it off?”

  She ignored the question, feeling certain that he did not really expect an answer. “Thank ye. How fares Elfking?”

  “Weel, though the white Devil lets few near him. Unfriendly beast,” Malcolm grumbled.

  “That white stallion was yours?” Parlan could not hide his amazement, thinking it far too much horse for a beardless boy.

  “Is mine, aye. I raised him from a colt.” She could not repress the note of pride in her voice.

  “Weel, ye didnae do so weel in curbing his bad tempers. I shall have to work upon that.”