“The
man must be mad!” he roared, not for the first time. “I cannae meet this.”
“Will
ye send an offer by messenger?” asked Iain.
“Nay,
I will go to the rogue myself. I cannae believe that this is any more than a
cruel joke.”
“At
least we ken now that Leith and Aimil are alive and weel,” said Jennet as she
eased her very pregnant body into a seat.
“I
will see the proof of that with my own eyes before I even begin to bargain.”
The
messenger from Dubhglenn found himself leading a sizeable party back to his
laird. Giorsal rode beside her husband, having insisted on going along with an
uncharacteristic stubbornness. Since the party traveled under a flag of truce,
the men had finally, if grudgingly, complied. Rory Fergueson was noticeably
absent although, as Aimil’s betrothed, he had been informed of the venture.
Giorsal was glad of it for she did not trust Rory to follow the rules of
bloodless negotiation.
Due
to a slow start, and having waited fruitlessly for Aimil’s betrothed, they had
to camp out. Giorsal found the whole matter adventurous and cheerfully readied
the interior of her husband’s tent, but Iain was not particularly cheerful when
he joined her.
“What
troubles ye, Iain?” she asked as she folded the clothes he shed.
“‘Tis
no problem really. A puzzle. Aye, love, ‘tis a puzzle.” He failed to notice her
start of surprise over his casual endearment.
“What
is a puzzle?” she asked as he joined her in the bed she had made upon the
ground, leaving the two small cots in case it rained.
“For
the last four or five years your father has been cold to Aimil, his heart
hardening to the girl who had been his favorite.”
“Aye,
t’was verra odd. We have ne’er kenned why.” She let her hand wander over the
well-muscled frame of her husband, a body she now took the time to discover and
to appreciate. “She was sore hurt by his defection, especially when there
seemed to be no reason for it. Leith is closest to her now.”
“Weel,
I cannae say why but I think the man’s a fraud. I think Aimil is still verra
dear to his heart.”
“Then
why turn from her? It doesnae make any sense.” Tentatively, she moved her hand
where it had never been before.
All
thought fled from Iain’s mind save for the intimate touch of his wife’s hand
and, hoping it was the right reply, he gasped, “Nay?”
Stifling
a giggle that was more from delight than amusement over her husband’s reaction
to her touch, she bent her head to kiss his chest. “I believe I must look into
the situation more closely.”
“Giorsal?
Have ye been drinking?” Iain asked as he pushed her onto her back, but he did
not bother to wait for an answer.
Parlan
did not even ask Aimil if she had been imbibing. He could tell that she had already
had more than enough to drink from the moment he had entered the room. She,
Lagan, and Leith were playing a rowdy game of dice, betting vast sums of
nonexistent money and drinking freely. It was evident that neither her brother
nor Lagan, who was supposed to be her guard, were paying much heed to how much
she drank. He grinned as he sat down next to Aimil on Leith’s bed for Lagan had
just wagered Stirling Castle and lost it to Aimil.
“Ye
make a poor guard, Lagan. Letting the wench drink and indulge in gambling.”
Parlan shook his head with a false air of dismay. “Did ye nae think to watch
how much she drank?”
“Aye.”
Lagan grinned. “But it hasnae dimmed her luck at all.” He laughed along with
the others. “She has the Devil’s own luck.”
“‘Tis
an easy game,” Aimil remarked, and reached for the ale only to have Parlan
intercept her. “I wasnae done.”
Setting
her tankard on the table near Leith’s bed, Parlan used the hold he had on her
wrist to tug her to her feet. “Aye, ye were.”
“Has
anyone ever told ye that ye are a tyrant, Parlan MacGuin?” she inquired with a
false sweetness as he towed her to the door.
“Aye.
Say good sleep to your brother.” He paused in the doorway.
“I
wasnae ready to say good sleep, but if I must...”
“Ye
must.” He started to draw her out of the room.
“Good
sleep, Leith. And ye, Lagan,” she cried as Parlan shut the door after them,
muffling the replies sent her way. “Ye are a verra rude man. Uncivilized,” she
grumbled as she was hastened toward his chambers.
“I
am nae feeling verra polite just now.” He shut and bolted the door to his
chambers.
“Why
not?” she asked as she sat on his bed, finding her boots harder to remove than
they had ever been before.
Already
stripped to his braies, a short undergarment, Parlan moved to help her undress.
“Ye are fou, lass. Verra drunk indeed.”
“Nay.
Weel, mayhaps a wee bit. I am not verra good with the drink though I have never
got ill from it.”
She
made a noise much like a deep-throated purr when his mouth covered hers, the
swift deep probes of his tongue hinting at his hunger for her. It was a hunger
she readily returned, the drink making her bold in her passion.
The
way her small hands caressed him drove Parlan beyond control. He was barely
able to finish undressing them without tearing their clothes. His possession of
her was swift, but she met and returned his ferocity. The culmination of their
desire left them both somnolent, unable to move, except for Parlan’s pulling
the covers over them. It was awhile before he even had the strength to talk and
by then Aimil was half asleep.
“Lass,
are ye wanting to wed Rory Fergueson?” He felt himself tense, waiting for her
reply.
Aimil
was past any subterfuge and opened her eyes to gaze at him sleepily. “Nay. He
is too pretty.”
“Too
pretty? ‘Tis a strange thing to say. A lass often wishes a husband who is fair
to look upon.”
“Nay.
He is too pretty. He is so perfect in face and form that he nearly frightens
me. Then there are his eyes.”
“What
about his eyes?”
“They
are like a snake’s. When I meet his gaze, I feel as if an adder watches me,
waiting for the right moment to strike. The color is a verra pale one and flat,
and he doesnae blink verra much which only makes it worse.”
Rolling
onto his back, Parlan pulled her against his chest. “Aye, I think ye have the
truth of it. Like a snake’s.”
Her
eyes closing as sleep overtook her, Aimil said, “It will be hard to be wife to
a man I dinnae even like.”
“I
promise ye, lass, ye willnae have to,” he swore as he looked down upon her
sleeping face.
That
small lovely face was still tucked nicely against his broad chest when Parlan
woke in the morning. Her arm encircled his trim waist, and one of her legs was
flung over his. Parlan decided that she was a very nice little bundle to wake
up to. Alternating his gaze between her face and his hand, he stroked her soft
curves, enjoying the way her passion slowly grew.
He
traced the gentle curve of her backside and the slim line of her leg, feeling
her squirm slightly as she and her passion awoke together. He had always at
least tried to give the women he had used some pleasure but never had their
enjoyment been such a source of pleasure for him. His actions had been prompted
by courtesy and a need to be sure his lust met more than tolerance. It
intoxicated him to feel and to see Aimil’s body come alive for him.
“Oh,
Parlan,” she whispered as he turned them onto their sides and slid his hand
between her thighs.
“Such
a lovely warm good morn,” he growled against her breast before greedily taking
a hard tip into his mouth.
“‘Tis
morning?” she gasped, shocked despite her intensifying passion. “We cannae do
this now.”
“Nay?”
He grinned at her as he positioned her leg over his waist and swiftly entered
her. “It seems we are.”
It
was a moment before she could find the breath to speak. “‘Tis light. Ye are
supposed to do this in the dark.”
“Ah,
lass, there is a lot ye have to learn,” he murmured before he stopped any
further talk with a kiss.
The
culmination of their passion came swiftly and simultaneously. Still caught in
the lingering tremors, Parlan rolled onto his back, holding them snugly joined.
He still did not release her when they had regained their senses.
“I
think ye have forgotten something,” she murmured suddenly, realizing that they
were staying joined for a long time.
“Nay,
I havenae,” he replied, holding her firmly when she moved to separate them. “Stay
a wee bit, lass.”
Rubbing
her cheek against the crisp hair on his chest, she murmured, “What does it feel
like?”
He
was not sure of how to answer her, not only because her question startled him,
but he had never spoken of his feelings and had no ready words to describe
them. His policy had always been one of a polite but hasty exit after taking
his pleasure.
“‘Tis
hard to say, lass. Lovely doesnae say enough.” He gave a soft growl when she
moved sensuously. “Ye shouldnae do that.”
“I
think I can tell why.” She was surprised to feel him becoming aroused.
“Oh,
God’s tears,” he cursed when a rap came at the door. “Nay, dinnae move.” He
held her close as he called, “What is it?”
“‘Tis
Lachlan Mengue,” Lagan replied. “The man has set up camp outside the gates and
is demanding to speak with you.”
“My
father,” Aimil muttered in shock and tried to wriggle free of Parlan’s hold but
only succeeded in arousing them both.
“Tell
him I must break my fast first. If he has not yet done so, he is welcome to
join me,” Parlan bellowed to Lagan.
“Leave
go,” hissed Aimil as she tried to ignore her desire to stay where she was.
“Lagan’s
gone,” he growled, neatly rolling over so that she was pinned beneath him.
“I
cannae carry on like this with my father so close at hand,” she whispered, even
as she was stirred by his gentle rhythm.
“I
will muffle your cries.” He grinned over her look of outrage then bent his
head, his mouth moving eagerly to her breasts.
The
tart rejoinder she intended to make never emerged. Her nails dug into his hips
as she tried to urge him on. He soon gave her what she cried for, bringing
their union to a swift yet highly satisfying conclusion.
She
scowled at his broad back as he rose to dress. He had every right to look the
contented male. She never put up much resistance. In fact, she enjoyed herself
so much that she never felt any inclination to say no. What truly bothered her
was the problem of facing her father without looking like she had done exactly
what she had just finished doing. She was sure she radiated sexual
satisfaction. Something that gave one such pleasure had to leave its mark. She
may have chosen to be where she was, but she did not want her father guessing
that.
“Out
of the bed, wench. There is your father to face this fine morn.”
“Nay,
I cannae.” She rolled over and buried her face in a pillow.
Yanking
the covers off her, he resisted the temptation to show his appreciation of her
lovely back, and gave her a sharp slap on her pretty backside. “Ye can and ye
will. I wish to show him clearly that at least one of his offspring is hale and
hearty.”
Gathering
the covers around her, she sat up and glared at him. “Ye dinnae understand.”
“Aye,
I do but ye are wrong, lassie. He willnae guess. He may wonder, but he will
never ken for certain unless ye tell him.”
His
words still ran through her head after he had left, making it clear that she
had better appear in the hall before too long. If she did not look guilty, she
suspected her father would not be able to tell that she had lost her innocence,
or, worse, had enjoyed losing it. After all, she mused, as she took one last
look at herself in the mirror, there was no evident outward change in her
appearance.
As
she headed down to the hall, she shook her head. It was foolish to worry. There
was no retrieving what had been lost. In truth, her father took so little
notice of her that she doubted he would notice the change in her even if it was
branded on her forehead.
When
she heard her father’s deep voice, she edged into the hall, standing by the
door to look at him. A large man, he was nearly as tall as the Black Parlan,
and broad of shoulder. There was white mixed with his thick blond hair but he
was still youthful of figure and face despite his four and forty years. The
signs that life had dealt a little harshly with him were on his face. His
well-cut, handsome features were drawn with lines that nothing could erase, and
a sadness lingered in his blue eyes.
She
adored her father, and the ache of his rejection never left her. Not only fear
of his discovering she had shared Parlan’s bed had made her want to avoid him.
She avoided him as a matter of course for it hurt too much when he ignored her.
The pain was less if she stayed out of his way. Unfortunately, that was
something she could not explain to Parlan.