Highland Captive (16 page)

“Heartsore
most like. Artair be a brother to bring it on. I fear Parlan blames himself for
what his brother is.”

Searching
his memory, Parlan could not find where he had gone wrong with Artair. Neither
could he see where he would have or could have acted differently. Yet, somehow,
he had to have stepped wrong, he was sure of it. He did not want to believe
that it was bad blood. Then there would be no change in Artair, perhaps only a
worsening of his character. It would mean Artair was doomed and that saddened
him.

He
was sure that he could no longer effect a change in his brother. The events of
the night had surely marked an end to what meager relationship had existed
between them. It would be a long time before he could view his brother without
anger. He knew it was not only because Artair had abused a woman, something
Parlan loathed, but that he had done it to Aimil.

Slowly,
he turned to look at Aimil then smiled faintly. She sat huddled against the
pillows fighting sleep. He realized that his actions since the incident might
have left her worried, even afraid, for she could easily think that he blamed
her. Moving to the bed, he gently laid her down and began to remove her boots.

“Time
ye were abed, sweeting.” He frowned when she just stared at him.

Aimil
tried to read his cool expression. He did not appear to be angry with her even
though anger still lurked in him. Unable to discern his mood or his thoughts,
she decided to keep quiet as he had ordered her to do earlier. She wanted
nothing she said or did to exacerbate the situation, to increase his anger at
his brother or at herself.

“Ye
can talk now,” he murmured in an attempt to tease her, an attempt weakened by
his troubled mood.

“I
am so verra sorry,” she whispered, immobilized by weariness and nerves as he
finished undressing her.

Prompting
her beneath the covers, he sat at her side and traced the bruises forming on
her neck and face with his finger. “Ye have naught to be sorry for, little one.”
He stood up and undressed. “Ye had naught to do with it. I saw that. I but wish
that I had arrived sooner.”

“He
was angry, Parlan. I bit clean through his lip. It must have hurt some.”

“I
suspicion it did.” Parlan smiled slightly as he slid into bed beside her. “One
knock would have answered for that, dearling. He was set to beat ye senseless
and weel ye ken it. There is no excuse for that. So too does he ken my ruling
on such matters.”

“Shouldnae
ye go and see him now?” she ventured as he tugged her into his arms and she
cuddled up to him.

“Nay.
There is still an anger in me, a violence. I might weel do what ye stopped me
from doing earlier—kill him.”

“Nay.
Ye wouldnae. He is your brother.”

“Nay?
Then why did ye stop me?”

“Weel,
I feared ye might come close to it so angry ye were. I didnae want ye to do
something ye would sore regret later when the anger had left ye and your senses
had returned.”

“I
dinnae think the anger will ever leave. Inside I rage at Artair and at myself.”

“Why
at yourself?”

“I
have failed with him.”

Tightening
her hold on him, she shook her head. Parlan smiled faintly and ran his hands
through her hair. It was comforting in a way to have someone believe in his
abilities. With this problem, however, there was a spot that no comforting
could reach. It touched him too deeply.

“Some
people are just weak, Parlan. There is naught anyone can do. A person cannae
always ken what prods them to act as they do. They can only help themselves for
only they ken the why of it, if there is any why at all.”

“So
Lagan claims.”

“Weel,
he is right.”

As
he was about to give his opinion on that, a rap came at the door. He smiled
when Aimil dove beneath the covers as he bade the visitor to enter. It did not
surprise him to see Leith enter.

“Should
ye be out of bed, sickly as ye are and all?” he drawled.

Ignoring
that, Leith asked, “How is Aimil?”

“I
am fine,” she replied, her voice muffled by the covers she hid beneath.

“Shy
before me?”

Easing
out from the covers, she murmured, “Weel, ye have never seen me abed with a man
before.” Seeing his fleeting grin fade as he saw her bruised face, she
hurriedly said, “It looks worse than it feels.”

“I
wish ye didnae bruise so badly, so easily. ‘Tis hard to ken how sorely ye are
hurt.”

“He
slapped her but twice before I stopped him.”

Nodding
for he had heard of the punishment Parlan had meted out to his brother, Leith
said, “Weel, I but wished to see how ye fared, Aimil. I best be back to my bed.”
He looked appropriately languid as he withdrew, saying, “I still tire so verra
easily.”

When
his chuckling ceased, Parlan sighed. “That is what I wish Artair to be.”

“He
is still young. He could change.”

“The
way he goes on he could die before he alters. Ah weel, ‘tis out of my hands. Go
to sleep, loving. Ye need to rest your bruises and I hold too much anger to try
loving ye. I darenst try. I might hurt ye myself.”

She
cuddled close to him and let sleep grasp hold of her. There was nothing she
could do. If the trouble was to be sorted out at all, it had to be done between
Artair and Parlan.

For
long hours into the night, Parlan stroked her hair and stared at the ceiling.
Failure and disappointment left a bitter taste in his mouth. He also found them
hard things to accept. Resting his cheek against Aimil’s hair, he fleetingly
acknowledged that his reaction to what Artair had done had been extreme because
of who Artair had done it to. He decided to wait a few days before attempting
to see Artair, and with that decision made, he finally went to sleep.

Chapter Nine

“What
do ye think, Leith?”

Leith
studied his sister carefully. The outfit she wore was odd but not unattractive.
Someone’s tartan supplied a slim skirt. She still wore a man’s shirt but that
was partially hidden by a sleeveless jerkin, laced tightly in place to make a
fitted bodice. Her figure was almost as nicely displayed as it had been in the
boy’s attire, more so in fact for her full breasts were delineated.

“‘Tis
oddly pretty if that makes sense. T’will do verra weel until Father finally
sends some gowns for ye. Ready then?”

“What
about my hair? I couldnae find anyone to help me put it up.” She frowned into
the mirror, noting with relief that her bruises were completely gone at last.

“I
can do it. Dinnae look so doubtful. I used to play with our mother’s, aye and
our sisters’ even, and am a fair hand at it.”

When
he was done, she was suitably impressed. It was nothing elaborate but was well
done and neat. The sedate style managed to make her outfit a bit more
respectful than the ragamuffin air she had carried. She smiled her gratitude at
Leith as he took her by the arm and they started on their way to the hall.

As
they reached the bottom of the stairs, there was sudden confusion. As Parlan
spotted Aimil, smiled and headed toward her, a woman strode into the hall. She
was lovely and carried herself with the dignity of visiting royalty.

All
complimentary thoughts concerning the woman fled Aimil’s mind an instant later.
The woman became the lowest of creatures when she stopped Parlan’s move toward
the stairs by hurling herself into his arms and giving him a lengthy kiss that
went far beyond a polite greeting. Aimil had to summon all of her will power
not to fly at the woman and tear her from Parlan.

It
was then that she had a revelation that caused her to pale. She was in love
with the Black Parlan. That was the only explanation for the white-hot fury she
felt toward a woman she did not know and for the agony it caused Aimil to watch
Parlan embrace the woman. Suddenly she wanted to run away. It would be hell to
face everyone so soon after such a discovery. She feared it would be read in
her every look and gesture, and it was the last thing she wished Parlan to
know.

Parlan
gently, but firmly, released himself from Catarine’s grip. She was the last
person he wanted to see. He had hoped that she would not honor her threat to
visit. It was a bit late to wish he had not succumbed to her wiles that once,
but wish it he did—wholeheartedly—especially when he glanced up to see Aimil
looking at him in cold-eyed dislike.

Holding
out a hand to Aimil and keeping his gaze fixed upon her, he said, “I would like
ye to meet a guest of mine, Catarine.”

Reluctantly
and prodded by Leith, Aimil went to Parlan, letting him take her by the hand.
The woman obviously felt she had a right to arrive unannounced at Parlan’s
doorstep and to kiss him so intimately. Aimil was not anxious to get mixed up
with this. She wished she was back at Leith’s side.

Leith
watched his sister closely. He did not like flinging her into the reach of the
she-wolf clinging to Parlan, especially when he had a good idea of the
revelation that had sapped all the color from Aimil’s face. Nevertheless, it
would not be wise for Aimil to back away. Not only should she fight for the man
she loved but to allow herself to be nudged aside too easily would cause her to
lose her protected place within the MacGuin keep. She was, after all, only a
captive, one whose ransom was slow in coming.

“Catarine,
I would like ye to meet Aimil Mengue and her brother Leith. Catarine Dunmore,
Lagan’s cousin.”

“Surely
I am more than that,” she purred, although her gaze was fixed coldly upon
Aimil.

“Are
you?” Parlan hooked Aimil’s arm through his. “We prepare to dine. Do ye wish to
clean up first, Catarine?”

Aimil
could see that the subtle snub enraged the woman. When Catarine allowed herself
to be escorted to a room, Aimil was sure it was more to cool down and replan
her strategy than to wash. As she let Parlan lead her to a seat next to him,
Aimil also felt sure that it would prove to be a long, tense evening. She
wished fervently that she could find a good excuse to leave.

Despite
his best efforts, Parlan got little more than monosyllabic replies from Aimil.
He wanted to talk to her about Catarine even if he was unsure of what to say,
but the time and the place were all wrong. On the other hand, it delighted him
to have this indication that her feelings might consist of far more than
passion. He realized suddenly how much he wanted that to be true.

When
Catarine entered, she was less than pleased to find that Malcolm sat on one
side of Parlan and Aimil on the other. While she washed, she had questioned the
maid assigned to her and found out exactly what Aimil Mengue’s position was.
She had every intention of altering it. The girl could remain a captive treated
as a guest, but she would do it out of Parlan’s bed.

The
moment Parlan was distracted, deep in discussion with Malcolm, Catarine looked
at Aimil. “Is it truly a lack of ransom that keeps ye here, Mistress Mengue?”
She felt Leith tense at her side, saw Lagan do likewise, and felt she had aimed
her dart well.

“My
father has paid Leith’s ransom. It was verra large. He needs time to raise
mine,” Aimil replied coolly.

“Of
course. And does your father ken how weel ye are enjoying your stay?”

“He
kens that I have come to no harm.” Aimil struggled to keep a firm hold upon her
rising temper. “The MacGuin hospitality is unsurpassed.”

“Definitely
unsurpassed.” Catarine cast an easily read glance at Parlan. “Tell me, are the
men so large in the Lowlands?”

The
way in which Catarine said the word “large” told all at the table that she
referred to one particular part of Parlan’s anatomy. Parlan was not deaf to the
conversation around him although he had let it be thought he was. Yet again he
resented the referral to him as a stud. He waited for Aimil’s reply.

Aimil
sensed that Catarine meant far more than she said but was not sure what. One
possibility came to mind, but it was beyond her comprehension that anyone would
speak so over a meal and within the hearing of the very one referred to. It
also seemed to her that women would be drawn to Parlan as a total man. His
attraction was as much in his character as in his appearance.

“Weel,
aye, he is verra tall,” she replied in all innocence, frowning when there was a
sudden epidemic of coughing.

Catarine
stared at Aimil as if she were dimwitted. “Ye are either verra innocent or
verra dim of mind. I wasnae referring to his height.”

Frowning
even more, Aimil said, “He isnae too broad. I have seen men wider of shoulder.”

This
time the laughter was not suppressed, and Aimil realized that she had missed
something. After a moment’s thought, she hit upon the only other thing the
woman could possibly mean, the very insinuation she had discarded earlier. She
gaped and blushed deep red.

“Ye
cannae mean that. We are having our meal. ‘Tisnae any time to speak of such
things.”

Catarine
thought that highlighting Aimil’s naivete would lessen the girl’s attraction
for Parlan who was a man of the world, one who would undoubtedly find such
sweet innocence tedious. “I think ‘tis a most suitable time,” she purred,
running her tongue over her lips with a lewd meaning that all the men gathered
understood.