HIGHLAND CAPTIVE
Aimil eyed Parlan intently. “I dinnae suppose ye may have changed your mind.”
“Nay. I was determined to have ye as soon as I kenned ye werenae a child too young for the having.”
Parlan scooped her up in his arms and gently deposited her on the bed. It astounded her that such a large man could move with such silent speed. When he partially covered her body with his own, she shivered slightly. His large, strong body made her feel very small and very fragile, yet she was not really afraid. Instead, she felt the desire she craved to taste eke into her veins.
“Dinnae be afeard of me, sweeting. I mean only to pleasure ye,” he whispered, brushing soft kisses over her cheeks.
“Pleasure yourself, ye mean,” she grumbled, but felt an odd tingling where his lips touched her skin.
“Aye, but ye as weel, Aimil. Just relax and give yourself over to me.”
Books by Hannah Howell
Only for You
My Valiant Knight
Unconquered
Wild Roses
A Taste of Fire
Highland Destiny
Highland Honor
Highland Promise
A Stockingful of Joy
Highland Vow
Highland Knight
Highland Hearts
Highland Bride
Highland Angel
Highland Groom
Highland Warrior
Reckless
Highland Conqueror
Highland Champion
Highland Lover
Highland Vampire
Conqueror’s Kiss
Highland Barbarian
Beauty and the Beast
Highland Savage
Highland Thirst
Highland Wedding
Highland Wolf
Silver Flame
Highland Fire
Nature of the Beast
Highland Captive
Highland Sinner
Published by Zebra Books
HIGHLAND CAPTIVE
HANNAH HOWELL
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
HIGHLAND CAPTIVE
Books by Hannah Howell
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
HIGHLAND SINNER,
Chapter One
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter One
Scotland, 1500
Astonishment froze the handsome, young man’s face when the sturdy horse he had mounted buckled beneath him, collapsing and sending him tumbling to the ground. For a moment he simply stared at the white stallion nimbly rising. Brushing himself off as he too rose, he glared at the small figure who sat not far away laughing helplessly.
“Brat,” he said affectionately, a grin beginning to shape his mouth. “When did ye teach the beast that trick?”
“While ye were tasting the wicked life in Aberdeen, Leith.”
Leith grinned as he lay down next to his sister, his arms crossed beneath his head. “Aye, and a hearty taste I had too.”
“Wicked, wicked.” Aimil sighed, but her aquamarine eyes sparkled with laughter. “What would Aunt Morag say?”
“Please, Lord, that I will never ken,” Leith remarked feelingly as he sat up. “We had best be headed back. The day wanes.”
“Och, must we? I have seen naught but the inside of that place for the past month.”
“‘Tis safer, what with the MacGuins raiding again. I shouldnae have let ye persuade me on this jaunt. Not even when ye do look like a wee beggar boy. We might pass unseen, but that stallion of yours would surely catch the eye.” He clasped her hand in his and led her toward their horses. “Now tell me about this wedding that all talk about.” He saw her pale. “Oho...is that the way of it then?”
“Aye. I ken I must, but I cannae abide the thought of it. I dinnae even like Rory Fergueson.”
Neither did Leith but he refrained from saying it. “I shall talk to Father.”
“I dinnae think it will do any good. This marriage has been set since the cradle. I may be his kin, but he is sore anxious to be rid of me.”
There was little to deny for Leith knew it was sadly true. Since the day Aimil had begun to look more like a woman than a child, their father had ignored her. Not only was Leith confused by their father’s attitude but his two elder sisters and two younger brothers also were as was most everyone else in the clan. Any attempt to broach the subject with their father, however, met with silence or fury. Now he was about to give Aimil in marriage to a man about whom some very unsavory things were said.
“I will still talk to him. Has he given ye any reason for the marriage?”
“Aye, ‘tis time I wed,” she replied somewhat bitterly. “And that it was a promise to an old friend.”
“That isnae good enough. If ye must wed a man ye dinnae want, father can give you a damn good reason why. Even if it was set while ye still rocked in your cradle.”
Aimil smiled at her brother’s anger. Leith was much like their father. He could bark orders and expect immediate obedience. Unlike their sire, however, he felt a reason should be given if it was asked for. She knew his anger and determination did not mean that she would be released from marrying Rory Fergueson, but it was comforting to have an ally. At least he might force their father to better explain the why of it all.
An alliance had been her first thought for though they were far from poor the Mengues were a small clan and were often targeted by the MacGuins. That theory had been dispelled for an alliance already existed as far as she knew. Her sisters’, Giorsal’s and Jennet’s, marriages already attached the Mengues to the MacVerns and the Broths which had greatly added to the Mengues’ strength. She did not believe that marrying Rory Fergueson would make any difference at all except to make her life miserable.
Leith felt an urgency to get home and not because it was growing late. He knew that their father was well aware of the man Rory had become. Just as Leith could not understand his father’s attitude toward Aimil, the prettiest and most personable of his daughters, so too was he unable to understand how their father could think of marrying her off to such a man. The more Leith thought of his favorite sibling in the hands of Rory Fergueson, the more determined he became to put a stop to the marriage.
Whatever plans Leith may have begun were lost as horsemen bearing the MacGuin colors burst upon the quiet glade. Young Artair MacGuin wondered what young fools had so unwittingly placed themselves in the path of his raiding party’s return to its lair. Recognizing the Mengue colors, he thought to impress his elder brother with some captives for ransom. The excellant horseflesh the pair of lads had with them was a prize worth taking as well. His brother had not sanctified Artair’s raids but Artair felt sure that such gain would ease whatever anger was aroused by them.
Drawing his sword, Leith stood firmly between Aimil and the MacGuin raiders, pushing her toward her h
orse. “Flee while ye can. I will try to hold them.”
The instant’s pause Aimil took while pondering the desertion of her brother cost her dearly. She had barely vaulted onto the back of her steed when a MacGuin was there, trying to seize her reins. He received a small booted foot in the face which sent him flying. She realized it was only a temporary victory for she was surrounded by MacGuins and prevented from making a run for safety. She and her horse put up a valiant battle nonetheless, leaving many a MacGuin and his mount with bruises to remember. The melee seemed to last for hours, but Aimil knew it was only of a few moments’ duration. A scowling man ended it swiftly by the judicious wielding of the flat of his sword against her head. As she slumped into unconciousness, she saw her brother fall beneath a half-dozen MacGuins. The last sound she made was a terrifying scream that Leith was about to be murdered.
The strong smell of horseflesh was her first sensation as she edged back into awareness. She then realized that she was tied to the back of her horse, her face pressed against his sweat-dampened coat. They moved at a ground-covering pace, but her body seemed numb to the abuse. All except her head, she mused with regret, which throbbed with each hoof-beat. She could not see Leith so she could only assume that he was in a similar ignominious position just out of view. The thought that he might be dead was one she forcibly rejected.
The strong keep of the MacGuins came into her limited range of vision, and the horses slowed their pace. Her heart sank for, once inside the gates, it would be nearly impossible to escape. Though no soldier, she easily recognized the strength of the place as a fortress and a prison. There was no doubt in her mind that she and Leith would be ransomed, but even the shortest term of imprisonment made her quake. Was her disguise still intact, she fretted, and, if it was, how long would it remain? She had heard enough to know how she would be treated if these fierce Highland raiders discovered that one of the lads they held was really a lass.
“So, ye be awake. Weel, I will wager all the fight has been ridden out of ye, laddie.”
Her eyes closed briefly in relief then she glared at the burly, dark man who was untying her bonds. He looked nothing like a man who would cut a man’s heart out without a blink, but she was wiser now. She did not trust so easily, especially not in her own opinions. After all, she had felt that her father’s love was secure and she had been proven painfully wrong.
“Here now, there isnae any use in your looking like that, me wee ghillie,” the man scolded jovially as he released the last bond holding Aimil, then caught her as she slid helplessly from the broad back of Elfking. “Ye are in no state to carry out the threat in them eyes.”
“Put them in the dungeon, Malcolm,” Artair ordered coldly.
Still supporting the weakened Aimil, Malcolm frowned. “They be only a pair of lads and nae too healthy ones at the moment.”
Artair scowled. “Those lads have sore bruised half my men. Aye, and several good mounts. In the dungeon with them. Leastwise there I willnae have to worry about a close guard until Parlan returns and decides what is to be done with them. Best if he decides the ransom to be asked.”
Malcolm continued to frown as he picked Aimil up in his arms, since the lad seemed too groggy to walk. He noted that the other young man needed carrying as well. To put two young boys into the pit, as the dungeon was aptly called, seemed cruel. They were in no condition to be a threat. Prisoners they might be, but Malcolm felt sure the laird would not treat them so callously. He was at the steps of the keep before he realized the huge white stallion was following at his heels, treating any who tried to stop him with lethal viciousness. Malcolm eyed the horse with an astonishment tinged with fear.
“Put me down.”
“Ye cannae even stand upright,” Malcolm grumbled, uneasily eyeing the huge horse that faced him.
“Then hold me upright. I must speak to Elfking or he will kill to stay with me.”
Steadying Aimil, Malcolm was not the only one who watched in near awe as the small boy caressed the stallion’s head, crooning, “Nay, Elfking, ye cannae follow. Stay with the men. Stay. We will be here but a wee while. Stay with the men.” Aimil felt the thick fog of unconsciousness claiming her again. “I think ye must carry me again, Master Malcolm, if ye would, please.”
“It isnae right,” Malcolm grumbled a bit later as he watched the door secured over the unconscious prisoners.
“Ye have ever been soft of heart, Malcolm,” one of the other men said with no real condemnation.
“Aye, but he is right this time,” remarked Lagan Dunmore, a cousin to the laird, who often visited with the MacGuins.
“Right or wrong, Artair’s the laird whilst Parlan is away. He said to put the lads in here so here they be staying.”
Lagan exchanged a helpless look with Malcolm then sighed. “Weel then, let us pray that Parlan returns soon or there will be naught for the ransoming.”
“Aye, only for the burying,” Malcolm said heavily before stalking away.
Darkness greeted Aimil when she woke. As she lay trying to come to her senses, she became more aware of her surroundings. There was a pervasive damp, and beneath her hands was cold, moist earth. By the time she spotted the grate over her head, she knew she was in a dungeon, perhaps even an oubliette. She fought the urge to scream for she knew it would be fruitless and she did not want to expose her terror.
Blocking out the feel and knowledge of the myriad of small creatures that no doubt shared the pit, she groped around for Leith. In so small an area it was easy to find him. He was still unconscious so she settled his head upon her lap, her hands gently searching his form for serious wounds.
“Aimil?” Leith groaned as he tried to sit up only to fall back with an oath.
“I am right here, Leith. Where are ye hurt? I cannae tell by feeling ye, and ‘tis too dark to see,” she muttered.
“‘Tis all right. A few scratches and more bruises than I care to count. Dinnae fash yourself.”
She frowned for his voice was weak and strained but, without any light, she could not tell if he was lying. “We have been tossed in a ground dungeon.”
He searched out her hand to clasp it comfortingly. “It willnae be for long. We are for ransoming. Father will be quick to buy us free.” A shaky laugh escaped him. “They must have been sore impressed with us to lock us up so tightly. We being but a pair of lads.”
Knowing that he sought confirmation that her disguise still held, she replied, “Aye. What should I tell them when they ask my name?”
“Tell them ye are Shane. Father will ken what is about and will follow through with the subterfuge. Aye, he will be glad of it.”
“He must wonder where we are even now.” She sighed, knowing that her father would be sorely worried, if only for Leith.
Just as Lachlan Mengue had noted the absence of his two offspring, word had come that the MacGuins had raided the Ferguesons. He began to fear the worst as the searchers he had hastily dispatched continued to find no sign of Leith or Aimil. Instinct told him that they had been caught. Several places they often rode to could have been in the path of the retreating MacGuin raiding party, a prize easily snatched up. Only a fool would miss seeing what an easy chance for ransom they presented, and Parlan MacGuin was no fool.
As night faded into another day, Lachlan sat drinking and praying for some word, any word. His heir and his youngest daughter were a loss he was not sure he could bear despite four other children who could have consoled him. In anticipation of a ransom demand, he began to review his purse and his options for supplementing it. Even as yet another day passed with no word, he clung to the thought that they were prisoners. Anyone who even looked as if he might think differently suffered the heat of Lachlan’s impressive temper. His children were alive, and he refused to consider anything else unless their lifeless bodies were brought before him to be seen with his own eyes.
Aimil very much feared for her brother’s life. His injuries may have been slight but they had been untended. Two days and n
ights in the cold, damp hole had sapped his strength. He was unconscious more than he was conscious. She was also certain that he was feverish. Meager food once a day and a thin blanket had not helped at all. She could not believe the callousness of the guards who ignored her increasing pleas. Two men had shown some pity, but they were gone. The less compassionate men who had taken their place hinted that that consideration had been the reason the other two were gone from Dubhglenn.
By the time a man arrived with the daily ration of food late on the fourth day, there was no longer any question in Aimil’s mind that her brother was feverish. She held him as he ranted, weeping over her inability even to bathe his face. She had slept little during the night, dozing only during the few times her brother was quiet. Her dirty face streaked with tears, she glared at the man who peered down at them.
“Will ye not take him from this rat hole now?”
“I cannae, laddie,” the man said with sympathy for the tear-streaked child who stared up at him. “The laird hasnae returned yet. His brother holds this place and he willnae free ye.”
“Then he is a fool. He will have naught for ransoming. Even a blind man can see that my brother is feverish. He could easily die.”
The man did not have the heart to tell how Artair was indeed blind, blind drunk, and that he had been since the successful raid. There was no hope of reaching the man, of getting him to understand the plight of his captives. None dared to act without word from Artair. To remind him of Parlan’s fury if he should return to find a dead youth only gained a beating. There was nothing that could be done until Parlan returned. With a sigh, the man closed the grate, wincing at the stream of abuse that came from the hole. The small boy had a vicious, colorful tongue. The man felt no urge to retalliate, however. He only wished that Artair was there to be verbally lashed for he deserved it.
“How is Artair this eve?” he asked the guard at the head of the stairs that led to the dungeons, emboldened enough by pity for the two boys to consider approaching Artair.
“Sore-headed and drinking to cure it. How fare the lads?”
“If the laird doesnae return in a day or twa, there will be but one laddie in that hole and him with a rightful vengeance to take.”
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