As he watched the girl ride, he recognized her skill, a skill increased by the obvious rapport between rider and horse. With her hair unbound, her lithe shape nearly one with her animal of such grace and speed, there was an air of other worldliness to the pair. Parlan decided that Elfking was a suitable name for the milk-white stallion.
So thought Malcolm and Lagan who followed with a small group of men. They crested a small rise to see Parlan and the girl galloping over an open field. The sight of the black horse with its large dark rider pursuing the white horse with its small fair rider conjured up a vast number of fanciful images. To see two such magnificent animals racing was spellbinding. It would be a close-run race, and both men agreed that they and their horses would not even be in the running.
“We will ne’er catch them.”
“Nay, Malcolm, but ye ken that we must follow. Parlan may need aid if he catches her. ‘Tis also unwise for him to be abroad alone.”
Malcolm followed as Lagan urged the group to ride on, but he grumbled, “Nae sure I want to be about if Parlan loses the race.”
Parlan was determined to win but he knew it would be the most difficult race he had ever been involved in. Despite appearances, the girl did not hold all the advantages. The ground was unfamiliar to her and had already stolen some of her lead. He grimly followed and awaited his chance.
Aimil clearly recognized her weaknesses. She had watched her lead eaten away as she faltered to avoid an obstruction, one her pursuer had already adjusted for. One look at him had been all she had needed as it made her think that Satan himself was at her heels and, if rumors about Black Parlan could be believed, he was or at least one of his henchman.
It was not speed, skill, knowledge, nor terrain that ended the race, but something so insignificant that Aimil wondered if fate was playing games with her. She felt the subtle change in Elfking’s gait and knew she was lost. Elfking would run until his heart stopped if she asked it of him, but she never would. Neither could she cripple him perhaps to the point where he had to be destroyed. None of the fears that had prompted her attempt to escape were strong enough to make her do that. Weeping silently with frustration, she halted him and dismounted to look at his leg.
The change in Elfking’s gait had quickly been seen by Parlan. He cursed, feeling certain that a female would continue to ride an injured animal until the injury was past fixing. Because of that cynical view, he was unprepared for her halt and overshot his quarry. By the time he got his steed under control and turned round, she was sitting on the ground, staring at something in her hand. He dismounted and quietly moved to where she sat by Elfking, who appeared to be suffering only a tender hoof.
“A pebble,” she remarked dejectedly. “I would have made it save for this.”
“Aye, I think ye might have.” He signaled the newly-arrived men to keep her from Elfking.
“‘Tis all your fault,” she snapped as she surged to her feet and flung the pebble at him.
Flinching as it struck his cheek, he growled, “What in the Devil’s name are ye on about? I had naught to do with this.”
In too high a temper to care who she was yelling at, Aimil gladly replied. “Men,” she said in a voice heavy with disgust. “Aye, and ye most of all. I could have stayed with Leith if it werenae for men, animals that ye are. Aye, ye and your damnable appetites. That is why I had to climb down the keep wall and near crippled Elfking.”
“My appetites?” Parlan asked, laughing, his gaze flicking from her face to her finger prodding his chest to punctuate her remarks.
The way she stood berating him amused him as well as stirred his admiration. He could snap her slim lovely neck with one good blow yet she faced him squarely. Her delicate face, with its wide, slightly-tilted, aquamarine eyes, drew his appreciation even when it was flushed with anger. Again he wondered how old she was for there was the promise of passion already visible in her full mouth. Her age suddenly became a question of immediate importance to him. His gaze fell to the pourpoint she wore, but it hid any curves she might have.
“Take your doublet off,” he ordered, not giving any thought to how that might sound, but only concerned with discovering her true age.
Aimil gaped then grew even more furious. “Go to hell.”
Parlan’s amusement fled for he was not accustomed to such resistance or having his wishes denied. “Ye will do as I say, wench.”
Being called a wench only increased her fury. “When cows grow wings I will.” She swore when he began to see to her compliance himself. “Get your paws off me, ye great hairy brute.”
Trying to hold her steady as he unlaced her doublet, and wondering crossly how she could be so slippery, he snapped, “I mean to see how old ye are, brat.”
“Ye neednae take my clothes off for that.”
“How old are ye then?” His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he watched her face.
She suddenly realized her age could determine how she was treated, and why it was of interest to him. “Twelve.”
He grinned, catching her flailing hands by the wrists and securing them behind her with one large hand. “Then ye will-nae care about the loss of this”—he finished unlacing her doublet—“for there will be naught to see.” He held her close to stop her squirming as he worked.
Alex, the young man Aimil had knocked out, suddenly came upon the scene. He had come to inside Leith’s room when the lass had whistled for Elfking. Although somewhat groggy and loathe to ride a horse, Alex had followed the riders. Guilt over his part in her escape drove him.
“Watch out for the wench’s knee,” he called out as he dismounted somewhat gingerly.
Aimil squirmed not only to try to escape but to position herself for attack. Much to her annoyance, her previous victim’s warning came just in time to save Parlan from the full force of her knee, but he still loosed his grip on her, bending over in an instinctive gesture. But, when she swung her two-handed fist toward his head, he caught her by the wrists before the blow could connect. She suddenly found herself on her back, staring up into a dark face made all the darker by fury. Fleetingly, she noticed that he had positioned himself so that her knee was no longer a viable weapon. He had, in fact, rendered her almost immobile.
When he pulled out his knife, she tensed. There were two things he could do with it. She actually found herself hoping that he meant to cut off the short, padded tunic she had refused to remove, and sighed almost with relief when he did. An affront to her modesty was far easier to bear than a cut throat or pierced heart. The chastity she was struggling to protect seemed minor compared to keeping her life. She did think, however, that he could cease staring so hard.
Parlan was struggling hard not to stare but most of his will had gone to quelling the strong desire to take her there and then. Since she had put the doublet on over her shirt, she had not bothered to lace the shirt thus giving him an almost unobstructed view. His hands itched to flick the shirt open to reveal what he judged might be the most exquisite breasts he had ever seen. One of the things that stopped him was that he had no wish for the men encircling them to share that sight. He intended to be the only one to enjoy the pleasure of viewing her beauty.
“Ye are a weel-formed twelve, lass.” He finally tore his gaze from her breasts and looked at her face.
“Oh, verra weel, I was seventeen last Michaelmas. Satisfied?” she snapped.
He leaned down until their faces were very close. “T’will take more than a peek to satisfy my damnable appetites.”
She flushed then scowled at his amusement at his barb. What truly bothered her was her awareness of him as a man. His dark, good looks and strong, well-formed body were arousing an uncomfortable interest. There was fear stirred by his suggestion, but she suspected it was no more than any virgin would feel when faced with her first bedding. Her body’s indiscriminate desires annoyed her. After all, she had been wooed and left unmoved by many a handsome Lowland gentleman and yet her body had the gall to warm to a barbarous Highlander.
If one overlooked that he was a MacGuin, she mused, as well as the unsavory tales told about him, and studied him simply as a man, there was no denying that he was very fine indeed. His face with its high, wide cheekbones and the modest aquiline cut of his nose gave him a fierce, hawkish look which was far from unattractive. Black brows, gently winged, rose above surprisingly heavily-lashed eyes giving him a saturnine air, an air increased by the darkness of his skin and the midnight black of his long hair. He had to be one of the tallest men she had ever seen, possibly even topping six foot, and was muscular without the lumps or ridges some men developed. The partially-opened shirt and the lack of hose with his kilt let her see that he had a fine layer of hair on his broad chest and a light coat on his long, muscular legs.
He was big and, she grudgingly admitted, beautiful, but she would not let that sway her. Black Parlan was a MacGuin, the laird of that thieving clan, and a Highlander. She knew rumor and tale should not condemn a man, that in the newly-marked century of 1500 men did not, could not, do such things as roast babies and dine upon them, but it could not all be discounted. Behind all gossip and rumor there was usually some hint of truth. There was little doubt in her mind that he certainly did take his pleasure of women freely and with great gusto. It was not all that, however, which would make her fight if he sought to possess her. Instinct told her that she could lose more than her chastity and that terrifed her. But she had no intention of revealing her terror.
“Now that ye ken what ye wished to, will ye get off me, ye great ox?” she snapped. “I cannae feel my legs anymore.”
“I would be quite glad to feel them for ye.” He met her glare with a grin, and his men laughed.
“How verra amusing.” His cockiness replaced her fear with annoyance. “Will ye remove your great hulking self before I am crippled for life? What is it?”
Her last question was asked softly and somewhat anxiously for his face had suddenly darkened with anger. Her gaze followed his to her breasts again, but she could see nothing worth such fury only a few bruises from the young man’s attack. That the bruises enraged him was made suddenly very clear, and it took Aimil a moment to get over her surprise.
Parlan surged to his feet and softly, too softly, asked her young attacker, “How did ye ken the way the lass would protect herself?”
Clearly, if a little shakily, the young man replied, “She used it on me when I attacked her.”
His words had barely cleared his lips when a blow from Parlan sent him reeling. Scrambling to her feet and clutching her shirt closed, Aimil gasped as the laird of the MacGuins sentenced her would-be ravisher to an alarming number of lashes. Although the young man paled, he made no protest nor did any of the others look surprised. It was evident that the notorious Black Parlan did not tolerate the abuse of women, and did, in fact, consider it a crime worthy of harsh punishment. Aimil decided she would wonder later how that contradicted the image painted of the man. Right now, she felt she had to intervene for it was too harsh a punishment. She had to let it be known how little the man had accomplished.
“Nay, nay,” she cried, clutching Parlan’s tensed arm. “It wasnae so bad.”
“Enjoyed it, did ye?” purred Parlan, angered by her defense of the young man.
“Dinnae be an idiot,” she snapped, causing several of Parlan’s men to gasp. “I didnae mean that. I meant t’was naught but a kiss and a wee grapple.”
“A kiss and a wee grapple wouldnae leave such marks.”
“Aye, they would and, even so, t’wasnae all his fault. I was wearing naught but this shirt and that undone. Aye, and my hair was loose. He was expecting twa lads not what he found. T’was but a brief tussle before I knocked him out, and, ‘tis true, I bruise easily.” She saw the doubt in his eyes and asked, “Did ye mean to mark me just now?”
“Nay,” he replied, stiffening with outrage, “I dinnae hold with the rough handling of women. And ye being so wee I thought ye may be but a child.”
She bit back an angry retort for his reference to her lack of size and held out her wrists. The marks his hands had left were already livid and clearly delineated. She smiled slightly at his shock.
“As I said, I bruise most easily. ‘Tis a fault of the skin. They will fade as quickly and they dinnae hurt. Truth tell, I think the bruises I gifted him with are far worse,” she murmured, a faint color tinting her cheeks.
Looking at the awkward stance of the young man, Parlan bit back a grin. “I will let it pass this time, Alex, but if I hear even a whisper of the like occurring again, ye will suffer twofold. I ken ye will be weel reminded for a day or twa of your error. Aye, and for far longer will ye be hearing the jests of the men concerning your defeat at the hands of such a wee lass. T’will do as punishment.”
He grasped Aimil by the arm. “We will return to the keep now. Malcolm, ye will lead her stallion.” He sighed when Malcolm reached for Elfking only to be greeted by a horsey snarl. “M’lady, wouldst ye be so kind as to direct your beast to follow Malcolm?” he asked with exaggerated politeness.
She obeyed with an equally false politeness then stood embarrassed and angry as he laced her shirt much as if she were a child. On the ride back to the MacGuin keep, she sat before him on Raven and said nothing, disappointed by her failure to escape. But she was also fighting the way her body was reacting to the closeness of his, to his strength and his maleness. When they reached the keep, she dutifully told Elfking to stay and set off to see Leith, but was steered into the hall, sat down, and given some ale.
“Ye are plainly not Shane Mengue so who are ye?” Parlan asked when they were all seated at a table, with food and drink set before them.
“Aimil Siubhan O’Connell Mengue, Lachlan Mengue’s youngest daughter.”
“Then ye will still fetch a fine ransom. I had feared ye were naught but the lad’s woman thus not worth a groat.”
He did not have the slightest inclination of letting anyone know there was more to it than economics. Parlan suspected that the restlessness and dissatisfaction he had suffered of late would soon end. It had bothered him to think that this tiny woman was no more than Leith Mengue’s whore. Her youth, lack of wedding ring and position indicated that she was very probably a virgin which also pleased him. For once, he not only wanted to be the first, he avidly desired it.
The problem, he mused, would be in getting her into his bed. She was small and delicate but recent incidents had clearly revealed her strength and courage. Seduction might take a long time for he sensed that she had the wit to see through such a ploy and he could not trust his patience. Not only the rules he enforced on his men stopped him from taking her but an absolute loathing of forcing an unwilling woman. To get her into his bed, he needed something to bargain with, a choice to give her that would, hopefully, cause her to come to him with at least a token willingness.
Studying her, he tried to find one particular attribute of hers that could account for his strong desire. Her figure was not without draw, especially her exquisite breasts, yet he had always preferred a fuller shape. Her face was lovely, but he had known many as lovely, even lovelier although her eyes, with their extremely long and dark lashes, he deemed peerless. Delicately arched brows, a small straight nose, and the way her small oval face tapered into a stubborn chin had their appeal but should not cause a man to ache with need as he was.
Suddenly he smiled to himself. He was searching for what could not be seen with the eyes. Although no romantic, he knew it was neither face nor form that caused a man to forsake all other women for one woman or stirred a desire that demanded satisfaction. In the short time he had known her, Aimil Mengue had revealed several characteristics he had begun to think women no longer possessed. Skill in riding and consideration for her mount came to mind for he was first and foremost a knight, a man of battle who knew how valuable a good horse could be. She had courage amply displayed by her attempt to escape and her refusal to quail before him. He had felt her strength when he had wrestled with her. Her i
ntervention in Alex’s case had shown she had a sense of justice. He was eager to discover other facets to her character.
“Will ye send my father the ransom demands now, Sir MacGuin?” she asked, breaking into his musings. “He must be sore worried by now.”
“Aye, it must seem as if ye have been swallowed up by the earth itself. My brother should have at least sent your father word that ye were held here. I must assess your value however,” he added. He then watched her intently as he said, “There will be enough time before the ransoming is done for ye to turn your horse to my hand.”
“Nay, there will never be enough time for that.”
“Lass, I intend to have that horse.”
“Weel, ye just try but ye will gain no aid from me. Elfking is mine. He was born second in a twin birth and was weak and looked runty. He would have been left to die as such beasts are but I took him. I handfed him the mare’s milk his stronger sibling denied him and I raised him. He is mine and there is naught that will change that, not even the great Black Parlan himself,” she sneered.
“Ye have a knack for trying a man’s patience.”
“So it has been said.” She watched him as she ate some of her food.
Parlan leaned back in his chair. “So ye willnae help me to win the stallion’s favor.”
“Nay, I willnae help ye to steal my horse.” She thought the way he quirked his brow over one eye an impressive gesture then blushed and stared at her ale when barely-stifled laughter and Parlan’s grin told her she had spoken her thoughts aloud.
“Thank ye, mistress.”
“Ye are verra welcome,” she grumbled with a distinct lack of grace while wondering if she would ever learn to control her tongue.
“Ye do ken that I can keep the beast whether ye do as I ask or not.”
“Aye, but t’will gain ye naught. He will come to me as soon as he is able.”
Highland Captive Page 4
