Highland Captive

by Hannah Howell

  “‘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.

  Parlan watched her as she stared at her father. She reminded him of a starving child viewing a feast being devoured by others who offered not even the scraps. It was a situation that escaped his understanding. Too often a parent was burdened with an unloving child yet this man turned his back on one who adored him. Parlan grimaced over the twinge of jealousy that assailed him.

  He watched Lachlan Mengue closely when Aimil approached the table, reluctantly obeying his signal to join them. When she came into Lachlan’s view, there was an instant brightening in the man’s blue eyes but it was quickly veiled. A man did not try to bury his affection for his child unless there was a good reason. Parlan was determined to discover that reason.

  “Hello, Father,” Aimil whispered as she sat down next to Parlan. “I am sorry for this trouble.”

  “So ye should be. I am told that Leith heals weel?” He seemed blind to the color that surged into her cheeks.

  “Aye.” She swallowed her hurt over his attitude. “He nears full health with admirable speed. He is well cared for.”

  After those few words, Lachlan proceeded to ignore her. She struggled to eat, to act as if it did not matter. A glimpse of a fleeting look of pity in Lagan’s brown eyes told her that she was not fooling anybody, and her food was hard to swallow. A few minutes later, she could stand it no longer and rose to leave, wincing when everyone’s attention turned to her. Parlan eased the moment some by nodding slightly and signaling Lagan to go with her. Without a glance at her father, she hurried out of the hall.

  “Ye ask far too large a ransom,” Lachlan said as soon as the last bite of food had been swallowed. “Ye dinnae hold the king, ye ken.”

  “I hold your heir and youngest daughter,” Parlan reminded him, his voice soft but firm.

  “I have other sons. Two. I wouldnae be left without an heir. Rory Fergueson can find himself another bride as weel.”

  Parlan ached to speak on that marriage but knew that the time was not right. He and Lachlan dickered over the price, Parlan staying icily calm and Lachlan fighting to keep his temper. Even though Parlan sympathized, he did not ease his stance. He had to drag the business out for as long as possible.

  “At such a cost I can only buy one of my bairns back. I willnae have the coin for the other for months.”

  “Then ye best choose which one ye mean to leave in my care.” Parlan intended to erect another obstacle if the man chose to free Aimil.

  “T’will be my firstborn, my heir. He must take precedence. I will need some time to gather the coin.”

  “‘Tis as weel. The boy is best off where he is for a while longer.”

  “I dinnae like leaving my daughter in your hands. She is a fair wee lass.”

  “Your daughter will suffer no hurt at my hands or my men’s. Do ye wish to see your son?”

  As Parlan had hoped, Lachlan did not press the issue of Aimil. The man was in a precarious position. No matter what Lachlan suspected he could not make accusations. If he offended Parlan, he lost too much. Parlan could see that the situation sorely annoyed the man, annoyed him to the point of fury.

  “Didnae ye have any gowns for the lass to wear?” Lachlan burst out as they left the hall.

  “Nay. She was found in lad’s clothes. Aye, we thought her a lad, your son Shane, until she was climbing down my walls and her cap was taken by the wind. We dressed her in the best we had. Feel welcome to send clothes for her of your own choosing.”

  “All she owns now is her trousseau,” grumbled Lachlan. “I cannae send that. ‘Tis held for her marriage.”

  When they entered Leith’s chambers, Parlan was not surprised to find Aimil there. He had guessed that she would seek out one who loved her to ease the sting of her father’s apparent indifference. The warmth with which Lachlan greeted his son was salt in Aimil’s wound that even Parlan felt. He was sorely tempted to strike the older man. All that stayed his hand was the sure feeling that Lachlan did not feel as he acted, that some deep reason drove him to act as he did.

  Aimil tried to lose herself in the shadows of the room. Slowly, she edged toward the door. That her actions were not unseen was attested to by Lagan being only a step away no matter how many steps she took toward the door. So too did she sense Parlan watching her. Neither mattered to her. All she was interested in was getting away from her father’s coldness.

  “Ye will be coming home soon, son,” remarked Lachlan, his gaze assuring him that the youth was regaining his health.

  “The ransom is too high,” Leith protested, wondering if Parlan’s plan had failed or, wor
se, if he had been a fool to listen to Parlan and to trust him.

  “Aye, but I have talked him down a bit.” Lachlan moved to look out the window. “I am also paying only part of it.”

  “Which part?” Leith whispered, yet dreading the answer for he suspected it would hurt Aimil.

  “Yours.”

  For a moment Aimil did not believe what she had heard. “Am I not to be ransomed?”

  “Not now. The cost is too high.” Lachlan kept his back to her.

  “When?” she asked in a small voice, not afraid to stay with Parlan but deeply hurt by her father’s actions.

  “I dinnae ken.”

  Knowing she was going to cry, she bolted from the room. Blinded to the startled looks that came her way, she raced through the keep and headed for the stables. She collapsed on the hay near Elfking and wept.

  Her father had ignored her for years, but this was worse. To leave her in the hands of her captors was a blatant indication of how little she mattered to him. He could not know how she was treated. Even if he did, he was not so blind that he did not see the threat to her chastity, to the honor of the Mengue name. It was plain to see that he cared nothing for her, not even that she carried his name.

  “Ye are a hard bastard,” Lagan growled before the door had even shut behind Aimil.

  “Enough, Lagan. Follow the girl. Be sure she is all right.” Parlan stared at Lachlan after Lagan had left. “He is right, for all that.”

  “I havenae the funds to ransom both of them. The heir is more important than the youngest daughter.” Lachlan eyed the Black Parlan with little friendliness. “Ye wouldnae take my word that the money will come and let me take both away now.”

  “There is no doubt in my mind that your word is good, but I want the coin in my hand before I release either of them.”

  “Aye, so I thought. I will bring the money for the lad in a fortnight. I cannae say yet when I will buy back the girl.” He paused at the door. “I trust her in your care. She must not come to harm.”

  “I have said that the girl willnae be hurt whilst she is in my care.”