“I belong to Parlan,” she cried as she tried to twist away from the hand that traced her curves.
“Oh ho, do ye now? Where did he find you?” His eyes suddenly widened then narrowed as he looked her over. “By God’s santy,” he breathed. “Ye are the Mengue lad. I must have been weel in my cups that day not to see it.” He took off her bonnet and roughly mussed her neatly tied back hair. “Weel, ye are my prize then. Parlan will see that.”
“Nay,” she gasped, trying to avoid the kiss he tried to press upon her mouth. “I am Parlan’s.” She could not believe that assertion was not enough to stop Artair.
He ignored her, his gaze fixed upon the thick waves of bright hair he had freed. “B’Gad, that is lovely. Be still, wench,” he growled. “I brought ye here so ye are my prize. I willnae trouble or waste time asking Parlan about it.”
A soft cry escaped her when he roughly grabbed her by the throat, his fingers gripping her jaw so that she could not turn her head. Her stomach rolled when he slammed his mouth against hers. Try as she would, she could not get her leg between his to cripple him briefly with a blow to the groin and then, hopefully, escape. Instead, she sank her teeth through his lip, filling her mouth with the warm, salty taste of his blood and nearly making herself ill.
He jerked away from her with a bellow of pain, blood streaming down his chin. Even as she broke free of his loosened grip, he grasped her by the arm and backhanded her across the face, hard enough to send her sprawling. She tried to gather her dazed wits to scramble out of his reach, but he caught her up by the front of her pourpoint and slapped her again. Aimil thought, a little wildly, that Artair clearly did not adhere to his brother’s ways. Groggily, she lay watching as he reached for her a third time, spitting curses her ringing ears could not understand, only to hear a roar of fury and see Artair flung aside like a bundle of rags.
She was not really surprised to see Parlan. She had recognized the roar. What did surprise her was the extent of the fury her pain-blurred gaze could see in him. That Artair could see it too was revealed by the stark terror on his face.
The only clear thought in her head was to stop something terrible from occurring between the brothers. If Parlan only meant to beat Artair, she would not care. However, Parlan’s blind rage did not make her confident that he would know when to stop. With a cry, she forced her aching body to move and flung herself at him, clasping her arms tightly around his neck and wrapping her legs around his waist. She hoped that, if only because of the time it would take him to dislodge her, a little sanity would soon prevail.
Parlan instinctively put his arms around her, but it was awhile before he could unclench his fists. His breath came in harsh gasps, and he briefly squeezed his eyes shut as he fought the red haze that had encircled his mind the instant he had seen Artair strike Aimil. The first clear thought he had was that he had come very close to trying to kill his own brother. In a cold, flat voice he ordered twenty lashes for Artair.
“Parlan,” gasped Artair as Lagan grabbed him by the arms and pinned them behind him.
“Now. Quickly. Before I change my mind and banish him instead.”
Peering at Artair, Aimil noticed that he was ghost-white as Lagan dragged him away. “Parlan...”
“Say nothing.”
She pressed her lips together and buried her face in his neck as he strode to their chambers. She stayed silent as cold cloths were applied to her face in hopes of keeping the swelling down and lessening the bruises. Even through the meal they ate in their chambers, she said not a word.
Plenty of words swirled in her mind, but she bit them back. Not only was she unsure of what to say but Parlan looked too cold and too remote to make her brave speech. She feared she had failed miserably in stopping something terrible from happening between the brothers. Along with that fear was the deeper one that he would blame her for the trouble. It would be unfair for she had done nothing to tempt Artair, but that did not mean that Parlan might not think she had or that Artair might not claim she had.
When Lagan arrived, she retreated to the bed to sit huddled amongst the pillows. He sent her a brief look of sympathy, and her fears eased a little. If he did not blame her for what had occurred, then perhaps Parlan would not either.
“Is it done?”
“Aye, Parlan. Old Meg’s tending him.”
Parlan nodded curtly then moved to stare out the window into the moonlit bailey. Lagan gave Aimil an encouraging smile. He thought that she looked very much like a frightened child awaiting punishment. With one last glance at Parlan’s stiff back, he slipped from the room and headed straight for Artair’s chambers.
“Where’s Parlan? Doesnae he mean to come and gloat?” Artair rasped when Lagan strode in.
Glancing at the marks upon Artair’s back, Lagan realized that Malcolm had not held back at all. “Ye are a fool, Artair.”
“What did I do save to try for a wee bit of pleasure?”
“It looked to me as if ye were planning to beat her senseless. Is that your idea of pleasure?”
“Nay.” Artair’s gaze flinched away from Lagan’s for he was ashamed of his lack of control. “She bit clean through my lip.”
“Your mouth shouldnae have been anywhere near hers. She is Parlan’s.”
“Isnae she one of the Mengue pair? I caught them. By rights she should be my prize.”
“She is in Parlan’s bed. That gives him rights. She isnae there as a prize either. They made a bargain.”
“Weel, what matter that? He had no right to have this done to me.”
Artair sounded very much like a sulky, little boy, and Lagan shook his head in a gesture of disgust. “Ye got the same he would have given anyone else who tried to do what you did.”
“I am not just anyone else. I am his brother, his heir.”
“Ye are a drunkard and a foolish boy. Nay, dinnae whine and act wounded or insulted. Ye should be at his side, not me.”
“He doesnae want me there,” Artair groused with a whine to his voice, despite Lagan’s warning.
“Nay, he doesnae for he cannae trust ye to do as ye should or even to be sober enough to try. There isnae room for tolerance or second chances when lives are at stake as they so often are. He cannae risk it.”
“He never gave me a chance.”
“By the time ye were old enough to be of any use, ye had tasted the pleasures of flesh and drink and were wallowing in them.”
“What has that to do with all this?”
“More than I dare to hope ye would understand. If ye werenae so sodden with drink or trying to avoid the scold ye ken ye deserve by running to the fleshpots, ye would ken what goes on here. Ye would ken that that lass is Lachlan Mengue’s youngest daughter not some lowborn wench or whore. Ye would ken what it would mean if she was hurt. Ye would ken she was to be wed to Rory Fergueson and ye would ken how hard your brother is trying to stop that and why.” Lagan strode to the door, fed up with trying to talk sense into his young cousin. “Ye would ken as weel that, with each passing day, the wee lass ye were slapping about and planning to rape draws nearer to becoming the mistress of Dubhglenn.” He slammed the door after him, leaving Artair stunned and full of questions.
Lagan found Malcolm in the hall. Getting a tankard of ale, he sat down opposite the man. He recalled that he had had nothing to eat yet but, at that moment, was not particularly hungry.
“Ye didnae hold back on the lash.”
“Nay, I didnae. He deserved every stroke and nae just for trying to hurt that poor, wee lass.” Malcolm shook his head. “I must say, I am surprised that the laird ordered it done. I have often thought him too soft on Artair.”
“Ye wouldnae if ye had been there. He was close to killing the boy.”
“What stayed his hand?”
“‘Tis hard to beat a man to death when there is a woman clinging to ye. It was enough to make him pause and clear his head some. I ken that is why Aimil did it. Then he offered Artair the lashes or banishment.”
&nb
sp; “Jesu,” whispered Malcolm. “‘Tis not just a lusting he suffers then.”
“Nay. God alone kens what it is he does feel. Especially right now. He hasnae said a word. The poor lass sits there wondering if she will be blamed but doesnae speak. ‘Tis a strange mood gripping him. I left him staring out the window.”
“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 b
e 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.
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