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.
That Catarine’s meaning was lost on Aimil was clear to Parlan. His lovemaking had been varied but not as much as it could have been. He had curbed several inclinations out of respect for her innocence.
This time Aimil quickly guessed that the woman was playing games with her words. Using the pouring of a fresh tankard of wine as a cover, she leaned closer to Lagan. Before she made any response, she wished to be sure she understood.
“My mind has come up with a verra unsuitable meaning for her words. Can I be right?”
“I dinnae doubt it. Catarine is a whore, Aimil, and doesnae seem to ken any manners. Pay her no heed.” He glared at his cousin. “Ye grow crude, cousin.”
“And ye suddenly grow righteous, cousin. ‘Tis late in life for the child to be so protected.”
Aimil grit her teeth and said softly to Lagan, “If she calls me a child again, I willnae be responsible for my actions.”
Parlan gave up the pretense of talking to Malcolm. He knew all too well how sensitive Aimil was about her stature, about being seen as a child. Seeing the glint in her eyes, he waited with ill-disguised glee for Catarine to prod that sore once again. It was the one thing certain to make Aimil lose control.
“I ken that Parlan favors youth but he is near to robbing from the cradle with a wee lass such as ye are.”
“That does it,” Aimil hissed as she surged to her feet.
She picked up the nearest plate of a sweet made of fruit and cream. Before Catarine guessed what was happening, Aimil tossed it at the woman. Her aim was true, and Catarine’s screech was well-smothered by the sugary concoction. The curses the woman spat were covered by the laughter that roared around the table.
It was not so amusing to Aimil, even when Lagan dragged his sputtering cousin off to be cleaned up. She had been insulted by being called a child and she had reacted to that insult as a child would have. Embarrassed by her behavior, she hastily sat down.
“Och, lassie, that showed a verra fine aim,” Malcolm said with a big grin.
“Tsk, tsk,” clucked Parlan, his eyes alight with laughter. “Ye must learn to control that temper.”
Her embarrassment fled and she glared at Parlan. “Ye arenae able to say a great deal about that.”
“Ye havenae seen me hurling the food about.”
Deciding it was not safe to banter words with him, Aimil lapsed into silence. She had to give Catarine credit for not giving up easily when the woman returned attired in an even fancier gown. Aimil decided that she would not let her temper slip again no matter how the woman pressed her. She would bear all with the dignity of an adult and a lady.
It was not an easy vow to keep. Catarine seemed bent on becoming permanently attached to Parlan even though she had to reach across Malcolm to touch him. When Malcolm excused himself to take his turn at guard, Catarine quickly took his place at the table. After that, it was all Aimil could do to stop herself from lopping off the woman’s hands with the carving knife. The constant touching quickly became subtle then not-so subtle groping. Aimil’s jealousy ate away at her, exasperating the temper she sought to control. When Catarine’s hand disappeared beneath the table, Aimil’s patience gave out even though she restrained the urge to inflict extreme violence on the woman.
“Lost something, have ye?” she asked brightly, and peered under the table to see Catarine moving her hand between Parlan’s legs. “Allow me to help you,” she purred, and reached for Parlan.
As he was extracting Catarine’s hand, Parlan felt Aimil’s slim fingers give him a painful pinch. Leaping back with a shouted curse, he nearly unseated himself. Rubbing his abused parts, he glared at her.
“What the Devil did ye do that for?” he growled over the badly-stifled laughter of the men at the table.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” Aimil said primly. “I thought it was her finger.”
Catarine gasped in horror, her wide eyes fixed upon Parlan awaiting a show of his legendary temper. Parlan sat torn between amusement and anger. The realization that Aimil was showing definite signs of jealousy pushed amusement to the fore by increasing his good humor in one sudden leap. He burst out laughing, freeing his men’s laughter. Catarine sat silent, detesting Aimil Mengue.
A few moments later Aimil decided she had had enough of both wine and company. She quietly excused herself and headed to bed. When she hesitated outside of Parlan’s chambers and glanced toward Leith’s, she knew Lagan was near. She hesitantly took one step toward Leith’s chambers, and Lagan matched it.
“I wouldnae if I were ye,” he drawled.
“Weel, I have no wish to find myself with three in a bed.”
“Ye willnae. He has no desire for the woman.”
“He did once. I may not catch all that is said but I am nae blind,” she groused.
“Aye, once. He is sore regretting that now. Catarine is after a husband, and
she isnae one for a man to wed. She is a whore.” He opened the door to Parlan’s chambers and gently pushed her inside. “Get in where ye belong, lassie. I am of no mind to hunt ye down later and ‘tis certain that I will be made to if ye arenae in that bed.”
She did not argue any further. Stripping off her clothes, she washed and then brushed out her hair. Crawling into the huge bed she had shared with Parlan for all these weeks, she wished she felt as sure as Lagan that she belonged there. All she could do was wait for Parlan and pray that he arrived alone.
Parlan found it difficult to extract himself from Catarine with any amount of politeness. Even when he excused himself to retire for the night, she stayed close to him. Exasperated, he stopped before his chamber door to scowl at her.
“Ye were shown your chambers, Catarine. Mine are quite full at the moment.”
“How can ye speak to me so after all we shared?” Catarine cried, and flung her arms around his neck.
Aimil tensed for his answer, her body leaning toward the door.
“We shared an hour or two of hearty lust, something ye have shared with many. There wasnae any more than that.”
“Mayhaps, but ye cannae even share that with that child ye cater to now.”
Giving into an indisputably childish impulse, Aimil stuck her tongue out at the door.
“Let me show ye, remind ye, of how a woman can please ye.”
From the sounds coming through the door, Aimil decided it was best that she could not see what was going on. She held a pillow over her head so that she could not hear it either. Stoutly, she told herself that it was not worth crying about.
“I have tried to be polite but ye can push a man too far, Catarine,” Parlan growled as he pushed her away. “There is naught ye can do to turn me away from what waits in my bed. Find yourself some other man to feast upon.”
After she had flounced away, Parlan entered his chambers. “Why have ye got that over your head?”
“So I cannae hear ye and Catarine Dunmore slobbering over each other,” Aimil snapped.
He grinned as he strode to the bed and peeked under the pillow. “I will wash off the slobber, shall I?”
“Humph. Can ye wash away the paw marks as weel?” She knew she sounded like a jealous shrew but could not help it.
A soft laugh escaped him as he stripped off his clothes, the signs of her jealousy putting him into a very good humor. “‘Tis the pinch mark that has me sore worried.”
“Being such a large man, I am surprised ye felt it.” She cursed softly when he only laughed again.
After a moment of sulking, she tossed aside the pillow and sat up. He stood naked before the wash bowl, drying himself after his brief scrubbing. He really was a remarkably fine-looking man, and Aimil could understand what drove Catarine. What troubled her, what truly worried her, was what had driven Parlan to Catarine.
“Parlan?” she asked tentatively as he extinguished the candles save the one by their bed.
“Aye, lass?” He slid beneath the covers and pulled her into his arms.
Glad for the dim light for she was already blushing fiercely, Aimil asked, “When she said that dinner was a verra suitable time for talking about, weel, that, did she mean what I think she meant? Did she really, weel, with her mouth?”
“Aye. ‘Tis why I went to her.”
“Oh. Ye like to be kissed there?”
“Aye. I kenned that she had a talent for that and sought her out or, rather, gave into her ploys. It wasnae verra good. Catarine leaves a man feeling as if he has been eaten alive, as if he is naught but a staff. She served me weel the once, but I wasnae eager for more.”
Suddenly Catarine was no longer a threat. He talked of her as if she were no more than some utensil. Aimil knew that he always seemed to want more from her. That was one thing she was certain of. What Catarine had shared with Parlan had been brief and unimportant.
“Do ye really like to be kissed there?” she whispered as his mouth touched her throat.
His hands cupped her breasts, and he felt his usual delight in her nipples that needed no prompting to harden. “Aye. What man wouldnae?”
“Then why havenae ye asked it of me? Is it a whore’s trick?”
“Nay,” he replied slowly, “though ‘tis often only a whore a man can get to do it for him.”
“I will do it if ye wish.” She felt a shudder tear through him.
“Why?” he rasped, his body already taut from aching with anticipation.
“Weel, ye do so much to me, ‘tis only fair to do something to ye. Ye give me pleasure. I should give ye some.”
It was not exactly what he had hoped to hear her say but he was in no state to argue. “Then kiss me, little one.”
When he turned onto his back, she hesitantly began her journey. Instinct told her that a slow approach would please him more. She edged her way down his body, letting her lips and tongue caress the taut flesh of his chest and abdomen. His body trembled slightly and that sign of his pleasure increased her own. So too did his husky words of approval and verbal exclamations of his delight.
Upon reaching her final goal, the cry that broke from his lips at her mere touch emboldened her. She tried many ways to increase his very evident pleasure, using her lips, tongue, and hands. When his hips rose up slightly off the bed, instinct told her how to answer his silent plea, and his reactions told her that her instinct had again been right.
“Oh, my God,” he groaned when the moist heat of her mouth surrounded him. “Aye, loving, that be the way of it. ‘Tis so good. Sweet heaven, but ‘tis good. ‘Tis a sweet, sweet pleasure ye give me, little one.”
He writhed beneath her ministrations until he knew his control was slipping. Grasping her beneath her arms, he pulled her up his body and set her upon him. After but an instant she was in control, his prompting no longer needed. The fact that she had been readied for him, that pleasuring him had evidently aroused her own passions, sent his desire to new heights.
The shivers of her release had barely begun when he held her snug against him, his hips bucking with the force of his own. When she nestled against him with delight, he pulled her tightly into his arms. For a long time they clung to each other, trembling from the force of their passions and weak from the sating of them.
Although he finally eased the embrace slightly, he still held her against him. He had never experienced such pleasure. Even the way she could stir him past control was a sort of pleasure. With each night he spent in her arms, even when they had not made love, he became more certain that he would be a fool to let her go.
His happiness with her, both in and out of bed, had not faded. The boredom he had so often experienced was not there, not even envisionable. Even when she infuriated him, he never thought of being rid of her. The same things that could set his temper off were part of what fascinated him. It was undoubtedly time to stop playing games with ransom demands.
Not being of a romantic turn of mind, love did not enter his calculations although he sorely wanted her to love him. He liked her and he trusted her. There was no doubt in his mind that he could be happy with her and proud of her. He wanted her to bear his children and to be at his side to see them grow and have their own families. That, in his mind, settled the matter.
“Aimil,” he asked softly even as he wondered what prompted him to, “what is it that ye like about me?”
“Assuming that I did like ye?” she teased.
“Aye, assuming that. What is it about my looks that ye like the most?” Although he silently scolded himself for his foolishness he tensed for her reply.
“Weel...” She frowned in thought as she lifted her head to look at him and tried to think of an answer that would not expose her feelings for him. “Your eyes. I like your eyes. I never kenned that black could have so many shades, one for each emotion when ye arenae making them flat and unreadable. Aye, ye have verra fine eyes.”
“Why, thank ye, Aimil.” He felt genuinely flattered. “Anything else?”
“My staff.” He grimaced slightly when she looked at him as if his wits had gone begging.
“Why should I choose that? Every mon has one of those. As Leith says, “’Tis not the steed but the ride that matters.’ A large horse doesnae always give a good ride. When ye asked me to say what I liked, I looked for what made ye different from other men.” She suddenly grinned at him. “Mayhaps if ye had smiled more, the women would have looked at your face and not your breeches.”
Laughing quietly, he rolled them over so that she was beneath him. “Are ye saying that ye care not about my endowments?”
“Nay. I daresay this wouldnae be quite so much fun without it.” She laughed with him as her hand slid down to discover him ready and eager again. “Though, I must say, your appetite threatens to wear it down to a stub.”
“I will take my chances, witch,” he growled against her breast. “I think I must raise your ransom.”
“If it goes any higher my father willnae be able to pay it and take me home,” she pointed out in an increasingly husky voice.
“Exactly.” He slowly drew the hard tip of her breast into his mouth, delighting in her soft cry of pleasure.
When their passion had spent itself, he lay with his head against her breast. Aimil smoothed her hand over his broad back and her cheek rested against his thick hair. It was hard for her to recall a time when she had not shared his bed. She did not even try to.
Now she began to mull over her recent revelation. It brought her both happiness and sorrow. There was an indisputable pleasure in loving someone. She did not need experience to know that was why their lovemaking was so good. That she loved the man who held her and possessed her and helped her reach those high levels of desire and satisfaction. Aimil was confident of that. It also kept her wanting more.
Highland Captive Page 12
