Highland Captive

by Hannah Howell

“I begin to think ye have been sly again, Parlan MacGuin,” she drawled but made no move to leave his hold.

  “Sly, am I?” He took her cup and tossed it aside then pushed her onto her back. “I thought I was being most clear about what I want.” He began to unlace the jerkin she wore. “Ye needed but one look to guess it.”

  She attempted to stop him from removing her jerkin but even she recognized it as half-hearted resistance. “We are outside and the sun is shining.”

  “Aye, and I think ye will look beautiful in the sun’s light.”

  “Ye cannae mean to do it here?”

  “Ye do favor saying that, sweeting. Aye, and I do favor showing ye that we can.”

  He halted her other protests with kisses. When Aimil grasped at sanity long enough to recall that they were outside beneath a very bright sun, she was already naked. Parlan crouched over her, staring at her with eyes black with passion, and quickly shed his own clothes. Despite the fact that she ached for him, she felt the heat of modesty stain her cheeks.

  “I was right, dearling.” Once free of his clothes, he eased himself on top of her. “Ye do look fine lying naked in the sun.”

  “‘Tis a scandal,” she whispered, and arched toward him when his mouth found her breast.

  “Och, lass, it does a body good to have a touch of scandal in his life.”

  It was beyond her to argue with that outrageous opinion. She was too consumed by the desire he awakened in her to form a coherent sentence. All thought and concern about where she was faded as the passion they shared became her world. Shock briefly broke her free of desire’s grip when his mouth moved that small distance from her inner thigh to touch the silken curls adorning her womanhood. Her embarrassed protest was short-lived as his hoarse love words and kisses drove her beyond thought.

  He ignored her cries for him when she neared her crest. She had barely recovered from her intense release when he employed all his skill to renew her desire. Although he wanted to enjoy the way she was so wild and free when caught in passion’s grip, he finally had to answer his own need. He entered her, his passion too strong to control, but she met his fierceness equally and tirelessly. When he felt her inner tremors begin, he thrust more deeply and cried out as his own release tore through him. Collapsing upon her and holding her close, he savored the way her trembling body greedily accepted his seed.

  Aimil lay very still, listening to the man sprawled half-atop her breathe. She was certain they had both fallen asleep after their wild lovemaking but was not certain as to how long they might have slept. Looking at the sun would give her some idea of time but that meant she would have to open her eyes and she did not really want to face the man she sensed was awake and watching her. With wakefulness had come the recollection of their unrestrained lovemaking in the bright sunlight, and she was feeling somewhat embarrassed. Knowing she was still naked did not help ease it.

  Parlan smiled as he saw her eyelids flicker. He suspected that her reluctance to let him know that she was awake was due to embarrassment. It was growing late, however, and he could not allow her the luxury of hiding for much longer. There was another reason he hesitated and that was because he thought her glorious lying beneath the sun, none of her beauty hidden from his sight. Once he forced her to move, she would quickly put her clothes back on.

  “Aimil,” he finally called softly, “I ken ye are awake.”

  “Nay, I am fast asleep.”

  “Keeping your eyes shut doesnae change the fact that I can see all your charms.”

  She wondered if she could hit him if she swung toward the sound of his voice then decided that it was not worth the effort for he would undoubtedly block her blow with ease. “Aye, but I cannae see ye seeing it.”

  “How sensible of ye.” He easily caught her by the wrist when she blindly swung one small fist at him then tugged her into his arms. “Are ye embarrassed, loving?”

  “Nay, why should I be embarrassed?” She wondered if he knew how stupid a question that was. “I am only rolling about outside with my arse bared to the sun like some hedgerow whore. Why should I find that embarrassing?”

  “Weel, if I now tossed ye a wee coin, patted that lovely arse, and strolled off, then ye might have a right to feel like some hedgerow whore but ye have naught to fash yourself about. Unless, of course, ye think ‘tis true that the sun can burn tender skin.” He laughed when she suddenly covered her backside with her hands.

  “Ye are a wretched, wretched man, Parlan MacGuin,” she grumbled as she pushed free of his arms and began to dress quickly. “Ye have no care for a lass’s sensibilities. Just because ye are accustomed to rolling about here, there, and God kens where.”

  “Actually,” he interrupted even as he dressed with a little more leisure, “while I cannae say for certain that I have never been with a lass out in the air, I cannae recall having such a sweet time of it or planning it so carefully.”

  “Ye planned to seduce me out here where all can see?”

  “Weel, I didnae notice many folk hereabouts but, aye, I did.” When she finished dressing, he reached out to grasp her by the hand. “Lass, dinnae taint a free and beautiful moment with regrets and worries. Ye found pleasure. Where is the harm?”

  “Ye dinnae understand. ‘Tisnae where we did it but, weel, the way we carried on.” She sighed as words failed her.

  “Ah.” He kissed her palm. “Look at me, Aimil. Come, look at me, for I want to be sure ye listen to me.”

  Although she blushed, she finally met his gaze. “I ken ye dinnae treat me like a whore, but I cannae help but feel that I act one at times.”

  “Nay, dearling, ye never do. Wheesht, lass, ye enjoy it and ‘tis a rare whore who does. She seeks coin not pleasure, and she doesnae often get to choose her man but must lie down with the one who has the coin. Neither do ye lie down for any man like Catarine does, to feed vanity or a hunger that must have many men and often to be satisfied. Nor do ye do it to make gain in some manner, again like Catarine who is always plotting to catch a rich husband between her greedy thighs. Those are the things that make a woman a whore.

  “As far as how we have acted here, t’was but our giving into our passion which runs hot and fine, and, only for each other. Neither am I given to strange ways or fancies. If I enjoy it and ye enjoy it, who can say ‘tis wrong?”

  “None really if t’was even their business to do so.” She smiled crookedly. “‘Tis just all so new.”

  “Weel, I hope it always will be in some ways.” He smiled when she looked confused, then he sat up straighter. “Now, there is one other thing we must talk on.” He hesitated, frowning at his hand which lay palm down upon the ground.

  “Parlan?”

  “Hush a moment, lass.”

  His sudden tension began to make her nervous. Then she too tensed, feeling something, certain she had heard something yet unable to name it. When it became recognizeable, she stared at Parlan with growing horror.

  “Get on your mount.” Parlan leapt to his feet then yanked her up.

  Aimil needed little prodding. Horsemen were riding their way and fast. She only felt that that meant trouble.

  To her dismay, their alertness to the danger had come too late. They were barely ready to mount when the horsemen came into view. Her fear grew in leaps and bounds when she recognized Rory.

  “Kill him! Kill the Black Parlan!”

  The frantic scream chilled Aimil, but she had no time to think about it. Parlan grabbed her hand and raced for the wood, giving up on trying to flee on their mounts who had become panicked over the sudden intrusion of armed men. She heard Parlan grunt then curse as they entered the thick wood but she gave little thought to it until they stopped. Parlan tugged her down beside him as he sprawled behind a fallen tree thickly surrounded by brush. Looking to him for some further instruction, she saw that an arrow had pierced his leg.

  “Nay.” He stopped her when she reached to extract the arrow. “T’will bleed too freely and we havenae the time to tend it. We
must elude that swine for an hour or so, mayhaps less.”

  “Someone will come?”

  “Aye. I had to make a bargain with my men. My time without them hanging about was limited. Mayhaps we can circle back to the horses.”

  That did prove to be a possibility, but Aimil was not certain they could accomplish it. It seemed that they crept through the wood for hours while a ranting, cursing Rory and his sullen men searched for them. With each passing moment and each step taken, Parlan grew visibly weaker. She felt sure he could not hold out much longer, and if he became too weak or unconscious, Rory would have them. It was not really necessary to listen to the threats echoing through the wood to know that Rory would not take Parlan prisoner, that the man intended nothing less than murder. Rory was clearly after revenge for wrongs he felt had been done him.

  By the time they reached the place where they had dined and loved such a short time ago, Aimil had to support Parlan. Her fear was replaced by concern for him. He needed his wound tended to and quickly. So too was she certain that, although she loathed the idea of falling into Rory’s hands, her life was not in danger. It was, therefore, more important to get Parlan out of Rory’s reach.

  “Leave me, lass,” Parlan rasped when they came into sight of where they had left the horses to find that a nervous Elfking alone remained.

  “Nay. I have little desire to aid Rory in murdering ye.”

  “And I have little desire to see that hellhound get his hands upon ye. Leave me here and flee while ye can.”

  She ignored him and called softly to Elfking. The fact that Parlan had no strength to enforce his command added to her concern for him. It made it all too clear that his condition was worsening. When Elfking reached them, she helped a complaining Parlan onto the horse’s back.

  “The reins, lass. I cannae reach them.”

  “I will get them in a moment. Are ye secure?”

  “Aye.”

  Hearing Rory’s men, she smiled faintly. Parlan was going to be furious, but she had no choice. His life was at risk. She only wished her time with Parlan did not need to end but she doubted that he would try to fetch her back once she was gone.

  “Elfking, go home.” She slapped her horse on his rear flank, and Elfking bolted. “Home, Elfking. Ride!”

  “Aimil!”

  Ignoring Parlan’s angry bellow, she turned to face Rory and his men who were closing in on her. She knew that if she could give Elfking a few moments lead there would be no catching him. To keep Rory and his men occupied for that few moments, she let them see her then bolted.

  Her way back into the cover of the wood was quickly blocked. For a moment she kept the mounted men in a confused knot as they tried to follow her nimble, elusive moves. Then several men dismounted to chase her. She was not really surprised when she was neatly tackled an instant later. She was roughly pulled to her feet and dragged before Rory. The look in his eyes made her heartily wish she had found a way to go with Parlan.

  “Ye dress like a whore.” Rory studied her lad’s attire with scorn.

  “Ye ken their style of dress weel, do ye?” Aimil wished she felt as calm as she sounded then bit back a cry when he backhanded her, causing her teeth to score the inside of her mouth, drawing blood.

  “Where is your lover, that whoreson, the Black Parlan?”

  “On Elfking and halfway to Dubhglenn by now. Out of your reach.”

  He knew she was right, that he had lost part of the prize he had sought. “Ye will pay dearly for that, ye slut.”

  With a detachment that seemed odd to her, she watched his fist come at her. Not surprised by his brutality, the blow to her jaw caused pain to explode in her head. As she slipped into unconsciousness, she prayed that Parlan was able to stay on Elfking, that he would reach Dubhglenn and safety.

  Parlan heartily swore at the mount he clung to, but there was no stopping or turning the animal. The reins swung out of his reach, nearly impossible to get ahold of even if he had not been weakened by his wound. He was enraged by Aimil’s trick yet understood why she had done it. Most of his anger came from the knowledge that he had failed in protecting her from Rory.

  Left with no choice, he clung to Elfking and resigned himself to being taken back to Dubhglenn. He could only hope that there would still be time to snatch Aimil from Rory before the man reached the security of his keep. Parlan tried not to think about what Rory would do to her, but the knowledge refused to be ignored, tormenting him as he rode.

  When Elfking finally reached Dubhglenn, Parlan was barely conscious. As he was lifted from Elfking’s back, he noticed that his men were readying themselves to ride out. Espying his horse, he realized that his riderless mount had alerted his men to the trouble. He then found himself confronted by Leith.

  “Where is my sister?”

  “Rory holds her. Ride quickly. Mayhaps luck will be with us and we can intercept them.” He started to move toward Raven only to have Malcolm and Lagan restrain him. “I must...”

  “Ye must get that wound seen to.” Lagan urged him toward the keep. “The men can ride without ye this once.”

  The truth of that was ascertained even as Parlan was pulled toward the keep. With Leith at the fore, Parlan saw his men ride out. He ached to be with them but knew that Lagan was right, that he had to have his wound tended. In his present state he would have been a hindrance, and speed was vital if his men were to catch up with Rory and rescue Aimil. For now he would have to swallow his pride and let others do what was necessary. He could only pray that they would be successful.

  It did not take long for Parlan to realize that his wound was far more serious than he had thought. The removal of the arrow was an agony, but he grimly clung to consciousness. What worried him, and the ones nursing him, was how difficult it was to stop the bleeding. It was not its affect upon his own well-being that worried him the most but how it would affect his ability to try and rescue Aimil if his men failed to stop Rory.

  “What happened?”

  Revived a little by a strong drink after Old Meg had stitched and tightly bound his thigh, Parlan told Lagan all he could recall. Parlan realized that he had noticed less than he usually did in such a situation. In the past, even the smallest detail of a battle or an attack had not escaped his attention. He realized that he had been too concerned with trying to save Aimil from Rory for Parlan to exercise his usual alertness. It troubled him because he feared he may have missed some important detail.

  “There is no way he could have kenned where ye would be. T’wasnae a habit of yours to go there. Nay, nor Aimil’s.”

  “That occurred to me. I fear we have a traitor in our midst. Someone told him where we would be and when. For Rory to find us, that low traitor must have crept to Rory last night. I want the whoreson found.”

  “He will be, Parlan.” Lagan was not sure it would be easy to find the traitor for the confusion caused by Leith’s and Aimil’s attempt to escape would have provided a very good diversion, insuring that few noticed any mysterious comings and goings.

  At that moment Catarine burst into the room. Artair, a little stiff from his healing lash wounds, followed at a more discreet pace. Catarine put on a show of great distress until Parlan crossly told her to shut her mouth and stop pestering him.

  Hiding her anger, she stood quietly while Parlan told Artair what had happened. She bitterly cursed Rory Fergueson for it was clear that the man had never meant to honor his part of the bargain, had intended Parlan’s murder from the start. When mention was made of a traitor, she felt an alarm of fear but pushed it aside. Her man-at-arms would never betray her and the only other one who knew of her betrayal was Rory, who, if he ever came face to face with Parlan, would undoubtedly be dead before he could expose her. She relaxed as she decided that she had little to fear. What she needed to concentrate upon was ingratiating herself with Parlan by helping to tend to his wounds, to nurse him until he healed. By then she was certain she would have him snared.

  When Leith entered the roo
m, Parlan did not have to hear the younger man say that they had failed, he could read in it the man’s face. With a raging roar, Parlan struggled to his feet. He did not need Old Meg’s furious babble to tell him that had been a mistake. The pain that ripped through him and the sudden rush of warmth pouring down his leg told him that all he had succeeded in doing was opening his wound, which would only delay him more.

  He cursed everybody and everything as he was pushed back down upon his bed. The restitching and rebandaging of his leg severely strained his hold on consciousness. When Old Meg handed him something to drink, he groggily did so only to realize too late what she had given him. With a foul oath, he threw the goblet across the room.

  “Ye old corbie, I dinnae want to sleep.”

  Not in the least quailed by his anger, Old Meg retorted sharply, “Ye may not want it, ye young fool, but ‘tis what ye need.”

  “I need to go after Aimil.”

  “Ye need to give that great hole in your leg time to close. Ye have just seen what happens when ye move.”

  “I dinnae have time.” Frustration and despair gnawed at Parlan as he felt the potion Old Meg had given him start to cloud his mind, pulling him toward a sleep he did not want. “I must free Aimil from that hellhound.”

  “He willnae kill her, Parlan.”

  “Nay, he willnae, Leith.” Parlan’s eyes closed as blackness began to overcome him. “Nay, I dinnae think he will kill her, but I ken weel that he will soon have the poor lass wishing that he would.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Groaning softly, Aimil made the final struggle toward consciousness with reluctance. Her whole body ached. It took her a few moments to discern that one pain amongst the many was greater than the others. Muttering a curse, she gingerly touched her throbbing jaw. After another few minutes she recalled why her jaw hurt, and a sudden panic forced her that last step into awareness. Her eyes wide, she glanced around fearfully and with a sigh of relief, saw that she was alone.

  Realizing her thoughts were clouded by her discomfort, she slowly sat up, fighting dizziness as she did so. Carefully, she eased herself off the crude bed. With slow steps she walked to a basin and pitcher that stood upon a rough table. After washing her face in the cold water, she leaned wearily against the wall and dabbed herself dry with the coarse cloth left by the bowl.