Highland Captive

by Hannah Howell

  “I would rather become the bride of Satan himself and spend my wedding night amongst hell’s tormented souls.”

  Aimil began to think that she would make that wish come true if she agreed to wed Rory. If he was not the Devil himself, he was surely one of Satan’s closest minions. With each stroke of the lash, Rory revealed another sickening detail of the murder of her mother. Inwardly, she wept bitter tears. Nothing her mother could have ever done had warranted such a horrible fate. Aimil began to think that even Satan would balk at accepting such an evil, twisted soul as Rory’s.

  She struggled against letting her pain, fear, and grief weaken her spirit. Thinking about how she must live to tell the truth about Rory helped. Someone had to see that he paid dearly for the vicious murder of her mother, and she was the only one, besides Geordie, who knew of his guilt, the only one who could see that he was brought to justice. That thought alone kept her spirit strong.

  Finally Geordie stopped Rory. Geordie was, Aimil realized, the only rein upon Rory’s madness. Without Geordie, Rory’s evil would undoubtedly have come to light a long time ago. She deemed him as guilty as Rory, his calloused hands as soaked in blood as his master’s. By helping Rory to hide his sickness, Geordie had undoubtedly insured more deaths than she cared to think upon. As she waited for the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness, she listened to the two men talk, their voices distorted as they came to her through ears ringing with pain.

  “She will need to rest some before ye set upon her again, or ye will be killing this one too quickly as weel.”

  “And that I must never do. I will have from her what I couldnae gain from her mother. I have waited too long for it to lose it now.” Rory grasped Aimil by the chin and shook her head until she opened her eyes a bit to glare at him. “Aye, ye curse me just as she did. She damned me as she lay there dying. She told me that if I hurt ye the Devil would rise up and drag me into hell. Weel? Where is he?”

  “He will come for you yet, Rory Fergueson, though I am thinking even he will find ye too foul.” She closed her eyes again, refusing to look into his soulless eyes.

  “I dinnae think t’was wise to tell her about her mother. What if she tells someone?”

  “She willnae.”

  “How can ye be so certain of that?”

  “Because soon she willnae have the strength nor the will to betray me. I will break this lass. Soon, aye, soon, she will crawl to me and think only of what she can do to please me.”

  “And then what will ye do to her?”

  As Aimil finally sank into blackness, she heard Rory softly reply, “I will let her die and with her will go the truth about Kirstie Mengue’s death.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aimil woke to more pain than she thought any body should have to bear. If this was to be her treatment at Rory’s hands, she knew she would not last long. That he had not yet raped her seemed small consolation. One more hurt would hardly have mattered.

  Through her swollen eyes, she saw the door open. If Rory tried to beat her anymore, she knew he would kill her. Panic seized her, but she was unable to move her battered body. In stead of Rory, it was a buxom, young maid and Aimil’s terror receded. For now, at least, she would have a respite from that madman’s attentions.

  “Who are ye?” she rasped as the young woman set a bowl of water down on the table near the bed.

  “Maggie. He did ye weel, didnae he? I am here to try and mend ye.”

  “So that he may have at me again?” She grit her teeth against a scream when the girl began to wash her back.

  “Aye. He wants ye to last awhile yet.”

  Noticing the faintly discolored skin around Maggie’s eyes, Aimil said, “He has had at ye as weel.”

  “There isnae a wench here that hasnae been done. He is a madman, a bastard.”

  Hearing the hate in Maggie’s voice, Aimil sensed a possible ally and asked, “Help me?”

  “I can give ye a potion that will take ye out of his hands.”

  “Nay, I dinnae mean that.” Aimil was shocked that the girl would offer something so cowardly and sinful. “Help me escape.”

  “I will be slain the instant ‘tis found that ye are gone.”

  “Then come with me. Black Parlan or my family will take ye in gladly if ye aid me.” She saw that the young woman was pondering the move, knew that such an offer would be a sore temptation for the girl. “He will kill me if I stay here. ‘Tis my life I am asking of ye, my life ye will save.”

  “Nay doubt he will kill me soon as weel. His sort of loving does that. I could be saving me own life, too.”

  “Will ye help me then?”

  “Aye, I be willing since ye offer what I have always lacked, a place to go, but I dinnae ken how.”

  “If I can get into the bailey, can ye get us out without us being spotted?”

  “That isnae any trouble. ‘Tis the getting out of this room that will be difficult.”

  “Nay, it willnae. Just get me a sturdy rope to reach the court below this window.”

  “Ye mean to go out the windy? Ye are daft,” Maggie gasped, her hazel eyes wide.

  Although she was unable to change Maggie’s attitude concerning the sanity of such a venture, Aimil was finally able to get the girl to fetch what was needed. Aimil tried not to think of how weak she was now. Knowing what faced her if she stayed had to be enough to give her the strength to escape. If she was to die, she would much rather do it in an attempt to save herself than in cowering beneath the blows of a madman.

  As she rested, trying to recoup the strength the beating had stolen from her, she thought on Maggie. The girl was young and very attractive with her chestnut curls and large hazel eyes. It was no surprise that Rory had taken notice of her. All Aimil could hope was that the girl was as sincere as she was pretty, that her hatred of Rory was real. A betrayal now would cost Aimil dearly.

  When Maggie crept back into the room with a set of clothes and a rope concealed under her voluminous skirts, Aimil felt almost guilty about her lack of trust. The girl watched in amazed admiration as Aimil dressed in lad’s clothing without a blink and then secured the rope. It was quite possible, Aimil mused, that the girl was thinking that all the gentry were at least slightly mad.

  “Where is Rory?” Aimil asked as she tested the knot she had made.

  “Drinking in the hall. He willnae be moving this night.”

  “That is one thing in our favor then. T’will be a long while before he knows that we are gone.” She straddled the window ledge. “Weel, off ye go. I will meet ye below in but a moment.” When Maggie frowned, she smiled reassuringly. “I have done this often. Dinnae fash yourself. If I do fall, better to die quickly this way than slowly by Rory’s hand and giving him pleasure by doing so.”

  That made great sense to Maggie despite her continued opinion that to lower oneself out of a window so high from the ground was madness. “Shall I steal us a horse? I cannae ride but ye can, cannae ye?”

  “Aye. If ye can, that would do us weel indeed but dinnae risk much for it, dinnae chance discovery.”

  After Maggie left, Aimil sent up a brief prayer that the girl would be successful in stealing a mount. Her pain sapped her strength. She knew they would both have a better chance of succeeding in their escape if she rode than if she tried to walk.

  The climb down the wall was sheer agony. It seemed as if every muscle she used caused a fiery pain in her back. Her body trembled with the effort to remain conscious, her skin clammy with the sweat her efforts squeezed from her. She hardly gave a thought to the chances of being caught in her descent. All of her concentration was on reaching the ground. When she reached it, she collapsed there for a long while, afraid that what strength she had had was now used up. Her body shook and felt about as solid as water.

  “Are ye all right, mistress?” hissed Maggie from where she lurked in the shadows. “Did ye fall? I got us a horse.”

  “Nay, I didnae fall.” Aimil struggled to her feet, using the wall she had jus
t descended as support. “I but collapsed with weakness for a wee while. Ye must help me onto the horse.”

  Maggie’s strong arms proved more than adequate for that chore. She then led the horse out a side entrance in the outer wall. It was not until they reached the trees to the east of the Fergueson tower house that Maggie mounted with a great lack of skill and grace. By then Aimil had recovered enough to lend a hand and then take control of the reins.

  “We are riding to the Highlands,” ventured Maggie after a short while of riding.

  “Aye. I go to the Black Parlan. Thinking on it, I realized that Rory would seek me at my kin’s first. ‘Tis closer.”

  “They be a fearsome lot I hear.” A fear prompted by dark rumor could be heard in Maggie’s voice.

  “No more than any other, Maggie. On the border as we are, we are more akin to them than to Lowland folk.”

  “The Black Parlan roasts wee babes and picks his teeth with their wee bones,” Maggie whispered tremulously.

  Aimil giggled weakly. “Poor Parlan. Nay, Maggie, he doesnae. The man can look fearsome as the Devil but he has a gentleness in him. His men are beaten if they abuse a woman.” She heard Maggie gasp softly in disbelief. “He doesnae hold with the brutal handling of the weaker such as children and women. Trust me, I have been as close to the man as any, and ye will find no cruelty at Dubhglenn. Now, heed me weel. I will tell ye how to handle the horse. I am verra weak, and ye may yet need to take the reins before we reach Dubhglenn. We dinnae want to lose after having come so far because I faint and ye cannae prod the horse onwards.”

  To Aimil’s relief, Maggie revealed a natural aptitude for horse-riding that with training could become an admirable skill. So too was the horse a gentle, easily-ruled beast. Maggie could manage nothing too intricate, but she could get them to Dubhglenn if the need arose. It took a great weight from Aimil’s abused shoulders.

  The need for Maggie to take over came far sooner than Aimil would have liked. By the time the sun rose, Aimil’s eyes had swollen shut, her head swam with exhaustion, and her stomach churned. At Maggie’s urging, they dismounted for a while. Aimil promptly emptied her stomach, then her bladder, and then passed out. She awoke to a cool cloth across her eyes and to the sure knowledge that many hours had passed, hours they had not had to lose. Groaning, she sat up slowly, finding that she still could not see.

  “Ye should have tossed me over the saddle and kept riding, Maggie,” she said weakly but with no real censure in her voice.

  “Ye needed to rest, mistress. I had hoped that your eyes would get better but they havenae. They are still swelled tight shut.”

  “Aye, using them all the night has finished what Rory started. I can see but a slight line of light and that hurts. Where is the sun?”

  “Straight overhead, mistress. Is it far yet that we must travel?”

  “T’will be dark before we near the place if we ride without ceasing at a walk as we have been. Rory will ken I have slipped away by now.”

  “Mayhaps. T’will depend upon how urgent the one who discovers your escape feels it is. The laird isnae one ye like to wake. Nay, especially not with news ye ken weel he doesnae want to hear.”

  “Let us pray that the one who discovers us gone is a thorough coward then. We must ride east. Help me onto the horse.”

  “Ye had best stay before me on the beast. T’will be easier to catch ye if ye feel weak again.”

  Even getting up on the back of the horse drained Aimil but she fought it. It was a relief, however, to feel Maggie’s strong, young body behind her, her arms reaching around so that she could take the reins and acting as a secure cage. Falling from the horse would surely finish her, Aimil mused.

  “I would give my father’s fortune to ken who betrayed us,” Aimil muttered as they started out.

  “T’was a woman,” Maggie replied. “I saw her. Aye, and heard her tell Rory how to find ye.”

  “Who was it? What was her name?” Aimil had a very good idea who it was but fearing jealousy tempered her view wanted it confirmed.

  “I didnae hear the name but I can tell ye of her looks. She was lovely with rich brown hair. Said she wanted ye out of the Black Parlan’s bed so that she could crawl back into it. She was staying at Dubhglenn. Felt that once ye were gone she could have the man.”

  “Catarine. It could be no other. Nay doubt the bitch is nursing Parlan’s wound so that she can then nurse something else.”

  Catarine decided that she was not receiving the gratitude that she felt she deserved for her tender ministrations to the Black Parlan’s leg. Between the Black Parlan’s rage at being wounded and having lost Aimil and Old Meg’s constant interference, Catarine was very near to losing her facade of gentle, patient nurse. Only the thought of what Aimil would be suffering at the hands of Rory Fergueson kept Catarine in a good humor. She felt certain that Rory would put the girl firmly in her place if he did not kill her first. After savoring that vision for a moment, she turned her attention back to a foul-tempered Parlan.

  Twice Parlan had risen from his bed only to set the wound in his leg to bleeding freely again. Common sense and the threat of being bound and drugged finally held him to his bed. It was hell to lie there knowing what might be happening to Aimil, and he made life miserable for all those around him, his sense of helpless fury causing him to lash out at all who ventured near.

  “Railing at friend and kin willnae help the lass at all,” snapped Old Meg as she dressed his wound after curtly ordering Catarine from the room so that she and Parlan were alone.

  Parlan sighed. “I am sorry, Meg. ‘Tis just that I ken weel how the bastard can hurt her but I am stuck here abed, helpless.”

  “Send your men out. Malcolm and Lagan can plot and plan near as weel as ye. Aye, ye can plot as weel. Your head and mouth work just fine.”

  “I should go. ‘Tis I that gain if she returns.”

  “That doesnae matter to your men. They will gladly take up sword against a Fergueson nay matter what the cause.”

  “Ye are right, as always. I must swallow my pride and let others fight for me. Fetch me Lagan. Aye, and Leith if the lad still lingers here. ‘Tis past time to fetch Aimil back.”

  A force left Dubhglenn riding hard for Fergueson land but a few hours later, aiming to arrive under the cover of nightfall. Volunteers for the venture had been so numerous that some had had to be turned away. Leith rode between Malcolm and Lagan, smiling grimly as he wondered what his father would think about his joining a MacGuin raid. He found that he cared little about that. Aimil was far more important to him than his father’s approval. He only hoped that they had not waited too long.

  Maggie sat staring sadly at the girl upon the ground. She was surprised that they had gotten as far as they had. For a while after Aimil had fallen unconscious, Maggie had continued to ride. Aimil’s dead weight had become too much, however, forcing her to stop.

  She had dressed Aimil’s injuries then sat down to wait for the girl to wake. There was nothing else she could do. She could not go home, did not even want to. Neither could she move on, leaving Aimil behind. Her future, if there was one, was tied to the girl lying at her side.

  When she heard the horses, Maggie’s first thought was to run away. Then she realized that the hoofbeats headed toward Fergueson land. Keeping to the shadowy cover of the trees, she moved closer to the path they rode. When she recognized the colors the men wore as those of the MacGuin clan, she leapt from her cover, waving her arms, and shouting without thought of danger to herself.

  There was a moment’s hectic confusion as the force of hard-riding men reined to an abrupt halt then Malcolm dismounted, bellowing, “What are ye about, ye fool lass? We near raced over ye. Have ye nae an ounce of sense in your wee head?”

  “Ye are from Dubhglenn? Ye are MacGuin men?” she asked urgently.

  “Aye,” replied Lagan. “Who are ye?”

  “Maggie Robinson. Ye neednae ride any further. I have what ye seek, I be thinking. Aimil Mengue?”
/>
  “Where?” Leith was dismounted and at her side in an instant.

  “Through here.” Maggie adroitly avoided the men as she led them to Aimil, Rory’s attentions having left her terrified of a man’s touch.

  “Oh, my sweet God,” groaned Leith as he fell to his knees by Aimil’s side, followed by Malcolm and Lagan. “Did he rape her as weel?”

  “Nay. I dinnae ken why unless he meant to fash her by making her wait for it to happen. He is a madman.”

  “Och, the poor wee lassie,” Malcolm mourned, his light brown eyes awash with tears.

  “Dinnae touch her back,” Maggie warned when Malcolm moved to pick Aimil up. “She be sore beaten there.”

  As a way to carry Aimil with the least pain to her was sorted out, Maggie told how they had escaped Rory. She never mentioned Aimil’s promise of a place but was given the same promise by the men who fretted over the unconscious girl. With those assurances warming her, Maggie remounted her horse with equanimity, politely refusing all offers to ride with one of the men.

  Some of the MacGuin men stayed behind as the rest began the return to Dubhglenn. Those who remained would check to see if any Ferguesons trailed the women and, if they did, that they got no further.

  The trip back to Dubhglenn was taken easily in deference to Aimil’s injuries. None wanted to cause her any more pain than they knew she must already be suffering. They ached to avenge her but knew it was more important to get her to the care and safety of Dubhglenn. So too did they know that Parlan would wish the pleasure of seeking vengeance.

  “Malcolm, that lass is falling behind again. See if ye cannae get her to ride with one of us,” said Lagan after a while.

  Aimil, waking to find herself in Leith’s arms, heard the order and said, “She willnae. She cannae bear the touch of a man.”

  “Aye, I could see the fading bruises.” Malcolm’s square face darkened with anger. “Fergueson’s had at the poor lass.” He started to turn back toward the faltering Maggie. “I will take her reins. T’will be enough to keep her with us.”