Highland Captive

by Hannah Howell

  “Elfking has?”

  Nodding, Aimil hesitated a moment before replying for Old Meg was stitching Artair’s wound and Parlan had to hold his brother for, although still unconscious, Artair could still move dangerously in reaction to the pain Old Meg had to inflict. Aimil also relaxed at the way Old Meg kept glancing her way. The woman had clearly guessed her condition but, as with her father, had decided to let her be the one to speak. Aimil decided that was going to be soon if only because she was passing the point where she could suffer in silence, could hide the forces tearing through her body.

  “It seems Elfking doesnae appreciate my being attacked or mayhaps ‘tis Rory Fergueson he doesnae like. He attacked the man. One of his strikes tore the flesh from the side of Rory’s face. T’will never heal right. He will be horribly scarred. The left side. It may aid ye in finding him. Although, I would have thought a man like Rory would have been easily noticed anywhere he went. Oh, he is also looking poorly. Dirty and ragged, I mean. None of his fine elegance left for him.”

  “A man running for his life cannae afford the time nor the coin to make himself pretty.”

  “Nay, I suppose not.” Seeing that the tending of Artair was finished, she asked, “How does he fare?”

  “He has lost a lot of blood,” replied Old Meg, “but I ken that the laddie will heal.”

  “Thank God. I thought his wound didnae look a mortal one but t’was only a fleeting look I got before he was mounted behind me and we were racing for Dubhglenn. Weel, I will seek my bed now.”

  “‘Tis about time,” muttered Lachlan.

  “I needed to ken how Artair fared. I couldnae bear to think my idea had cost him too dearly.”

  “Your folly, ye mean,” Parlan growled as he strode over to her, already plotting the stern lecture he would give her.

  She almost felt sorry that she was going to deprive him of the argument he so clearly intended. “Not now, Parlan.”

  He was startled by her tart response then grew angry. “What do ye mean—‘not now’? We are going to talk, lass, and now.”

  “I am afraid this really has to wait, Parlan”—she grit her teeth as a contraction tore through her—“until after I have the bairn.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “What is taking so long?”

  Artair, awake and sitting up in his bed, nearly grinned as he watched his brother pace the room. Never had he seen Parlan in such a state. If he did not sympathize, did not have a few worries himself concerning how Aimil fared, he knew he would find Parlan’s agitation a source of amusement. It was also interesting to watch his brother for Parlan was yet again revealing that Aimil meant more to him than perhaps even he realized.

  “Bairns take awhile to enter the world.”

  “And when did ye become so knowledgeable about bairns and the having of them?”

  “Quite recently actually. I feared Aimil would have the bairn in the saddle, that t’would appear with the first pain. Aimil told me what little I do ken now.”

  “She was in labor when she was riding?”

  “Weel, whilst returning to Dubhglenn. Didnae she tell ye?”

  “Nay, I have had little time to speak to her since then.”

  “Oh, weel, t’was Elfking’s rearing whilst attacking Rory. She wasnae thrown but t’was the rough ride that, as she said, jolted the bairn into recalling that he must come out sometime. She was laboring the whole way back to Dubhglenn, poor lass.”

  Parlan resumed his pacing, sipping at the ale Malcolm had brought him earlier. He felt like drinking far more heavily but did not wish to be drunk when his child finally arrived, and considering the time it was taking, that would have been assured. It was a decision he almost regretted making, however, for he felt that a good wallow in drink might ease the fear that gnawed at him. So tempting was the thought of it that he had finally left the company of Leith and Lachlan who were indulging heavily as they waited. They were drowning their concerns for Aimil as he heartily wished he could.

  “Mayhaps I should return to her side. At least then I would ken what is happening.”

  “Aye, and ye would get underfoot again which is why Old Meg told ye to leave. She also said ye fret too much and that that isnae good for the lass. She has her own fears to battle without ye looming over her and adding to them.”

  “True enough. ‘Tis the pain she is in. I keep wishing to put an end to it.” Parlan sprawled on a bench by the window.

  “Only the bairn’s birth can put an end to it and weel ye ken it. Come, she is in good hands, and her pain will soon end.”

  “Aye, I ken it. ‘Tis that I never took much notice of the whole matter, of childbirth or,” he added softly, giving voice to some of his fears, “the dangers it holds. Suddenly I can recall too many women who never rose from their childbeds. Aimil is such a wee, delicate lass and she has grown so large with this bairn. It seemed too much for her to carry yet alone birth.”

  “Aye, a wee lass and delicate-looking but nae delicate. Dinnae sit there thinking only of that for it feeds your fear for her. Think instead on how she suffered at Rory’s hands yet escaped and returned here all the while carrying the bairn. Think instead on how she rode back here, bringing me along, and was in labor yet wasnae harmed by it. Aye, think on the spirit and strength I ken weel were the reasons ye wed her. ‘Tisnae a weak, faint-hearted lass birthing your bairn now.”

  “Nay, ‘tisnae. Ye are right. I must keep that in mind. Howbeit, I wish there was another way to beget children.”

  Aimil panted and wondered why God could not have found another way for a woman to become a mother. Putting the bairn into her womb was exceedingly enjoyable but it seemed unfair that she should do all the suffering in payment for that pleasure for Parlan had quite enjoyed himself as well. She knew the church had a vast list of reasons for her suffering but she had never believed them and, she thought crossly as another contraction gripped, if they were true, it was still unfair.

  “I think I am glad now that ye made Parlan leave, Old Meg. I ken weel that I must look verra poorly.”

  “Aye, ye arenae verra bonnie at the moment. Ye are near to done. It willnae be long.”

  “It seems like years.” She glanced at Maggie who gently bathed her face and who was now gently rounded with Malcolm’s child. “Mayhaps ye shouldnae be here. Ye cannae like seeing it take so long.”

  “I have seen many a birth, and ye arenae really taking so long. Aye, and ‘tis going weel. I hope mine does as weel.”

  “If ye say so.” Aimil’s doubt was clear to hear in her voice. “I still say it feels like years.”

  “Weel, ‘tis a big bairn, I am thinking.” Old Meg nodded vigorously. “Aye, ‘tis a fine braw son ye will give my laddie.”

  “Mayhaps t’will be a fine braw daughter.” Aimil managed a faint smile when Maggie giggled.

  “Nay, the MacGuins always have a son first. Aye, for as far back as any can tell ye. Ye will have a son, lass.”

  Something told Aimil she would too but she was suddenly too busy to say so. Her child had finally decided to make his final push for the freedom of her body, and her body worked furiously to grant him that wish. For most of her labor, she had made little sound, pride making her determined not to scream and wail as some women did but when her child finally broke free of her body, she could not restrain a scream that left her throat sore and which she suspected they had heard in Aberdeen.

  “Aimil!” Parlan leapt to his feet and stared fearfully at the door.

  Even Artair was alarmed. “And she has been so verra quiet ‘til now.”

  “Aye, she has. Something must be wrong,” Parlan said even as he bolted from Artair’s chambers, leaving his brother to curse his inability to follow.

  When Parlan reached his chambers, he found the door barred. As he pounded on it to demand entry, Leith and Lachlan joined him. The wail of an infant made Parlan hesitate a moment as emotion assailed him, but he quickly renewed his pounding on the door. His sole concern at the moment wa
s to know how Aimil fared.

  “Be still, ye great fool,” Old Meg yelled as she worked to clean off the baby. “I will open the door in a moment.”

  “I want to see Aimil now.”

  “In a minute, Parlan.” Aimil struggled to help Maggie all she could as the woman cleaned her.

  The testiness in Aimil’s voice caused Parlan to sag against the wall in relief. Her voice had been hoarse and heavy with weariness, but he felt sure that no woman on the brink of death could sound so naturally cross. The way Leith and Lachlan were smiling told him that they felt the same. He was not pleased to be kept waiting, however.

  “He sounds a healthy lad,” Leith finally said. “A fine strong voice.”

  “A lad? God’s beard, I didnae ask what the bairn was.”

  Old Meg opened the door at that moment. “Ye have a son. A braw laddie to be your heir.”

  Parlan suddenly felt hesitant as he entered the room. Something had happened that would change his whole life. Becoming a husband had not seemed so great a change after months of having Aimil at his side. Now he was a father and he knew that was going to seem a far greater step to take. There would be someone expecting him to teach, to lead, and to train. Parlan suddenly felt unsure of himself, unsure that he could do all that was needed to raise a son and do it right.

  He forced his attention to Aimil. She looked very small, wan, and tired. Yet, as he drew nearer to her, he realized that beneath the exhaustion shone joy and excitement. He bent to kiss her lightly.

  “Ye are all right?”

  “Aye, just tired. Look at your son, Parlan. Ye said a son was what ye would get and, though it galls me to say it, ye were right.”

  A shaky laugh escaped him before he was caught up in looking at his son, held in Aimil’s arms with an ease he envied. He especially envied it when a chuckling Leith urged him to hold the infant for a moment, Lachlan seconding the notion. Aimil offered no escape for she quickly ceased suckling the child and held him out to be taken.

  Gingerly, obeying Aimil’s soft instructions, Parlan took his new son in his hands. With one hand beneath the infant’s tiny head and another cupping the equally small bottom, Parlan stared at his child. He was oblivious to Leith and Lachlan poking and peering at the baby, commenting upon how well-formed the child was. All he knew was that he held his son, his first child. Emotion choked Parlan, and his first thought after picking the child up was that he wished everyone would leave.

  “He is so small, such a wee thing,” he managed to say at last but made no move to relinquish the child.

  “Wee?” Aimil was finding it hard to fight her weariness. “Weel, mayhaps he seems so to a great brute like ye. He didnae feel so wee a few moments ago.” She smiled faintly when Maggie gasped and blushed but felt no embarrassment about speaking so bluntly before Parlan, her brother, and her father.

  “He is a braw laddie,” Old Meg declared. “I have seen a lot of bairns and I ken weel that he be both verra strong and a good size for a bairn. Aye, even his color is good, equal to that of a bairn days older.”

  “Aye, I thought he looked fair for a newborn,” agreed Lachlan. “Some can be so red, so shriveled, they are naught but ugly and the father is left to wonder what he has bred.”

  “Ye must take him and show him to the clan. They have long awaited this moment.”

  Looking to Aimil for her opinion of Old Meg’s suggestion, Parlan found her lying very still, her eyes closed. “What ails her?”

  “Naught, ye great gowk.” Old Meg ignored the glare he sent her for that disrespectful mode of address and gently tucked the covers more securely around Aimil. “She is but asleep. Having a bairn is a wearying business. Aye, and the lass likes a good sleep.”

  Parlan laughed as much with relief as over the blithe way Old Meg uttered such an understatement. “Oh, aye, she does that.”

  Realizing that he was not going to get to visit with Aimil, to talk to her, for a while yet, Parlan went to show his son to his clan. He went first to Artair to ease the worry he knew he had left his brother suffering. Then he went to the hall where a great many had gathered, having heard in the usual if sometimes apparently miraculous way such news of import was spread, of the laird’s child.

  Unwrapping the baby with the help of a maid, Parlan held his son up. This not only let his people see that he did indeed have a son but that there were no apparent deformities that could possibly impede the child taking his place as laird. He then loudly proclaimed the child his son and heir, a statement the ones gathered showed no hesitation in agreeing to with several loud cheers. Wrapping his son back up in his swaddling, Parlan handed him to the maid, instructing her to take him back to Old Meg, when the celebration of the long-awaited heir began in earnest.

  For a while Parlan drank with them, accepting praise and congratulations. He could not completely join in, however as his heart and mind were with Aimil. She was the one with whom he wished to share the joy of the birth. Finally, he gave into that desire and left the hall, smiling faintly when he saw that his absence would do little to stem the celebration.

  When he reached his chambers, he thanked Old Meg and Maggie, then sent them on their way. He had the feeling that Old Meg was training Maggie to take her place eventually. No other woman had shown much skill or interest in the arts of healing, and Parlan was glad that someone had finally been found. It would be a great loss when Old Meg died, but Parlan felt sure that he could now cease worrying that the loss would be even greater, that all of Old Meg’s knowledge and skill would die with her.

  Sitting on a bench by the window, he observed his sleeping son and wife. He had been doubly blessed, for it seemed certain that both had survived the dangers of birth. So too had Rory Fergueson failed to harm them. Parlan did not care to think of all he could have lost if Rory had been able to get ahold of Aimil.

  He prepared himself for what could be a long wait but found that he had a lot of patience for once. Watching his small family sleep filled him with contentment. So too did he have a great need to talk to Aimil and not only about the child they shared. He had to convince Aimil to understand that, until Rory Fergueson was dead, she and the child would have to be closely watched, more closely than they had been, and that meant that there would be some restrictions she might not like. The difficulty there might be in doing so was the only thing he did not look forward to when Aimil finally woke up.

  Aimil winced as she slowly struggled out of a deep sleep. For a moment she was confused, not sure why she felt so battered, then she remembered. Her hand went to her belly, and she looked around for her son. As she located the baby’s cradle, the child sleeping peacefully within, she saw Parlan step from the shadows near the cradle.

  “Awake at last,” he murmured as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Have I been asleep long?”

  “Long enough.”

  When he kissed her and she felt a flicker of desire, she nearly smiled. Nothing could have shown her more completely how much she needed him. The last thing she should feel while still aching from childbirth was desire, even the faint taste of which his kiss had inspired. She decided it was better to laugh at her weakness than to bemoan it.

  “Have ye finally decided upon a name for our son?” Aimil asked.

  “Aye. Lyolf. I decided it might suit him far more than the others we had talked on.”

  “Aye, ‘tis a fine name, a strong one,” she agreed.

  “Aye, and ye have made me a proud man, sweeting. He is a bonnie, braw laddie.”

  “He isnae all of my making,” she protested softly but felt warmed by his words.

  “I ken it but ye had the hardest part.”

  “I think he will look most like his father.” She smiled at Parlan. “Already he has a thick head of raven hair.”

  “Poor laddie,” he jested but was pleased by the thought that something of himself would be seen in the boy.

  “Poor lasses in a few years when he reaches an age to be interested in them. I shall be
begging forgiveness for birthing a rogue.”

  He laughed softly then grew serious, taking one of her hands in his. “We have to talk, Aimil. About Rory Fergueson.”

  She grimaced but knew she had to confront the matter and Parlan. He did not look as angry as he had earlier, but she sensed his intensity. There would no doubt be some demands made of her that she would not like but she decided she would make no complaint. She, Artair, and her child could have died. Aimil needed no other reminder of the danger that still threatened.

  “Aimil, I am no longer angry about the ride that ye took. My anger was spurred by my fears for ye. Ye see, I kenned that Rory might be near. Simon Broth was the one who had word of him though none had truly espied the man. There was a murder.”

  “Oh, Parlan, did he kill another poor lass?” She shuddered as she thought on the way Rory did his killing.

  “Weel, poor lass isnae the way to describe the one he murdered but no one should die so, with such pain and fear as she must have suffered. T’was no better than torture. He has murdered Catarine Dunmore. Lagan has traveled to tell her kin.”

  “Are ye certain?” Although she had never liked the woman, she had to agree with Parlan that Rory’s way of killing was a horror no woman deserved.

  “Aye. There was a ring. Lagan kens that it was hers. ‘Tis no surprise that she was with him either. So too did the descriptions of the woman match Catarine’s. Nay, I have no doubts that t’was her nor did Lagan.”

  Although part of her shrank from the knowedge, Aimil had to ask, “As was done to my mother?”

  “Ah, sweeting.” He sighed and nodded, kissing her palm then her cheek when she shuddered with revulsion and horror.

  “Even though she put me into that beast’s hands and near got ye killed, I would never have wished such a fate upon her.”

  “I ken it, lass. Therein lies the difference between ye and her. She wouldnae have cared how ye were treated. She erred in staying near Rory, didnae see the danger in it. Appalled though we are, she set her own fate. Ye must not fret so over it.”