Highland Captive (17 page)

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.”