Highland Captive (2 page)

“Here
now, there isnae any use in your looking like that, me wee ghillie,” the man
scolded jovially as he released the last bond holding Aimil, then caught her as
she slid helplessly from the broad back of Elfking. “Ye are in no state to
carry out the threat in them eyes.”

“Put
them in the dungeon, Malcolm,” Artair ordered coldly.

Still
supporting the weakened Aimil, Malcolm frowned. “They be only a pair of lads
and nae too healthy ones at the moment.”

Artair
scowled. “Those lads have sore bruised half my men. Aye, and several good
mounts. In the dungeon with them. Leastwise there I willnae have to worry about
a close guard until Parlan returns and decides what is to be done with them.
Best if he decides the ransom to be asked.”

Malcolm
continued to frown as he picked Aimil up in his arms, since the lad seemed too
groggy to walk. He noted that the other young man needed carrying as well. To
put two young boys into the pit, as the dungeon was aptly called, seemed cruel.
They were in no condition to be a threat. Prisoners they might be, but Malcolm
felt sure the laird would not treat them so callously. He was at the steps of
the keep before he realized the huge white stallion was following at his heels,
treating any who tried to stop him with lethal viciousness. Malcolm eyed the
horse with an astonishment tinged with fear.

“Put
me down.”

“Ye
cannae even stand upright,” Malcolm grumbled, uneasily eyeing the huge horse
that faced him.

“Then
hold me upright. I must speak to Elfking or he will kill to stay with me.”

Steadying
Aimil, Malcolm was not the only one who watched in near awe as the small boy
caressed the stallion’s head, crooning, “Nay, Elfking, ye cannae follow. Stay
with the men. Stay. We will be here but a wee while. Stay with the men.” Aimil
felt the thick fog of unconsciousness claiming her again. “I think ye must
carry me again, Master Malcolm, if ye would, please.”

“It
isnae right,” Malcolm grumbled a bit later as he watched the door secured over
the unconscious prisoners.

“Ye
have ever been soft of heart, Malcolm,” one of the other men said with no real
condemnation.

“Aye,
but he is right this time,” remarked Lagan Dunmore, a cousin to the laird, who
often visited with the MacGuins.

“Right
or wrong, Artair’s the laird whilst Parlan is away. He said to put the lads in
here so here they be staying.”

Lagan
exchanged a helpless look with Malcolm then sighed. “Weel then, let us pray
that Parlan returns soon or there will be naught for the ransoming.”

“Aye,
only for the burying,” Malcolm said heavily before stalking away.

Darkness
greeted Aimil when she woke. As she lay trying to come to her senses, she
became more aware of her surroundings. There was a pervasive damp, and beneath
her hands was cold, moist earth. By the time she spotted the grate over her
head, she knew she was in a dungeon, perhaps even an oubliette. She fought the
urge to scream for she knew it would be fruitless and she did not want to
expose her terror.

Blocking
out the feel and knowledge of the myriad of small creatures that no doubt
shared the pit, she groped around for Leith. In so small an area it was easy to
find him. He was still unconscious so she settled his head upon her lap, her
hands gently searching his form for serious wounds.

“Aimil?”
Leith groaned as he tried to sit up only to fall back with an oath.

“I
am right here, Leith. Where are ye hurt? I cannae tell by feeling ye, and ‘tis
too dark to see,” she muttered.

“‘Tis
all right. A few scratches and more bruises than I care to count. Dinnae fash
yourself.”

She
frowned for his voice was weak and strained but, without any light, she could
not tell if he was lying. “We have been tossed in a ground dungeon.”

He
searched out her hand to clasp it comfortingly. “It willnae be for long. We are
for ransoming. Father will be quick to buy us free.” A shaky laugh escaped him.
“They must have been sore impressed with us to lock us up so tightly. We being
but a pair of lads.”

Knowing
that he sought confirmation that her disguise still held, she replied, “Aye.
What should I tell them when they ask my name?”

“Tell
them ye are Shane. Father will ken what is about and will follow through with
the subterfuge. Aye, he will be glad of it.”

“He
must wonder where we are even now.” She sighed, knowing that her father would
be sorely worried, if only for Leith.

Just
as Lachlan Mengue had noted the absence of his two offspring, word had come
that the MacGuins had raided the Ferguesons. He began to fear the worst as the
searchers he had hastily dispatched continued to find no sign of Leith or
Aimil. Instinct told him that they had been caught. Several places they often
rode to could have been in the path of the retreating MacGuin raiding party, a
prize easily snatched up. Only a fool would miss seeing what an easy chance for
ransom they presented, and Parlan MacGuin was no fool.

As
night faded into another day, Lachlan sat drinking and praying for some word,
any word. His heir and his youngest daughter were a loss he was not sure he could
bear despite four other children who could have consoled him. In anticipation
of a ransom demand, he began to review his purse and his options for
supplementing it. Even as yet another day passed with no word, he clung to the
thought that they were prisoners. Anyone who even looked as if he might think
differently suffered the heat of Lachlan’s impressive temper. His children were
alive, and he refused to consider anything else unless their lifeless bodies
were brought before him to be seen with his own eyes.

Aimil
very much feared for her brother’s life. His injuries may have been slight but
they had been untended. Two days and nights in the cold, damp hole had sapped
his strength. He was unconscious more than he was conscious. She was also
certain that he was feverish. Meager food once a day and a thin blanket had not
helped at all. She could not believe the callousness of the guards who ignored
her increasing pleas. Two men had shown some pity, but they were gone. The less
compassionate men who had taken their place hinted that that consideration had
been the reason the other two were gone from Dubhglenn.

By
the time a man arrived with the daily ration of food late on the fourth day,
there was no longer any question in Aimil’s mind that her brother was feverish.
She held him as he ranted, weeping over her inability even to bathe his face.
She had slept little during the night, dozing only during the few times her
brother was quiet. Her dirty face streaked with tears, she glared at the man
who peered down at them.

“Will
ye not take him from this rat hole now?”

“I
cannae, laddie,” the man said with sympathy for the tear-streaked child who
stared up at him. “The laird hasnae returned yet. His brother holds this place
and he willnae free ye.”

“Then
he is a fool. He will have naught for ransoming. Even a blind man can see that
my brother is feverish. He could easily die.”

The
man did not have the heart to tell how Artair was indeed blind, blind drunk,
and that he had been since the successful raid. There was no hope of reaching
the man, of getting him to understand the plight of his captives. None dared to
act without word from Artair. To remind him of Parlan’s fury if he should
return to find a dead youth only gained a beating. There was nothing that could
be done until Parlan returned. With a sigh, the man closed the grate, wincing
at the stream of abuse that came from the hole. The small boy had a vicious,
colorful tongue. The man felt no urge to retalliate, however. He only wished
that Artair was there to be verbally lashed for he deserved it.

“How
is Artair this eve?” he asked the guard at the head of the stairs that led to
the dungeons, emboldened enough by pity for the two boys to consider
approaching Artair.

“Sore-headed
and drinking to cure it. How fare the lads?”

“If
the laird doesnae return in a day or twa, there will be but one laddie in that
hole and him with a rightful vengeance to take.”

Aimil
was a little startled at how vengeful she could feel as she held her brother
and wept with frustration and grief. In all the time they had been in the pit,
no one had even asked their names so she knew that ransoming was no hope to
cling to yet. From things said, she knew her only chance for Leith was if Black
Parlan, the much-feared laird of the MacGuins, returned in time. It struck her
as funny that she should wish for the return of a man often used by nursemaids
as a bogey to scare their charges into obedience. Her laugh had an hysterical
note to it, however, so she abruptly stopped.

Clutching
Leith whose breathing grew more terrifyingly rasping, she began a slow rocking
motion. It was vital that she retain her wits, but she feared that they were
beginning to slip. Being held captive in a damp, black hole that was far from
fresh of smell was hard to endure. To be kept there to watch her brother slowly
die was a torture beyond bearing. At this point, she mused, she would willingly
sell her soul to Satan to gain some care for Leith. As she began to pray for
the Black Parlan’s return, she wondered if she was doing just that.

Catarine
Dunmore stretched very much like a contented cat. It had taken a lot of time
and work to get the Black Parlan into her bed but it had been worth it. He made
all her other lovers seem like fumbling boys or eunuchs. Watching him as he
stood staring out the window, she let her gaze greedily roam over his large,
muscular frame. She had him now and he would not slip away. A well-earned
confidence in her ability led her to believe that one night in her bed would be
enough to secure him.

“Come
back to bed, Parlan,” she purred, licking her lips when he turned, giving her a
full view of his endowments.

Eyes
so dark brown they were nearly black studied the woman on the bed with little
expression. Parlan did not like Catarine but could not deny that she had
serviced him very well indeed. There was, however, something repulsive about
her insatiable appetite. He cared less about the state of her emotions, but he
did not particularly care to be seen as little more than a well-proportioned
staff that happened to have a man attached. She could no doubt have done as
well with some inanimate object shaped appropriately.

Inwardly,
he sighed as he moved toward the bed where she wantonly displayed her
indisputable charms. They did nothing for him now that his need had been
dulled. Noting the anger that settled upon her lovely face as he reached for
his clothes, he began to form his farewell. It had to be phrased carefully for
she was attached to his family. If he insulted her in any way, her anger would
be formidable and he did not want to be troubled with it. Her kin were anxious
to get her wed and that made her a little dangerous.

As
he pulled on his trunk hose, he watched her sardonically. She would probably
accept an offer to leave his pintle behind, he mused bitterly. After her
avaricious attentions, the poor abused fellow would likely be useless for a few
days anyway. He smiled to himself at the track his thoughts had taken. Parlan
knew he could not really complain. He had succumbed to her invitation solely
because he wished use of the skill for which she was so well-noted.

Even
six months ago he would have climbed back into her bed, ready for more. Lately,
however, he suffered from a malaise of dissatisfaction. Once his initial lust
was sated he lost interest in the woman. At but eight and twenty he felt sure
his virility was not waning. The problem was not how much he wanted but what he
wanted. It was plainly not to be found in the arms of Catarine Dunmore.

“Ye
cannae mean to leave now. The night is still young.”

“Aye,
but the dawn comes early and I begin the long trek back to Dubhglenn then,” he
murmured without glancing her way.

“Ye
truly are leaving?” It was difficult but she managed to keep from screaming the
words in anger and frustration.

“I
must. I have been gone near to a month and ‘tis folly to leave Artair in charge
for so long.” He frowned, caught up in thoughts of all his brother could do
wrong in his absence.

“Surely
ye need not fear that he would try to usurp your place.”

“Nay,
but he plays the role too seriously and with little thought. I have plans afoot
and I cannae risk his ruining them.”

She
knew better than to ask what those plans were. Sitting up, she adjusted her
hair so that it did not hide the full curves she knew were attractive to men.
It was ending far too soon. She needed more time to entrap him completely. Her
family was urging her to take another husband. Parlan MacGuin would suit her
fine. She could not catch him by crying over lost virtue or seduction, for her
lack of celibacy since her husband’s untimely death two years ago was far too
well known. There were, however, a number of routes to the marriage bed. Yet
each one required time. She could not allow this chance to slip away.
Unfortunately, it looked very much as if Parlan was going to yank it away.