Highland Captive (3 page)

“Come,
Parlan,” she crooned, reaching out to caress his manhood and hiding her anger
over his evident disinclination, “what is one more night?”

“Too
long,” he replied succinctly as he put on his pourpoint and stepped out of her
reach. “All is readied for the journey. I cannae forestall it.”

Gritting
her teeth against the curses she wished to hurl at him, she queried, “When do
you plan to return this way?”

Parlan
wondered if the woman knew how obvious she was in her ploys. “I cannae say.
‘Tis a busy time of the year.”

“I
must return home soon myself,” she lied smoothly. “Mayhaps I could stop at
Dubhglenn on my way.”

“If
ye like.” He hoped fervently that she would not as he gave her a light kiss. “Take
care, Catarine.”

As
soon as he was gone, Catarine gave vent to her fury, demolishing her quarters,
then keeping her servants busy most of the night restoring it to order. Parlan
would not get away so easily with using her like some tavern wench, she vowed.
She would give him time to settle his business then go to stay at his keep.
Once there and in his bed, she was certain she would win the game.

Dawn
found Parlan on the road and riding hard for Dubhglenn, his keep. Although he
partook of the delights of town, he did not like being away from his home. If
Artair was older and less rash, he would be sent on some of the necessary trips
to town. Unfortunately, Parlan knew Artair would either spend his time soaked
in drink and wenching, or make them new enemies they did not need. It saddened
him but Artair’s unreliability was why Lagan Dunmore was the man most often at
Parlan’s side. He could only hope that during his absence Artair had done
nothing too terrible.

When
Parlan finally reached Dubhglenn two days later, he knew immediately upon riding
into the bailey that something was not right. The people he met greeted him
jovially but with a poorly disguised air of relief. There was also that air of
someone waiting to speak but not wishing to be the one to carry tales. Parlan
was about to demand explanations when he espied the horse.

Speechless
with admiration, he did not even inquire about where the animal had come from,
but merely spent long moments studying the fine points of the stallion. The
animal was at least a hand taller than his own, very impressive mount. The
horse’s lines indicated strength as well as speed. The white coat of the beast
was startling in its purity. Parlan was ready to test how far the stallion’s
tense, aggressive stance could be tried when Malcolm and Lagan returned to
Dubhglenn. They wasted no time in moving to speak to Parlan.

“Have
ye seen this magnificent animal?” enthused Parlan, slowly becoming aware of the
men’s tension.

“Aye,
I have seen him.” Malcolm turned to one of the men lurking nearby. “How fare
the laddies?”

“Nae
too weel. The older one be sickening something fierce and the wee one has
condemned the lot of us to seven kinds of hell.”

“And
weel we deserve them,” cried Lagan who got no argument. “Has naught been done?
Has no one tended to them?”

“Aye,
they be fed and watered regular,” protested another man but weakly.

“I
gave them extra blankets last eve but I fear the wee one be right when he says
they will only be used as a shroud,” added the first man.

“Hold!”
The silence that immediately met Parlan’s bellow was a tense one. “What lads?”
he snarled.

“Artair
raided the Ferguesons,” Lagan explained, knowing that would displease Parlan
because it was done without his consent. “As we rode back to Dubhglenn, we
chanced upon twa laddies in Mengue colors and seized them.”

“How
wee are the laddies?”

“One
must be nearing twenty, mayhaps a year or twa less,” replied Malcolm. “A man by
some’s reckoning but still a laddie by mine. The other cannae be more than
twelve.”

“What
ransom has been asked?”

“None,”
Lagan answered reluctantly. “They rot in the pit awaiting your return so that
ye can decide upon it.”

Malcolm
and Lagan followed Parlan as he strode into the keep. Several other men
followed hesitantly. When Parlan’s request for Artair met with the word that
the young man was sleeping off yet another long night of whiskey and women,
Parlan’s fury was a glory to behold. Usually brave men scattered before him as
he made his way to the dungeons where the sound of a soft keening greeted his
ears.

The
grate was speedily opened, and Parlan looked into the hole, a lantern held
inside its depths. He saw a small, slightly-built boy holding a larger one,
rocking and weeping softly. The elder boy was evidently dangerously ill.
Suddenly the small lad became aware of the intruders and looked up. Even
streaked with filth and tears, the small face had a delicate beauty that seemed
strange for a boy. It was not even marred when that face was contorted into a
snarl of hate and rage. Parlan noted all of that as he struggled to control his
ever-growing anger with his brother.

At
any other time the dark, imposing face peering down at her would have made
Aimil at least hesitant, but she had no thought of caution when she held her
dying brother in her arms. “Carrion! Filthy corbies! Ye have come too early to
pick at this flesh.”

“Get
them out of there. Now!” Parlan snarled as he moved back from the pit’s
opening, his voice clipped with fury.

Chapter Two

For
a moment Aimil doubted that she had heard right. It quickly became apparant
that the Black Parlan himself was there, biting out commands in a deep voice
that barely escaped being a very feral snarl. With her brother’s vital needs at
the fore of her thoughts, she neither asked nor cared if they meant to free her
too. Once Leith was lifted out, she started to sit down again.

“Ye
as weel, laddie,” Parlan called, failing to keep all his fury at Artair out of
his voice despite his efforts to stay calm so as not to frighten the boy.

She
slapped away the hands that were offered to assist her, scrambling up the rope
by herself. The time spent in a pit in which she could barely lie down had
sapped her strength, but she refused to reveal that. In fact, she had practiced
some odd exercises several times a day to keep her strength up for Leith’s
sake. It had served its purpose for she was able to stand without wavering
badly. The last thing she wanted was for these men to espy any weakness in her.

“Dinnae
touch me, swine,” she hissed when, as they began to leave the dungeons, a hand
moved to assist her.

Parlan
was unused to being spoken to like that but he quelled an instinctive burst of
anger. Later, he would even find amusement in the thought of the seething,
somewhat filthy boy. For now he only wanted to ease the dangerous situation
Artair had created. Despite the dirt, there was no mistaking the richness of
the boys’ attire, which meant that they were of a high standing within the
Mengue clan. An incident such as this could easily provoke a blood feud that
could last for generations. That was the very last thing Parlan wanted or
needed.

When
they reached a room that could be secured from the outside, the MacGuins
hastily attended to Leith who was for the most part, unconscious. Aimil stood
out of the way but watched their every move. Even though the tending was late
in coming, she could appreciate the speed with which the men stripped Leith,
bathed him, and lay him on a clean bed to nurse his wounds. By some miracle the
wounds had not yet festered even though they had not healed as much as they
should have. There was yet some danger for Leith.

“Your
names,” Parlan rapped out, no longer worried that his anger would frighten the
boy.

Aimil
did not quail beneath the man’s penetrating, dark gaze. “Shane and Leith
Mengue. ‘Tis Leith ye have almost murdered.”

Swearing
colorfully and with admirable diversity, Parlan continued to help in tending
young Leith Mengue’s wounds. He too saw it as a miracle that the boy’s wounds
had not festered filling his blood with a deadly poison. Even if the boy lived,
which seemed imminently possible now, such harsh treatment of the Mengue heir
could provoke the very feud Parlan hoped to avoid. The little Mengue boy
certainly looked eager to begin one, he mused.

A
man of his times, Parlan did in truth like a good battle or the thrill of a
raid. It was the blood feuds he detested, feuds where hate passed from
generation to generation, with the initial cause for the feuds becoming
distorted, even forgotten. More often than not, the cause was one where, if it
had occurred within the clan, a settlement would have come about quickly
between the original antagonists. Instead whole clans tore at each other,
killing each other wherever and whenever they were able, using up their
resources in a long, bloody, seemingly unending feud. What truly annoyed him
was how those feuds so often interfered at a time when unity was desperately
needed, such as against an enemy like the English.

His
thoughts came to an abrupt halt when Artair stumbled into the room, but
Parlan’s fury had to wait to be vented.

Aimil
recognized the man who had ordered that she and Leith be put into the hole,
knew from things said that it was this man who had kept them there, who had
drunk and wenched while her brother slowly died. Her delicate hands curled into
claws, and she lunged at Artair.

Artair
saved his eyes only by a quick raising of his arms. Two men grabbed Aimil
before she was able to inflict much damage but it was a few moments before she
stopped hurling curses and threats at Artair, and was calm enough to be
released. In the confusion the feminine manner of her attack went unnoticed.
When she moved to stand by the head of the bed where Leith rested, she was not
ready to forgive any MacGuin. But she did note that Artair was getting anything
but praise for his actions from Black Parlan. It was clear that he had acted
completely of his own accord, something that was clearly an old bone of
contention between the two men.

“I
see ye found the prisoners,” Artair began weakly for Parlan’s face was dark
with rage.

“I
nearly had naught but corpses. Did ye never think that they might be worth more
alive?”

“No
one told me.” Artair’s excuses were abruptly cut off by a sound blow from
Parlan’s broad hand that sent Artair slamming into a wall.

“Ye
were already too drunk to heed a word said. Fool! Ye have done your best to
kill Lachlan Mengue’s heir. Do ye ken what that would have meant? Do ye ken
what that would have brought down about our heads?”

“The
Mengues arenae strong enough to beat us,” cried Artair only to suffer another
blow from his enraged brother.

“Nay,
mayhaps not, but they have ties to the MacVerns and the Broths. Aye, and those
bastards, the Ferguesons.” Pinning Artair to the wall, he snarled, “They also
have power in court and could easily bring the king’s wrath upon our heads.” He
released his hold so abruptly that Artair fell to the floor. “Murder it would
have been called and murder it would have been. If the king didnae put us to
the horn, declare us outlaws, we would still have to deal with four clans at
our throats plus God alone kens how many others for t’would be a righteous
vengeance.”

“I
dinnae ken what ye are so angry about,” sputtered Artair. “The lad still lives
and he will bring a fine ransom.”

“Get
out!” bellowed Parlan. “Get out before I stuff ye in that accursed hole and
forget ye for a week.”

There
was no hesitation in Artair’s obedience to that command. When Parlan was in
such a fury, retreat was the better part of valor. After seeing Leith Mengue’s
precarious state of health, Artair was guiltily aware of his culpability.

Parlan
turned his attention to the delicate boy called Shane. “Now we shall get ye
cleaned up.”

“I
dinnae need your help. I can weel clean myself,” Aimil snapped. “Aye, and I
will do so once I ken that Leith fares weel.”

“He
willnae fare weel if he is forced to smell ye all the while,” growled Parlan,
then ordered his men to fetch some fresh bath water.

Aimil
started to tell the big man just where he could put his bath water when Leith
weakly touched her arm and rasped, “Clean up, brat, before ye fall ill as weel.
Ye do stink a bit.”

Clasping
his hand briefly, she teased in a shaky voice, “Ye were no rose yourself until
a wee bit ago.”

“I
cannae believe I stank quite so foul.” His smile faded as he was seized by a
violent fit of coughing ending their banter.

Lagan
moved to aid Leith in the drinking of a hot, strong broth that had been
delivered. Aimil watched her bath prepared and hoped that the MacGuins would
accede to her demand for privacy. There was no need of a guard within the room,
and the very thought of what could happen if they discovered she was female
sent chills up her spine.

“Here
be some clean things for ye to don,” said Malcolm as he set some clothes upon
the bed. “These should fit. I even brought a new bonnet for ye as ye seem right
fond of the things.” He frowned at the dirty bedraggled bonnet that sat firmly
upon her head. “Do ye never take it off?”