Highland Captive (40 page)

“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 was 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.”

“Aye,
ye are right and I am getting cursed sick of saying that.” She smiled weakly
when he laughed.

“And
now I must say what I ken weel ye dinnae wish to hear but ye will heed this,
Aimil. Heed it and obey it. I ken why ye had to take that ride, ken weel how
the walls of even a place ye favor can close in about ye, choking ye. Ye are
just going to have to grit your pretty teeth and endure, lass.”

“There
will be no more rides with only one man to watch over ye. If ye must travel
somewhere, t’will be with an escort of a half-dozen or more strong well-armed
men. Ye will be watched at all times. I must see that there is no way for Rory
to reach ye, no way at all, and if that means ye are kept close, that I must
make a prisoner of ye again, then so be it.”

“Ye
dinnae make me a prisoner, Parlan. Rory does. His hate and madness lock me
inside these walls, not ye.”

“So,
ye mean to obey me, eh?” Although he knew she had common sense, he had not
expected her to comply so easily.

“Aye.
When he attacked me today, I kenned that he would not hesitate to kill the
child I carried. Because the bairn is no longer within me willnae make any
difference. The bairn and I will be close until he is weaned. If I am in
danger, then the chance grows that the bairn is too. In truth, I fear Rory’s
simply kenning a bairn exists.”

“Nay,
I cannae like it either. He was enraged that ye shared my bed. I think he would
hate any bairn we had made together.”

“He
would. He also hates me. More so now than he ever did. He frightens me more
than I can say. I have no wish to face him. I ken too weel what he wishes to do
to me. I was a fool today not to think of him before I set out.”

“Not
a fool. T’was not wrong to think yourself more or less safe. So many swords are
searching him out that in the midst of the enemy t’was the last place to expect
him. Howbeit, that shows us that he can and will get close if we are not
exceedingly vigilant.”

“He
has made us prisoners.” She sighed then looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Or
has he? Ye dinnae intend to just sit behind these walls, do ye?”