Highland Captive (5 page)

“That
I can understand for I would feel the loss of such a beast sorely myself. ‘Tis
a guilt I am willing to live with,” he drawled.

Malcolm
lifted the saddle from Elfking’s back and raised his gaze to the walls of the
keep. “Jesu,” he breathed, his eyes widening with disbelief.

“God’s
teeth, Malcolm,” Parlan snapped when the saddle fell from Malcolm’s hands and
barely missed Parlan’s foot. “What ails ye? Ye near to broke my foot.”

“The
wee laddie,” Malcolm croaked. “Up there. On the walls.”

All
eyes followed Malcolm’s stunned gaze. The slight figure looked even smaller as
it skillfully descended the wall of the keep. There was admiration mixed with
the shock for, if asked, several of the men watching would have admitted that
they would not have dared such a thing. It was not thought cowardly if a man
preferred to keep his feet on or very near to good solid ground.

“Is
he mad?” ground out Parlan after a hearty bout of cursing.

“I
willnae argue the lad’s sanity with ye but I will say ‘tis skill that he uses
in his lunacy.” Lagan nodded when Parlan shot him a brief, piercing look. “Aye,
skill. That is no scrambling descent. I have seen the trick of it before. He
kens weel how to use both rope and body.”

“Aye,”
Parlan agreed slowly, “that he does. But to escape into a crowded bailey? ‘Tis
madness.”

“We
wouldnae have seen him had Malcolm not chanced to look up.” Lagan chuckled. “‘Tis
really quite clever.”

“If
he doesnae end up splattered upon the ground,” Parlan growled. “This is a
cursed annoying business. I have one boy sick and near to death and the other
trying to kill himself. Mengue will pay dearly for raising such brats.”

Lagan
laughed. “Weel, we should wander over there to greet the lad when he reaches
the ground.”

“Oh,
aye, I will greet him.” His fear for the dangling boy turned to anger as Parlan
strode toward the wall.

“It
may be the tales ye just mentioned that drive him to such an act,” Malcolm
suggested quickly as he hurried to keep pace.

Struggling
against his anger, Parlan finally nodded as he glanced at Malcolm. “‘Tis true.
I will keep that in mind whilst I am beating the brat.” He looked back toward
the small figure gingerly descending the wall just as the wind stole the bonnet
the lad wore. “Jesus wept.”

Parlan’s
soft curse was repeated by all around him.

In
her haste, Aimil had not only failed to secure her bonnet but her hair as well.
It tumbled free in glorious thick waves, the wind catching it and tossling its
beauty with abandon. The predominant color was a blond so fair it was silver in
color but streaked with shades of gold and red that caught and held every beam
of light. What Aimil thought a bane, an unruly mass that could not decide upon
a color, Parlan and those with him thought beauty itself.

After
shock had released its hold, the first thought that entered Parlan’s mind was
that he would like to wrap himself up in that hair which was like silken
sunlight. He then wondered if she was old enough to be used in the ways he was
thinking of. Her small stature might yet indicate youth. Few mature women he
knew could so easily and successfully disguise themselves so. The
disappointment he felt when that possibility occurred to him surprised him
some. Suddenly he recalled the “lad’s” delicate features and swore at himself.

“I
should have seen it,” he snapped as he again moved toward where Aimil was now
hanging some feet short of the ground.

“The
lass has come up short. We best hasten before she tries to drop to the ground,”
suggested Lagan. “She could land afoul and break a bone.”

“I
am sorely tempted to break a few of her bones. T’was a foolish move for a
laddie to make. For a wee lass...” He shook his head, stunned by the daring of
the girl, even as he guiltily admitted that his reputation, which he had done
little to clear, might have driven her to the rash act.

The
advance of the men halted as abruptly as Aimil’s whistle pierced the air.
Parlan sensed what was about to happen, but his shout of warning barely came in
time. Men hurled themselves out of the way of an onrushing Elfking who stopped
directly beneath the dangling girl. They watched in astonishment while they
rose, dusting themselves off, as she neatly lowered herself onto the stallion’s
back. Her plan of escape was clear to all now.

Aimil
recovered quickly from the jolt of dropping onto Elfking’s back and grasped the
reins. Riding bareback did not trouble her. She did, in fact, prefer it.
Exhilaration filled her though she tried to quell it. Freedom was so close she
could taste its nectar.

Chapter Three

“Close
the gates! Get my cursed horse. Fools! Dinnae bother with a saddle. She will be
sitting at Mengue’s table before I have even mounted.”

If
Aimil had not been so afraid that she could yet fail, she would have laughed at
the sight of the much-feared Black Parlan bellowing orders and his men
scrambling to obey. She knew, however, that what looked like confusion was not.
It was only haste, a haste that could rob her of her goal when she was so close
to it. With a yell that rivaled any battlecry, she urged Elfking toward the
gates that were already being shut against her escape.

Men
threw themselves clear of the horse but there was barely enough space to get
through when she reached the gates and the men closing them were hurrying to
take even that away. She urged Elfking to rear and, as she had expected, the
men instinctively shied away from the flailing hooves, allowing her to break
clear of the bailey into open ground. The delay had caused Elfking to break
stride and she feared it would cost her dearly for she could hear that pursuit
had already begun in earnest.

Although
he cursed the men at the gate, Parlan did not blame them for dodging the white
stallion. They did at least have the sense to start reopening the gates even as
Parlan thundered past them on his black stallion, the purity of the animal’s
coat marred only by a small patch of white on his nose and a circle of it round
his left rear hoof. His horse, Raven, was as yet unmatched in speed, but Parlan
sensed he would be pressed to keep pace several lengths behind his quarry. Elfking,
with his far lighter burden, fairly flew over the ground. Watching the horse
run only increased Parlan’s desire to have the mount.

As
he watched the girl ride, he recognized her skill, a skill increased by the
obvious rapport between rider and horse. With her hair unbound, her lithe shape
nearly one with her animal of such grace and speed, there was an air of other
worldliness to the pair. Parlan decided that Elfking was a suitable name for
the milk-white stallion.

So
thought Malcolm and Lagan who followed with a small group of men. They crested
a small rise to see Parlan and the girl galloping over an open field. The sight
of the black horse with its large dark rider pursuing the white horse with its
small fair rider conjured up a vast number of fanciful images. To see two such
magnificent animals racing was spellbinding. It would be a close-run race, and
both men agreed that they and their horses would not even be in the running.

“We
will ne’er catch them.”

“Nay,
Malcolm, but ye ken that we must follow. Parlan may need aid if he catches her.
‘Tis also unwise for him to be abroad alone.”

Malcolm
followed as Lagan urged the group to ride on, but he grumbled, “Nae sure I want
to be about if Parlan loses the race.”

Parlan
was determined to win but he knew it would be the most difficult race he had
ever been involved in. Despite appearances, the girl did not hold all the
advantages. The ground was unfamiliar to her and had already stolen some of her
lead. He grimly followed and awaited his chance.

Aimil
clearly recognized her weaknesses. She had watched her lead eaten away as she
faltered to avoid an obstruction, one her pursuer had already adjusted for. One
look at him had been all she had needed as it made her think that Satan himself
was at her heels and, if rumors about Black Parlan could be believed, he was or
at least one of his henchman.

It
was not speed, skill, knowledge, nor terrain that ended the race, but something
so insignificant that Aimil wondered if fate was playing games with her. She
felt the subtle change in Elfking’s gait and knew she was lost. Elfking would
run until his heart stopped if she asked it of him, but she never would.
Neither could she cripple him perhaps to the point where he had to be
destroyed. None of the fears that had prompted her attempt to escape were
strong enough to make her do that. Weeping silently with frustration, she
halted him and dismounted to look at his leg.

The
change in Elfking’s gait had quickly been seen by Parlan. He cursed, feeling
certain that a female would continue to ride an injured animal until the injury
was past fixing. Because of that cynical view, he was unprepared for her halt
and overshot his quarry. By the time he got his steed under control and turned
round, she was sitting on the ground, staring at something in her hand. He
dismounted and quietly moved to where she sat by Elfking, who appeared to be
suffering only a tender hoof.

“A
pebble,” she remarked dejectedly. “I would have made it save for this.”

“Aye,
I think ye might have.” He signaled the newly-arrived men to keep her from
Elfking.

“‘Tis
all your fault,” she snapped as she surged to her feet and flung the pebble at
him.

Flinching
as it struck his cheek, he growled, “What in the Devil’s name are ye on about?
I had naught to do with this.”

In
too high a temper to care who she was yelling at, Aimil gladly replied. “Men,”
she said in a voice heavy with disgust. “Aye, and ye most of all. I could have
stayed with Leith if it werenae for men, animals that ye are. Aye, ye and your
damnable appetites. That is why I had to climb down the keep wall and near
crippled Elfking.”

“My
appetites?” Parlan asked, laughing, his gaze flicking from her face to her
finger prodding his chest to punctuate her remarks.

The
way she stood berating him amused him as well as stirred his admiration. He
could snap her slim lovely neck with one good blow yet she faced him squarely.
Her delicate face, with its wide, slightly-tilted, aquamarine eyes, drew his
appreciation even when it was flushed with anger. Again he wondered how old she
was for there was the promise of passion already visible in her full mouth. Her
age suddenly became a question of immediate importance to him. His gaze fell to
the pourpoint she wore, but it hid any curves she might have.

“Take
your doublet off,” he ordered, not giving any thought to how that might sound,
but only concerned with discovering her true age.

Aimil
gaped then grew even more furious. “Go to hell.”

Parlan’s
amusement fled for he was not accustomed to such resistance or having his wishes
denied. “Ye will do as I say, wench.”

Being
called a wench only increased her fury. “When cows grow wings I will.” She
swore when he began to see to her compliance himself. “Get your paws off me, ye
great hairy brute.”

Trying
to hold her steady as he unlaced her doublet, and wondering crossly how she
could be so slippery, he snapped, “I mean to see how old ye are, brat.”

“Ye
neednae take my clothes off for that.”

“How
old are ye then?” His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he watched her face.

She
suddenly realized her age could determine how she was treated, and why it was
of interest to him. “Twelve.”

He
grinned, catching her flailing hands by the wrists and securing them behind her
with one large hand. “Then ye will-nae care about the loss of this”—he finished
unlacing her doublet—“for there will be naught to see.” He held her close to
stop her squirming as he worked.

Alex,
the young man Aimil had knocked out, suddenly came upon the scene. He had come
to inside Leith’s room when the lass had whistled for Elfking. Although
somewhat groggy and loathe to ride a horse, Alex had followed the riders. Guilt
over his part in her escape drove him.

“Watch
out for the wench’s knee,” he called out as he dismounted somewhat gingerly.

Aimil
squirmed not only to try to escape but to position herself for attack. Much to
her annoyance, her previous victim’s warning came just in time to save Parlan
from the full force of her knee, but he still loosed his grip on her, bending
over in an instinctive gesture. But, when she swung her two-handed fist toward
his head, he caught her by the wrists before the blow could connect. She
suddenly found herself on her back, staring up into a dark face made all the
darker by fury. Fleetingly, she noticed that he had positioned himself so that
her knee was no longer a viable weapon. He had, in fact, rendered her almost
immobile.

When
he pulled out his knife, she tensed. There were two things he could do with it.
She actually found herself hoping that he meant to cut off the short, padded
tunic she had refused to remove, and sighed almost with relief when he did. An
affront to her modesty was far easier to bear than a cut throat or pierced
heart. The chastity she was struggling to protect seemed minor compared to
keeping her life. She did think, however, that he could cease staring so hard.