Highland Captive (6 page)

Parlan
was struggling hard not to stare but most of his will had gone to quelling the
strong desire to take her there and then. Since she had put the doublet on over
her shirt, she had not bothered to lace the shirt thus giving him an almost
unobstructed view. His hands itched to flick the shirt open to reveal what he
judged might be the most exquisite breasts he had ever seen. One of the things
that stopped him was that he had no wish for the men encircling them to share
that sight. He intended to be the only one to enjoy the pleasure of viewing her
beauty.

“Ye
are a weel-formed twelve, lass.” He finally tore his gaze from her breasts and
looked at her face.

“Oh,
verra weel, I was seventeen last Michaelmas. Satisfied?” she snapped.

He
leaned down until their faces were very close. “T’will take more than a peek to
satisfy my damnable appetites.”

She
flushed then scowled at his amusement at his barb. What truly bothered her was
her awareness of him as a man. His dark, good looks and strong, well-formed
body were arousing an uncomfortable interest. There was fear stirred by his
suggestion, but she suspected it was no more than any virgin would feel when
faced with her first bedding. Her body’s indiscriminate desires annoyed her.
After all, she had been wooed and left unmoved by many a handsome Lowland
gentleman and yet her body had the gall to warm to a barbarous Highlander.

If
one overlooked that he was a MacGuin, she mused, as well as the unsavory tales
told about him, and studied him simply as a man, there was no denying that he
was very fine indeed. His face with its high, wide cheekbones and the modest
aquiline cut of his nose gave him a fierce, hawkish look which was far from
unattractive. Black brows, gently winged, rose above surprisingly
heavily-lashed eyes giving him a saturnine air, an air increased by the
darkness of his skin and the midnight black of his long hair. He had to be one
of the tallest men she had ever seen, possibly even topping six foot, and was
muscular without the lumps or ridges some men developed. The partially-opened
shirt and the lack of hose with his kilt let her see that he had a fine layer
of hair on his broad chest and a light coat on his long, muscular legs.

He
was big and, she grudgingly admitted, beautiful, but she would not let that
sway her. Black Parlan was a MacGuin, the laird of that thieving clan, and a
Highlander. She knew rumor and tale should not condemn a man, that in the
newly-marked century of 1500 men did not, could not, do such things as roast
babies and dine upon them, but it could not all be discounted. Behind all
gossip and rumor there was usually some hint of truth. There was little doubt
in her mind that he certainly did take his pleasure of women freely and with
great gusto. It was not all that, however, which would make her fight if he
sought to possess her. Instinct told her that she could lose more than her
chastity and that terrifed her. But she had no intention of revealing her
terror.

“Now
that ye ken what ye wished to, will ye get off me, ye great ox?” she snapped. “I
cannae feel my legs anymore.”

“I
would be quite glad to feel them for ye.” He met her glare with a grin, and his
men laughed.

“How
verra amusing.” His cockiness replaced her fear with annoyance. “Will ye remove
your great hulking self before I am crippled for life? What is it?”

Her
last question was asked softly and somewhat anxiously for his face had suddenly
darkened with anger. Her gaze followed his to her breasts again, but she could
see nothing worth such fury only a few bruises from the young man’s attack.
That the bruises enraged him was made suddenly very clear, and it took Aimil a
moment to get over her surprise.

Parlan
surged to his feet and softly, too softly, asked her young attacker, “How did
ye ken the way the lass would protect herself?”

Clearly,
if a little shakily, the young man replied, “She used it on me when I attacked
her.”

His
words had barely cleared his lips when a blow from Parlan sent him reeling.
Scrambling to her feet and clutching her shirt closed, Aimil gasped as the
laird of the MacGuins sentenced her would-be ravisher to an alarming number of
lashes. Although the young man paled, he made no protest nor did any of the
others look surprised. It was evident that the notorious Black Parlan did not
tolerate the abuse of women, and did, in fact, consider it a crime worthy of
harsh punishment. Aimil decided she would wonder later how that contradicted
the image painted of the man. Right now, she felt she had to intervene for it
was too harsh a punishment. She had to let it be known how little the man had
accomplished.

“Nay,
nay,” she cried, clutching Parlan’s tensed arm. “It wasnae so bad.”

“Enjoyed
it, did ye?” purred Parlan, angered by her defense of the young man.

“Dinnae
be an idiot,” she snapped, causing several of Parlan’s men to gasp. “I didnae
mean that. I meant t’was naught but a kiss and a wee grapple.”

“A
kiss and a wee grapple wouldnae leave such marks.”

“Aye,
they would and, even so, t’wasnae all his fault. I was wearing naught but this
shirt and that undone. Aye, and my hair was loose. He was expecting twa lads
not what he found. T’was but a brief tussle before I knocked him out, and, ‘tis
true, I bruise easily.” She saw the doubt in his eyes and asked, “Did ye mean
to mark me just now?”

“Nay,”
he replied, stiffening with outrage, “I dinnae hold with the rough handling of
women. And ye being so wee I thought ye may be but a child.”

She
bit back an angry retort for his reference to her lack of size and held out her
wrists. The marks his hands had left were already livid and clearly delineated.
She smiled slightly at his shock.

“As
I said, I bruise most easily. ‘Tis a fault of the skin. They will fade as
quickly and they dinnae hurt. Truth tell, I think the bruises I gifted him with
are far worse,” she murmured, a faint color tinting her cheeks.

Looking
at the awkward stance of the young man, Parlan bit back a grin. “I will let it
pass this time, Alex, but if I hear even a whisper of the like occurring again,
ye will suffer twofold. I ken ye will be weel reminded for a day or twa of your
error. Aye, and for far longer will ye be hearing the jests of the men
concerning your defeat at the hands of such a wee lass. T’will do as
punishment.”

He
grasped Aimil by the arm. “We will return to the keep now. Malcolm, ye will
lead her stallion.” He sighed when Malcolm reached for Elfking only to be
greeted by a horsey snarl. “M’lady, wouldst ye be so kind as to direct your
beast to follow Malcolm?” he asked with exaggerated politeness.

She
obeyed with an equally false politeness then stood embarrassed and angry as he
laced her shirt much as if she were a child. On the ride back to the MacGuin
keep, she sat before him on Raven and said nothing, disappointed by her failure
to escape. But she was also fighting the way her body was reacting to the
closeness of his, to his strength and his maleness. When they reached the keep,
she dutifully told Elfking to stay and set off to see Leith, but was steered
into the hall, sat down, and given some ale.

“Ye
are plainly not Shane Mengue so who are ye?” Parlan asked when they were all
seated at a table, with food and drink set before them.

“Aimil
Siubhan O’Connell Mengue, Lachlan Mengue’s youngest daughter.”

“Then
ye will still fetch a fine ransom. I had feared ye were naught but the lad’s
woman thus not worth a groat.”

He
did not have the slightest inclination of letting anyone know there was more to
it than economics. Parlan suspected that the restlessness and dissatisfaction
he had suffered of late would soon end. It had bothered him to think that this
tiny woman was no more than Leith Mengue’s whore. Her youth, lack of wedding
ring and position indicated that she was very probably a virgin which also
pleased him. For once, he not only wanted to be the first, he avidly desired
it.

The
problem, he mused, would be in getting her into his bed. She was small and
delicate but recent incidents had clearly revealed her strength and courage.
Seduction might take a long time for he sensed that she had the wit to see
through such a ploy and he could not trust his patience. Not only the rules he
enforced on his men stopped him from taking her but an absolute loathing of
forcing an unwilling woman. To get her into his bed, he needed something to
bargain with, a choice to give her that would, hopefully, cause her to come to
him with at least a token willingness.

Studying
her, he tried to find one particular attribute of hers that could account for
his strong desire. Her figure was not without draw, especially her exquisite
breasts, yet he had always preferred a fuller shape. Her face was lovely, but
he had known many as lovely, even lovelier although her eyes, with their
extremely long and dark lashes, he deemed peerless. Delicately arched brows, a
small straight nose, and the way her small oval face tapered into a stubborn
chin had their appeal but should not cause a man to ache with need as he was.

Suddenly
he smiled to himself. He was searching for what could not be seen with the
eyes. Although no romantic, he knew it was neither face nor form that caused a
man to forsake all other women for one woman or stirred a desire that demanded
satisfaction. In the short time he had known her, Aimil Mengue had revealed
several characteristics he had begun to think women no longer possessed. Skill
in riding and consideration for her mount came to mind for he was first and
foremost a knight, a man of battle who knew how valuable a good horse could be.
She had courage amply displayed by her attempt to escape and her refusal to
quail before him. He had felt her strength when he had wrestled with her. Her
intervention in Alex’s case had shown she had a sense of justice. He was eager
to discover other facets to her character.

“Will
ye send my father the ransom demands now, Sir MacGuin?” she asked, breaking
into his musings. “He must be sore worried by now.”

“Aye,
it must seem as if ye have been swallowed up by the earth itself. My brother
should have at least sent your father word that ye were held here. I must
assess your value however,” he added. He then watched her intently as he said, “There
will be enough time before the ransoming is done for ye to turn your horse to
my hand.”

“Nay,
there will never be enough time for that.”

“Lass,
I intend to have that horse.”

“Weel,
ye just try but ye will gain no aid from me. Elfking is mine. He was born
second in a twin birth and was weak and looked runty. He would have been left
to die as such beasts are but I took him. I handfed him the mare’s milk his
stronger sibling denied him and I raised him. He is mine and there is naught
that will change that, not even the great Black Parlan himself,” she sneered.

“Ye
have a knack for trying a man’s patience.”

“So
it has been said.” She watched him as she ate some of her food.

Parlan
leaned back in his chair. “So ye willnae help me to win the stallion’s favor.”

“Nay,
I willnae help ye to steal my horse.” She thought the way he quirked his brow
over one eye an impressive gesture then blushed and stared at her ale when
barely-stifled laughter and Parlan’s grin told her she had spoken her thoughts
aloud.

“Thank
ye, mistress.”

“Ye
are verra welcome,” she grumbled with a distinct lack of grace while wondering
if she would ever learn to control her tongue.

“Ye
do ken that I can keep the beast whether ye do as I ask or not.”

“Aye,
but t’will gain ye naught. He will come to me as soon as he is able.”

“There
are ways to secure even that brute.”

“But
weel secured he will do ye little good as a mount.”

“Mayhaps,
but he could still be put to stud. I would wager he has weel proven himself in
that area.”

She
thought about lying but knew the man would simply test the truth for himself. “Aye.
He hasnae had a miss yet.” She could not restrain the impish twinkle that
entered her eyes. “Another year or twa of letting Elfking do what comes
naturally and I will be a rich woman.”

“Ye
claim a fee?” Parlan asked in mild surprise.

“Do
ye not if a man uses Raven for stud?”

“Aye,
but”—he frowned—“payment went to Lachlan, did it not?”

“Nay.
Elfking is mine. I take money or one of his offspring. The horse Leith was on
is one of Elfking’s spawn.”

“Whose
mare?”

“One
of Alaistair MacVern’s.”

Parlan
gave a soft whistle for the man was well known to have prime horseflesh. Then
he chuckled to himself. It must have been a sore trial for the stiff-necked
Alaistair to deal with a slip of a girl. That he did at all only verified
Elfking’s worth.

“Then
he could weel richen my purse,” Parlan observed, and met her glare with a
smile.

“Aye,
that he could but t’would be a waste to use such a fine horse for naught but
that.”

“True
but who is to say he will never turn to me? Given long enough away from ye and
good care at my hands and the bond that ties him to ye could slowly weaken,
even break.” He took careful note of the fear that briefly flashed in her eyes.
“‘Tis worth a chance.” He let her think on his words for a moment before
drawling, “I may be willing to bargain.”