Читать книгу Highland Captive - Hannah Howell - Страница 8

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?”

She ignored the question, feeling certain that he did not really expect an answer. “Thank ye. How fares Elfking?”

“Weel, though the white Devil lets few near him. Unfriendly beast,” Malcolm grumbled.

“That white stallion was yours?” Parlan could not hide his amazement, thinking it far too much horse for a beardless boy.

“Is mine, aye. I raised him from a colt.” She could not repress the note of pride in her voice.

“Weel, ye didnae do so weel in curbing his bad tempers. I shall have to work upon that.”

“Ye willnae have any time. My father will ransom us soon.” Yet again she felt fear, the fear of losing something very dear to her.

“Aye, he will but the horse stays here. I have taken a fancy to him.”

“I doubt he will take a fancy to ye. He is a verra discerning animal. Ye cannae keep him here,” she said sharply.

Parlan’s brows quickly rose. “Child, no one tells me what I can or cannae do.”

“I am telling ye naught, merely stating a fact. He willnae take to a new master.”

“We shall see. Into the bath.”

“Aye, when ye leave. I wish some privacy for my ablutions,” she said haughtily, even though her heart pounded so fiercely that it hurt.

His thin lips twitching as he repressed a grin, Parlan drawled, “Your wish is my command.” He started toward the door, the other men moving with him. “Whilst m’lord bathes, I shall busy myself by putting my new horse through his paces.”

“Going to ride him, are ye?” She made no effort to hide her slow grin, knowing the comeuppance he would soon face.

“Aye.” Parlan’s gaze narrowed as he paused in the doorway. “I will tell ye how weel we suit.”

“Ye do that.”

A frown touched Parlan’s face as he shut and bolted the door, hearing a soft laugh. “A strange boy.”

Even stranger than he could ever imagine, thought Aimil, when she overheard the muttered remark. Once free of prying eyes, she wasted no time in pulling off her soiled clothes. She ached to rid herself of the dirt and stink of her imprisonment.

Leith watched her, amazed at how womanly she had grown since the last time he had seen her naked which, he realized, would have been when she had been only about fourteen and they had gone for a swim together. Using the eyes of a man viewing a woman and not those of a brother seeing his sister, Leith carefully studied Aimil. She was small and lithe but did not lack for curves. Full, high breasts offered all a man could want. A tiny waist led to gently-rounded hips and slim legs that appeared longer than what was accounted for in her height. Her skin had a light honey tone and was without mar. As if that was not enough to stir any man, her every movement was graceful, unknowingly sensual. He was surprised that the MacGuins still thought her a lad.

“Lass, if your ruse is discovered, dinnae fash yourself over me, just run,” he said sternly, his order given strength by his fear for her.

Pausing in drying herself, Aimil looked at her brother in surprise. “All right, Leith, if ye think it best.”

“Aye. Trust me. ’Tis best.” He smiled weakly, knowing she was unaware of her draw for a man, something he knew would only make her appeal stronger.

“I wonder if I can see the stable from here,” she mused aloud, and moved toward the window while donning the shirt that had been set out for her.

“’Ware now. Dinnae let them see ye. That hair can be like a beacon at times.”

Aimil scowled at the calf-length hair she was rubbing dry. “Aye, cursed mane. Never fear, I can stay to the shadows here.”

“Weel?” Leith asked when she sat grinning for a moment but did not say a word. “Can ye see anything?”

Hardly able to talk because of her laughter, Aimil gasped, “Aye, Elfking performed verra weel.”

“God’s tears, the Black Parlan tipped out of the saddle. How I wish I could have seen that but I am so weak I cannae even scratch my own arse,” he muttered, disgusted with his weakness.

“Weel, dinnae expect me to do it for ye.”

Leith’s chuckle turned into a cough. Aimil dropped the cloth she had been drying her hair with and fetched him a drink of mead. She was helping him to drink it, easing the rasp that forced the cough, when a young, brawny man entered with a meal for the prisoners.

Stunned into immobility, Aimil gaped at the young man who stared at her. She was unaware of her allure as she stood with her damp hair tossled from its drying and her slim shapely figure only barely covered by her shirt.

His gaze was fixed upon the full curve of breasts barely restrained by the unlaced shirt and he did the first thing that came to mind. He set down the tray and lunged.

A soft expulsion of breath was all the noise Aimil made as she was slammed up against a broad chest. Leith struggled to rise, but she heard him fall back onto the bed, too weak to aid her. Aimil struggled in panic for a moment as her captor ground his mouth onto hers and mauled her body. Then she calmed as she maneuvered her knee between his legs and raised it with as much force as she could. The young man yelled a deafening howl, released her, and bent over to clutch at his abused groin. Aimil made a two-handed fist and brought it down hard on his head, watching in amazement as he crumpled unconscious at her feet. It was the first time she had used the trick and had not expected it to work. She sank down onto the bed to catch her breath.

“I was wondering when ye would recall what I had taught ye,” Leith said in a voice that was little more than a hoarse whisper. “Ye must go.”

“How can I leave ye when ye are so ill?”

“They willnae harm me. Ye heard how they spoke. They dinnae want a corpse. Try to flee.”

Hesitant, Aimil quickly dressed and covered her hair with her bonnet. She crept to the door and opened it a crack. Not peering out, she heard the sounds of voices and footsteps and knew there was little chance of escape that way. She was lucky that the man’s hollering had not been heard. As she closed the door and turned to tell Leith that no escape seemed possible, her gaze fell upon the extra linen left to change Leith’s bed. Dashing to the window, she thoughtfully measured the distance to the ground then made her decision.

“I will make a linen rope and go out the window.”

“The men in the bailey,” Leith ventured, fighting to keep his mind clear.

“They willnae be looking to the walls. Rest, Leith. This short time of sanity and strength show that ye can beat this illness but only if ye rest.” She sat on the bed and began to knot her makeshift rope. “We have done such a height before, and this should be strong enough to hold me.”

“Aye, ye cannae be above a hundredweight.”

“I would rather stay here with ye.”

“Ye cannae. That mon showed ye what can happen.”

“Black Parlan seemed to want no trouble though.”

“He thought us both lads. Aye, that man will nay doubt be punished but only because he tried to take what should be offered to the laird first. Trust me, your only chance lies in escape.” He closed his eyes against a wave of weakness. “Are ye nae afraid of rape?”

Aimil shrugged. “’Tis hard to say. I am afraid of being hurt. T’was that which made me panic when this man leapt upon me. I look at rape much as I look at death. There is little I can do about either. Both are somewhat commonplace. I willnae go in search of either nor will I go down without a fight,” she said firmly, knowing that her character would make her fight either fate with any means at hand.

Leith grinned weakly as, when the man at her feet began to stir, Aimil calmly knocked him on the head with a heavy candlestick, set the makeshift weapon back by the bed, and returned to knotting the linen all without a pause in her speech.

“’Tis wretched that men must take their pleasure of unwilling women, but they do. ’Tis a fact of life. I cannae fash myself to the bone over facts of life.” She tied her rope to the end of the bed and tested its hold. “That should do. Are ye sure I willnae be safe here?”

“Aye, I am sure. The Black Parlan is weel-kenned for his healthy appetite for the lasses.”

“Oh. Weel, wish me luck,” she murmured and sighed, reluctant to leave him but feeling he was wiser in such matters.

“What will ye do when ye reach the bailey?”

“Whistle for Elfking.” She grinned. “If I get down this wall unseen and onto Elfking’s back before the men down there move, I will have a verra good chance.”

There was no disputing that. Leith knew that few horses existed which could match Elfking for speed. He felt a slight hope rise. She might have a chance of succeeding if all went as she so blithely planned. If Aimil dropped onto Elfking’s back and cleared the gates, she had a very good chance indeed. Another advantage would be that Elfking would be carrying a far lighter burden than any steed pursuing him.

Taking a deep breath to steady her sudden flurry of nerves, Aimil lowered herself out of the window. She was not afraid of the descent for she and Leith had come down as great if not greater heights. They had, however, used a proper rope. They had also not been trying to escape an enemy. She saw now that it had proven good practice.

Steadily and slowly, she went down the wall, using her feet against the stone. There was a strong wind, and she grit her teeth as she fought its jostling. Although the wind failed to dislodge her as she neared the end of her descent, it did succeed in stealing the bonnet, which she had forgotten to secure as strongly as she had her first one. To further aggravate her, she discovered she was short of rope. A measuring glance told her she could easily fall onto Elfking’s back, however, and, readying herself, she whistled for her mount.

Parlan glared at the horse that had unseated him again. He tried to ignore the badly stifled laughter of the men as he watched the horse rise gracefully and shake the dust from his fine coat. Slowly getting to his feet, Parlan brushed himself off and finally gave a reluctant grin.

“Now I ken what the laddie found so funny.” He walked around the animal and studied him as the adversary he was. “The question is how to break him of the trick or, at least, of playing it on me.”

“Aye, ’tis a useful trick. Ye would never have to worry about the beast being stolen,” jested Lagan.

A soft laugh escaped Parlan as he took Elfking’s reins. “Mayhaps if I tempt him with a good run. It has been a long time since he has had one.”

Lagan followed Parlan and the horse as did Malcolm and several other curious men. Elfking went along calmly until Parlan tried to lead him through the gates. The horse then stood firmly, refusing to leave the keep, no matter how much he was pulled, pushed, or cursed.

“Curse this stubborn beast to Hades! What ails the fool animal?”

“Mayhaps a touch of the whip will move the beast,” suggested one man.

“Nay, I willnae take a whip to the beast and chance marring this fine coat.”

Malcolm moved closer to his exasperated laird’s side. “I ken the beast be following the laddie’s orders.”

“How so? The lad isnae here to give any.”

“Nay, but, when we brought the lads in, the horse tried to follow me and the wee laddie into the keep. The wee laddie told him to stay.”

Shaking his head, Parlan laughed. “And staying is just what he is doing, curse his fine hide.”

“Mayhaps ye ought to give up on trying to keep the horse.”

“Nay, Lagan. I must think of a way to win the beast to my hand. I may have to get the lad to help,” Parlan mused aloud.

“He willnae. T’was plain to see the lad’s fond of his horse,” protested Malcolm.

“Ye ask the right way and the lad will do it,” Parlan said grimly. “He is fond of his brother too.”

“Aye, but ye willnae do aught to the lad.”

“We ken that, Lagan, but I suspicion the wee laddie willnae be too sure of it. ’Tis no secret that many a dark tale is told about me. Dinnae ye ken that I roast and eat bairns and pick my teeth with their wee bones?” He grinned fleetingly over such nonsense, long since inured to any sting it might have inflicted. “Aye, I willnae do aught to the lad, but that wee laddie can be made to believe I will.”

“Seems cruel to deprive a wee lad of his horse,” muttered Malcolm.

“In this instance I will gladly live up to my sordid reputation. Malcolm, how can ye ask me to release such a prize? I can sense that the beast has speed and strength. Aye, he has wit as weel. If naught else, think of the stock he will breed. I have several mares already in mind for him to jump.”

“Aye.” Malcolm moved to take the saddle off the horse’s back. “I cannae help but feel for the laddie’s loss, though.”

“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.