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 achild.”
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.”
