A shiver ran down Aimil’s spine. She had known that Rory had seen her mother in her, that his twisted mind had seen a chance to avenge her mother’s imagined slights upon him. It was chilling, however, to know that he no longer even saw her, that he saw only Kirstie Mengue—a woman he had brutally murdered years ago. Rory’s madness was truly complete now.
It also made Aimil angry that he thought she was Kirstie whom he intended to abuse then kill. Somehow it seemed almost an insult and unfair that he no longer even knew whom he was going to murder. She wanted him to know who fought him and whose blood was on his already blood-soaked hands but knew that was impossible. There was no reasoning with a madman.
“Ye willnae find this murder such an easy one, Rory Fergueson.” She struggled to shake him off her but he resisted her efforts with apparent ease, which caused her to feel a dangerous sense of resignation.
“Ye brought this upon yourself.” He began to undo her clothing. “Ye turned from my love.”
“Ye dinnae ken what love is. Ye ken only hate and pain.” Her squirming to thwart his efforts to strip her was briefly halted when he struck her hard across the face with an indifference that was chilling.
“Oh, but I do ken what love is. I love ye, Kirstie. I could have made it so beautiful between us but ye wouldnae let me. Ye gave all I craved to Lachlan, parted your sweet thighs for him when ye wouldnae even part your lips for me. That must be punished. It must be.”
“Ye cannae punish someone for going where their heart commands.”
“Your heart should have chosen me. Me! I could have given ye everything. We could have been the envy of the world. Nowhere would there have been a pair as fair to the eyes as we. Instead ye chose that fool who never treated ye as ye should have been treated. He took ye nowhere, simply kept ye in that heap of stone, and filled your belly with bairns. Ye should have been laughing, gay, and admired at courts over the world not sweating upon a childbed for that fool.” He roughly bared her breasts. “These were made to be admired by a lover not tugged at by greedy bairns.”
When his hand moved over her breasts, she gagged. It seemed her rape was inevitable. Unless he made some error soon that she could take advantage of, there was no way she saw of breaking free of him and evading that abuse. Although she hated it, she resigned herself to it, waiting for that moment when his release would weaken him. If she could keep her mind clear, despite the horror he would inflict, she might make good use of that weakness.
Suddenly she realized that he had stopped, even though his hand still rested upon her breast. He sat upon her and stared at something behind her head, something she could not see no matter how hard she tried to turn round. Whatever it was, she thought, it horrified Rory. His face was the color of parchment, his mouth was agape, and his eyes were open so wide they bulged.
Parlan found the added strength to pull himself up and out when he saw Rory on top of Aimil. The sight of Rory’s hand touching her breast enraged Parlan and this time he made no effort to fight that. He needed the strength it gave him. Rory had nearly defeated him when he had been at his full strength, but now he was battered, bruised, and bleeding. Rage might lend him a fleeting, if false, strength that would not last long, but he would take what he could get.
It puzzled him that Rory made no move to stop him. He stared at Parlan in horror, but said and did nothing. Watching him carefully for the attack he was sure would come, Parlan collected his sword which lay where he had dropped it when he had fallen.Mayhaps the mad fool thinks I am a ghost, he mused, and liked the idea of proving to Rory that he was very much alive.
“Release her, Rory, and prepare to die.”
“The Devil,” Rory whispered as he scrambled off Aimil and away from Parlan. “’Tis the Devil himself.”
Aimil paid little heed to Rory. She rolled out of his reach and quickly stood up to stare at Parlan. The sight of him battered but still alive made her weak with emotion. It took all her strength to stop herself from running to him and clinging to him, touching him to assure herself that he really was standing there.
“Ye are alive. Sweet God, Parlan, I had thought ye dead.”
“Wheesht, lass, a wee tumble cannae send me to my Maker. Now, get out of the way as ye should have done before.” He scowled at Rory. “What ails this fool? Ye cannae run this time, Rory Fergueson.”
Turning at last to look at Rory, Aimil frowned. He was trembling, visibly shaking as if he had lost all control over his body. Then she heard the words he muttered as he backed away, his hands held out as if to ward off something. “The Devil. ’Tis the Devil come out of hell.”
“‘The Devil will rise up from hell and pull ye down with him,’” Aimil murmured, repeating her mother’s curse.
“What is that?” Parlan demanded.
“He thinks ye are the Devil come to drag him into hell. ’Tis what my mother’s dying curse was—that the Devil would rise up out of the earth and drag him down into hell. Ye rose up out of the earth, Parlan. In his madness, he thinks the curse has come true.”
“Weel, I surely mean to send him to hell.” He grimaced as he stared at the quivering man. “Though, I find it hard to strike at a man who is drooling like some brainless fool and has soiled his braies in his fear.”
“Think of the blood that fair drips from his hands and it may come easier.”
He nodded slowly and advanced upon Rory.
As if some higher power had relayed to Rory Parlan’s reluctance to kill him, Rory began to shake free of terror’s grip. Instead of surrendering meekly and whimpering to the Devil he had thought had come for him, Rory decided to fight. Even as Parlan struck him, Rory found the strength and the will to raise his sword and deflect the blow.
While Aimil felt pleased that Parlan would not have to cut Rory down coldbloodedly, she hated to see Rory fight back. Parlan was hurt. She saw it in the way he moved and by the ominous dark stains upon his clothing. She clasped her hands tightly and prayed harder than she ever had before. While she could not bring herself to pray outright for a man’s death, even Rory’s, she did pray strenuously for Parlan to win, to live.
She moved out of the way, even ready to flee if the need arose. This time she would obey Parlan although she continued to pray that she would not have to. She knew now, however, that even though she would grieve until the day she died if Parlan was taken from her, her need to live was so strong that she could not willingly join him in death nor did she think he would even want her to. In fact, she knew he would be furious if he thought she had even contemplated such a thing.
When a frantically battling Rory managed to add to Parlan’s wounds with a dangerous slash to Parlan’s side, Aimil nearly screamed. Watching Parlan fight for his life, she decided, was the surest way to drive herself mad. She saw every swing of Rory’s sword as a mortal threat even though she knew Parlan was a very skilled fighter.
Then she tensed, her gaze fixed intently upon Rory. He was very close to the edge of the gorge. If he fell down there, he would have no chance of survival. Parlan was pressing him hard, and she began to think that Rory’s fall was inevitable.
“Your murdering days are over, Rory Fergueson. Ye will-nae send another lass into the grave.”
