“’Tis possible. A man doesnae want to wed a woman dishonored.” He tentatively moved his hands over her well-rounded backside.
“There is something in Rory Fergueson that frightens me. Aye, makes me shudder until my teeth click. T’was when I realized that poor Aimil would be wife to that man that I finally opened my eyes and looked at ye, Iain. I have been a cold, heartless shrew, the greatest of blind fools. Nay, I ken how I have been,” she cried when he murmured a protest and she pressed her face against his hairy chest. “I will make it up to you, Iain.”
Over his repentent wife’s head, Iain grinned. He had no intention of telling her that he had no real complaint, had only occasionally wished for a little more fire in her and a return of the love he had always felt for her. As he put her new softness to a very practical use, he found the fire and new hope for the love he wanted. With her heart and mind free of regrets and self-pity, Giorsal responded to his lovemaking in a way that left them both dazed. As he fell asleep with a complacent smile upon his face, Iain wondered fleetingly if all the sisters held such passion. If they did, he doubted the Black Parlan would be in any rush to release Aimil.
Parlan MacGuin yawned and rested his head comfortably upon the breasts of the small woman sprawled in sleep at his side. He hoped that what flared between them would not fade. It was much too good to lose. As sleep took him, he acknowledged to himself that he was also determined that Rory Fergueson would die before he ever touched Aimil.
Chapter Six
Lachlan Mengue read the words before him yet again, unable to shake free of his disbelief. After his first elated relief over the proof that his children were alive, he had begun to comprehend the outrageous demand for their safe return. It would impoverish him. He doubted that even a king could meet such a ransom. Furthermore, it would take weeks to raise only half of it. To his way of thinking, it was thievery of the lowest sort.
“The man must be mad!” he roared, not for the first time. “I cannae meet this.”
“Will ye send an offer by messenger?” asked Iain.
“Nay, I will go to the rogue myself. I cannae believe that this is any more than a cruel joke.”
“At least we ken now that Leith and Aimil are alive and weel,” said Jennet as she eased her very pregnant body into a seat.
“I will see the proof of that with my own eyes before I even begin to bargain.”
The messenger from Dubhglenn found himself leading a sizeable party back to his laird. Giorsal rode beside her husband, having insisted on going along with an uncharacteristic stubbornness. Since the party traveled under a flag of truce, the men had finally, if grudgingly, complied. Rory Fergueson was noticeably absent although, as Aimil’s betrothed, he had been informed of the venture. Giorsal was glad of it for she did not trust Rory to follow the rules of bloodless negotiation.
Due to a slow start, and having waited fruitlessly for Aimil’s betrothed, they had to camp out. Giorsal found the whole matter adventurous and cheerfully readied the interior of her husband’s tent, but Iain was not particularly cheerful when he joined her.
“What troubles ye, Iain?” she asked as she folded the clothes he shed.
“’Tis no problem really. A puzzle. Aye, love, ’tis a puzzle.” He failed to notice her start of surprise over his casual endearment.
“What is a puzzle?” she asked as he joined her in the bed she had made upon the ground, leaving the two small cots in case it rained.
“For the last four or five years your father has been cold to Aimil, his heart hardening to the girl who had been his favorite.”
“Aye, t’was verra odd. We have ne’er kenned why.” She let her hand wander over the well-muscled frame of her husband, a body she now took the time to discover and to appreciate. “She was sore hurt by his defection, especially when there seemed to be no reason for it. Leith is closest to her now.”
“Weel, I cannae say why but I think the man’s a fraud. I think Aimil is still verra dear to his heart.”
“Then why turn from her? It doesnae make any sense.” Tentatively, she moved her hand where it had never been before.
All thought fled from Iain’s mind save for the intimate touch of his wife’s hand and, hoping it was the right reply, he gasped, “Nay?”
Stifling a giggle that was more from delight than amusement over her husband’s reaction to her touch, she bent her head to kiss his chest. “I believe I must look into the situation more closely.”
“Giorsal? Have ye been drinking?” Iain asked as he pushed her onto her back, but he did not bother to wait for an answer.
Parlan did not even ask Aimil if she had been imbibing. He could tell that she had already had more than enough to drink from the moment he had entered the room. She, Lagan, and Leith were playing a rowdy game of dice, betting vast sums of nonexistent money and drinking freely. It was evident that neither her brother nor Lagan, who was supposed to be her guard, were paying much heed to how much she drank. He grinned as he sat down next to Aimil on Leith’s bed for Lagan had just wagered Stirling Castle and lost it to Aimil.
“Ye make a poor guard, Lagan. Letting the wench drink and indulge in gambling.” Parlan shook his head with a false air of dismay. “Did ye nae think to watch how much she drank?”
“Aye.” Lagan grinned. “But it hasnae dimmed her luck at all.” He laughed along with the others. “She has the Devil’s own luck.”
“’Tis an easy game,” Aimil remarked, and reached for the ale only to have Parlan intercept her. “I wasnae done.”
Setting her tankard on the table near Leith’s bed, Parlan used the hold he had on her wrist to tug her to her feet. “Aye, ye were.”
“Has anyone ever told ye that ye are a tyrant, Parlan MacGuin?” she inquired with a false sweetness as he towed her to the door.
“Aye. Say good sleep to your brother.” He paused in the doorway.
