He was not sure of how to answer her, not only because her question startled him, but he had never spoken of his feelings and had no ready words to describe them. His policy had always been one of a polite but hasty exit after taking his pleasure.
“’Tis hard to say, lass. Lovely doesnae say enough.” He gave a soft growl when she moved sensuously. “Ye shouldnae do that.”
“I think I can tell why.” She was surprised to feel him becoming aroused.
“Oh, God’s tears,” he cursed when a rap came at the door. “Nay, dinnae move.” He held her close as he called, “What is it?”
“’Tis Lachlan Mengue,” Lagan replied. “The man has set up camp outside the gates and is demanding to speak with you.”
“My father,” Aimil muttered in shock and tried to wriggle free of Parlan’s hold but only succeeded in arousing them both.
“Tell him I must break my fast first. If he has not yet done so, he is welcome to join me,” Parlan bellowed to Lagan.
“Leave go,” hissed Aimil as she tried to ignore her desire to stay where she was.
“Lagan’s gone,” he growled, neatly rolling over so that she was pinned beneath him.
“I cannae carry on like this with my father so close at hand,” she whispered, even as she was stirred by his gentle rhythm.
“I will muffle your cries.” He grinned over her look of outrage then bent his head, his mouth moving eagerly to her breasts.
The tart rejoinder she intended to make never emerged. Her nails dug into his hips as she tried to urge him on. He soon gave her what she cried for, bringing their union to a swift yet highly satisfying conclusion.
She scowled at his broad back as he rose to dress. He had every right to look the contented male. She never put up much resistance. In fact, she enjoyed herself so much that she never felt any inclination to say no. What truly bothered her was the problem of facing her father without looking like she had done exactly what she had just finished doing. She was sure she radiated sexual satisfaction. Something that gave one such pleasure had to leave its mark. She may have chosen to be where she was, but she did not want her father guessing that.
“Out of the bed, wench. There is your father to face this fine morn.”
“Nay, I cannae.” She rolled over and buried her face in a pillow.
Yanking the covers off her, he resisted the temptation to show his appreciation of her lovely back, and gave her a sharp slap on her pretty backside. “Ye can and ye will. I wish to show him clearly that at least one of his offspring is hale and hearty.”
Gathering the covers around her, she sat up and glared at him. “Ye dinnae understand.”
“Aye, I do but ye are wrong, lassie. He willnae guess. He may wonder, but he will never ken for certain unless ye tell him.”
His words still ran through her head after he had left, making it clear that she had better appear in the hall before too long. If she did not look guilty, she suspected her father would not be able to tell that she had lost her innocence, or, worse, had enjoyed losing it. After all, she mused, as she took one last look at herself in the mirror, there was no evident outward change in her appearance.
As she headed down to the hall, she shook her head. It was foolish to worry. There was no retrieving what had been lost. In truth, her father took so little notice of her that she doubted he would notice the change in her even if it was branded on her forehead.
When she heard her father’s deep voice, she edged into the hall, standing by the door to look at him. A large man, he was nearly as tall as the Black Parlan, and broad of shoulder. There was white mixed with his thick blond hair but he was still youthful of figure and face despite his four and forty years. The signs that life had dealt a little harshly with him were on his face. His well-cut, handsome features were drawn with lines that nothing could erase, and a sadness lingered in his blue eyes.
She adored her father, and the ache of his rejection never left her. Not only fear of his discovering she had shared Parlan’s bed had made her want to avoid him. She avoided him as a matter of course for it hurt too much when he ignored her. The pain was less if she stayed out of his way. Unfortunately, that was something she could not explain to Parlan.
Parlan watched her as she stared at her father. She reminded him of a starving child viewing a feast being devoured by others who offered not even the scraps. It was a situation that escaped his understanding. Too often a parent was burdened with an unloving child yet this man turned his back on one who adored him. Parlan grimaced over the twinge of jealousy that assailed him.
He watched Lachlan Mengue closely when Aimil approached the table, reluctantly obeying his signal to join them. When she came into Lachlan’s view, there was an instant brightening in the man’s blue eyes but it was quickly veiled. A man did not try to bury his affection for his child unless there was a good reason. Parlan was determined to discover that reason.
“Hello, Father,” Aimil whispered as she sat down next to Parlan. “I am sorry for this trouble.”
“So ye should be. I am told that Leith heals weel?” He seemed blind to the color that surged into her cheeks.
“Aye.” She swallowed her hurt over his attitude. “He nears full health with admirable speed. He is well cared for.”
After those few words, Lachlan proceeded to ignore her. She struggled to eat, to act as if it did not matter. A glimpse of a fleeting look of pity in Lagan’s brown eyes told her that she was not fooling anybody, and her food was hard to swallow. A few minutes later, she could stand it no longer and rose to leave, wincing when everyone’s attention turned to her. Parlan eased the moment some by nodding slightly and signaling Lagan to go with her. Without a glance at her father, she hurried out of the hall.
“Ye ask far too large a ransom,” Lachlan said as soon as the last bite of food had been swallowed. “Ye dinnae hold the king, ye ken.”
“I hold your heir and youngest daughter,” Parlan reminded him, his voice soft but firm.
