Even though she agreed, Giorsal made a scolding noise. “’Tis not right for her to dress so. There is no need to make a scandal of her.” She moved to greet Aimil, giving her a hug and a kiss. “How fare ye, sister? Is all weel? Ye have come to no harm?”
Pleased with her calm, Aimil smiled. “I am verra fine. I am always watched but not too obtrusively. I have stayed at far worse places.”
“The Black Parlan hasnae hurt ye?”
Meeting her sister’s worried gaze directly and proud of her control, Aimil replied, “Nay, not at all.” She then scowled at Parlan, who met her look with a smile. “Although he is an arrogant, impossible man who thinks far too much of himself,” she said loudly enough for him to hear.
Giorsal’s eyes widened at this daring and widened even more when Parlan stepped closer, kissed Aimil’s hand, and murmured, “Such a tart tongue for such a honied mouth. The sweetness of your face is indeed deceptive, love. Come and sit down.”
Ignoring that the seating might have been arranged, Giorsal hastily took the seat next to Aimil, who was placed upon Parlan’s left and across from their father. There was an air between Aimil and Parlan that disturbed Giorsal. She hoped that by being near them during the meal she could dispel that uneasiness, perhaps see that she had misread matters.
Shrugging, Iain sat at her side across from Lagan who was placed between Lachlan at Parlan’s right and James Broth. “I think ye have mucked about with the seating arrangements, dearling,” he remarked calmly.
“I dinnae care. I intend to watch this pair verra closely. They dinnae act as captor and captive should. She talks to him much as she does to Leith, Calum, or Shane,” Giorsal whispered in awe.
Iain chuckled. “Aye, Aimil always did have spirit. Always faced a man square no matter how he blustered and roared.”
“I think they are lovers already.”
“T’wouldnae surprise me, love. The Black Parlan is weel kenned to have a healthy appetite for a comely lass, and Aimil is that.”
“How can ye be so calm? Ye are her kin through marriage, and I ken weel that ye have always been fond of her.”
“Love, look about you. This is a male household. Aimil is a captive, clear and simple. Mayhaps she already occupies Parlan’s bed, and, if ’tis so, I sorely feel for her loss of honor, but better that than to be left unprotected. If she is his lover, none will touch her. She could weel be safer in the Black Parlan’s bed than out of it. She shows no signs of being ill-treated, and that is what matters most. Leave it be for now. Her honor, if lost, can be avenged later.”
“Aye,” she agreed but hating it. “Does my father nae see it, or is he holding his tongue because he thinks as ye do?”
For a moment Iain studied Lachlan. “I cannae say. ’Tis odd but I get the feeling he plays a deep game. Dinnae ask me what though.”
As the meal dragged on, Giorsal began to share her husband’s feeling. Even Lachlan could not ignore the attitude that existed between Parlan and Aimil yet he seemed to be doing just that. Parlan made no attempt to act coolly toward Aimil, to disguise the heat of his glances, and Aimil simply did not know how to.
“And why is Aimil’s husband-to-be not amongst your numbers?” Parlan asked as soon as the covers on the dishes of food were removed and more drink set out.
“He was verra busy,” Lachlan replied offhandedly. “As ye ken weel, there was some recent damage to be repaired.”
“What happens if ye dinnae ransom Aimil by summer’s end, the time set for the wedding?”
“Then t’will be set for another time. The man will wait for his bride. He has waited years, a few added months willnae matter.”
As Rory Fergueson watched his man carry out a young maid who had suffered badly at his hands, Rory thought of Aimil. The way matters were being handled it could be months before she was freed. Thinking of Aimil with the Black Parlan had made his lust even crueler than usual. The young maid would be a long time recovering from her spell in his bed.
“Ye near killed that lass,” groused Geordie, a burly, sourfaced man who was the closest thing Rory had to a friend.
“What care I?” snarled Rory as he flung himself into a chair and snatched at the drink Geordie held out to him.
“Ye will care weel enough if word of how ye treat the lasses reaches Lachlan Mengue’s sharp ears.”
“Do ye think he is deaf to what is already whispered about me?”
“Nay, but ’tis rumors yet. If ye keep cluttering up Scotland with dead and battered lasses, he may soon have fact.”
“Aye, ye are right. I must tread warily. I lost my head. I must not supply the rumormongers with fact. All I could think on was Aimil in the Black Parlan’s hands.”
Geordie hid a grimace. He had no doubts about how Parlan MacGuin would use such a fair captive. The bride Rory had waited so long for would not come to her marriage bed a virgin. Even though Rory only meant to use the girl for vengeance, he had wanted her to be untouched.
When Rory suddenly demanded another wench, Geordie protested. Rory had spent all his time drinking and wenching since Aimil’s capture. Geordie knew that Rory hung upon the very brink of madness and began to fear that thoughts of the Black Parlan enjoying Aimil would push him over the edge. Only when Rory promised that Geordie could stay to insure that Rory was in control of himself did Geordie fetch a girl. He came back with a lusty wench, buxom and full of avarice, who was quite capable of handling two men.
Rory lay sprawled on the bed, drinking and watching Geordie gain his pleasure even as the whore pleasured Rory. Though his body reacted in all the appropriate ways, his mind was on Aimil. He would have her, share her with Geordie, and humiliate her. He would break her in spirit, mind, and body before he took her life. Thinking on how he would abuse her increased his current pleasure. Aimil Mengue would crawl and beg for an end to her life before he was through with her.
