“Still angry with him?”
“Nay. S’truth, I am more weary of him and his ways.”
“That may be for the best. A man with his ways cannae be shouted or coaxed out of them. He can only pull himself out.”
“So ye think I should leave him in his mire and let him crawl out on his own, if and when he has a mind to.”
“Aye, though it sounds hard, he being your brother and only near kin. Howbeit, ye cannae tell how such a one thinks. If ye coddle them, they may think ye are weak and flaunt their vices. If ye scold and bellow, they may grow to resent ye, even hate ye. Seems to me that the safest course to follow is to leave him be. He kens weel that ye disapprove. Leave it at that. Then he can only blame himself for what he is.”
“Or blame me for not caring…”
Lagan grimaced. “Aye, there is that chance. Sometimes such ones blame others no matter what.”
“Weel, ’tis a thought. I havenae got anywhere with him with any other ploy. He wallows in drink and tempts the pox at every turn.” Parlan suddenly smiled slightly. “Will he be surprised to see how the wee lad he caught has changed! Now why do ye frown?”
“Artair caught the pair.”
“Aye,” Parlan murmured, then asked carefully, “what matter that?”
“They were his booty. He may feel he has a right to the enjoying of it.”
“Then he will be quickly enlightened. In fact, let us search him out and see that he is told how matters stand here before he even meets Aimil.”
Aimil made her way to the hall from the lower floor’s privies, glad that Lagan was not about. He was a nice man, but it got tiresome to have him forever at her heels, infringing upon her privacy. As she neared the end of a dim hallway, she came face to face with the man who had captured her and Leith. Suddenly she found herself wishing that Lagan was dogging her heels. Artair made her very nervous.
“Weel, where have ye come from, me pretty? Now, dinnae run away. Why the lad’s clothes?”
To her dismay, Artair was not as drunk as she had first thought. He nimbly caught her when she tried to dash past him. With equal agility, he pinned her against the wall in such a way that she feared it would be impossible to use the means of defense Leith had taught her. She wondered if Artair had met with the trick before.
She noted that he was much akin to Parlan in looks, being tall, darkly handsome and well-built but that was his only resemblance. Aimil was amazed at how clearly his features were stamped with his weaknesses. Even as she thought on that, she frantically sought a way out of her dilemma, finally grabbing at the one thing she felt sure would work to stop him.
“I belong to Parlan,” she cried as she tried to twist away from the hand that traced her curves.
“Oh ho, do ye now? Where did he find you?” His eyes suddenly widened then narrowed as he looked her over. “By God’s santy,” he breathed. “Ye are the Mengue lad. I must have been weel in my cups that day not to see it.” He took off her bonnet and roughly mussed her neatly tied back hair. “Weel, ye are my prize then. Parlan will see that.”
“Nay,” she gasped, trying to avoid the kiss he tried to press upon her mouth. “I am Parlan’s.” She could not believe that assertion was not enough to stop Artair.
He ignored her, his gaze fixed upon the thick waves of bright hair he had freed. “B’Gad, that is lovely. Be still, wench,” he growled. “I brought ye here so ye are my prize. I willnae trouble or waste time asking Parlan about it.”
A soft cry escaped her when he roughly grabbed her by the throat, his fingers gripping her jaw so that she could not turn her head. Her stomach rolled when he slammed his mouth against hers. Try as she would, she could not get her leg between his to cripple him briefly with a blow to the groin and then, hopefully, escape. Instead, she sank her teeth through his lip, filling her mouth with the warm, salty taste of his blood and nearly making herself ill.
He jerked away from her with a bellow of pain, blood streaming down his chin. Even as she broke free of his loosened grip, he grasped her by the arm and backhanded her across the face, hard enough to send her sprawling. She tried to gather her dazed wits to scramble out of his reach, but he caught her up by the front of her pourpoint and slapped her again. Aimil thought, a little wildly, that Artair clearly did not adhere to his brother’s ways. Groggily, she lay watching as he reached for her a third time, spitting curses her ringing ears could not understand, only to hear a roar of fury and see Artair flung aside like a bundle of rags.
She was not really surprised to see Parlan. She had recognized the roar. What did surprise her was the extent of the fury her pain-blurred gaze could see in him. That Artair could see it too was revealed by the stark terror on his face.
The only clear thought in her head was to stop something terrible from occurring between the brothers. If Parlan only meant to beat Artair, she would not care. However, Parlan’s blind rage did not make her confident that he would know when to stop. With a cry, she forced her aching body to move and flung herself at him, clasping her arms tightly around his neck and wrapping her legs around his waist. She hoped that, if only because of the time it would take him to dislodge her, a little sanity would soon prevail.
Parlan instinctively put his arms around her, but it was awhile before he could unclench his fists. His breath came in harsh gasps, and he briefly squeezed his eyes shut as he fought the red haze that had encircled his mind the instant he had seen Artair strike Aimil. The first clear thought he had was that he had come very close to trying to kill his own brother. In a cold, flat voice he ordered twenty lashes for Artair.
“Parlan,” gasped Artair as Lagan grabbed him by the arms and pinned them behind him.
“Now. Quickly. Before I change my mind and banish him instead.”
Peering at Artair, Aimil noticed that he was ghost-white as Lagan dragged him away. “Parlan…”
“Say nothing.”
She pressed her lips together and buried her face in his neck as he strode to their chambers. She stayed silent as cold cloths were applied to her face in hopes of keeping the swelling down and lessening the bruises. Even through the meal they ate in their chambers, she said not a word.
