“Of course. And does your father ken how weel ye are enjoying your stay?”
“He kens that I have come to no harm.” Aimil struggled to keep a firm hold upon her rising temper. “The MacGuin hospitality is unsurpassed.”
“Definitely unsurpassed.” Catarine cast an easily read glance at Parlan. “Tell me, are the men so large in the Lowlands?”
The way in which Catarine said the word “large” told all at the table that she referred to one particular part of Parlan’s anatomy. Parlan was not deaf to the conversation around him although he had let it be thought he was. Yet again he resented the referral to him as a stud. He waited for Aimil’s reply.
Aimil sensed that Catarine meant far more than she said but was not sure what. One possibility came to mind, but it was beyond her comprehension that anyone would speak so over a meal and within the hearing of the very one referred to. It also seemed to her that women would be drawn to Parlan as a total man. His attraction was as much in his character as in his appearance.
“Weel, aye, he is verra tall,” she replied in all innocence, frowning when there was a sudden epidemic of coughing.
Catarine stared at Aimil as if she were dimwitted. “Ye are either verra innocent or verra dim of mind. I wasnae referring to his height.”
Frowning even more, Aimil said, “He isnae too broad. I have seen men wider of shoulder.”
This time the laughter was not suppressed, and Aimil realized that she had missed something. After a moment’s thought, she hit upon the only other thing the woman could possibly mean, the very insinuation she had discarded earlier. She gaped and blushed deep red.
“Ye cannae mean that. We are having our meal. ’Tisnae any time to speak of such things.”
Catarine thought that highlighting Aimil’s naivete would lessen the girl’s attraction for Parlan who was a man of the world, one who would undoubtedly find such sweet innocence tedious. “I think ’tis a most suitable time,” she purred, running her tongue over her lips with a lewd meaning that all the men gathered understood.
That Catarine’s meaning was lost on Aimil was clear to Parlan. His lovemaking had been varied but not as much as it could have been. He had curbed several inclinations out of respect for her innocence.
This time Aimil quickly guessed that the woman was playing games with her words. Using the pouring of a fresh tankard of wine as a cover, she leaned closer to Lagan. Before she made any response, she wished to be sure she understood.
“My mind has come up with a verra unsuitable meaning for her words. Can I be right?”
“I dinnae doubt it. Catarine is a whore, Aimil, and doesnae seem to ken any manners. Pay her no heed.” He glared at his cousin. “Ye grow crude, cousin.”
“And ye suddenly grow righteous, cousin. ’Tis late in life for the child to be so protected.”
Aimil grit her teeth and said softly to Lagan, “If she calls me a child again, I willnae be responsible for my actions.”
Parlan gave up the pretense of talking to Malcolm. He knew all too well how sensitive Aimil was about her stature, about being seen as a child. Seeing the glint in her eyes, he waited with ill-disguised glee for Catarine to prod that sore once again. It was the one thing certain to make Aimil lose control.
“I ken that Parlan favors youth but he is near to robbing from the cradle with a wee lass such as ye are.”
“That does it,” Aimil hissed as she surged to her feet.
She picked up the nearest plate of a sweet made of fruit and cream. Before Catarine guessed what was happening, Aimil tossed it at the woman. Her aim was true, and Catarine’s screech was well-smothered by the sugary concoction. The curses the woman spat were covered by the laughter that roared around the table.
It was not so amusing to Aimil, even when Lagan dragged his sputtering cousin off to be cleaned up. She had been insulted by being called a child and she had reacted to that insult as a child would have. Embarrassed by her behavior, she hastily sat down.
“Och, lassie, that showed a verra fine aim,” Malcolm said with a big grin.
“Tsk, tsk,” clucked Parlan, his eyes alight with laughter. “Ye must learn to control that temper.”
Her embarrassment fled and she glared at Parlan. “Ye arenae able to say a great deal about that.”
“Ye havenae seen me hurling the food about.”
Deciding it was not safe to banter words with him, Aimil lapsed into silence. She had to give Catarine credit for not giving up easily when the woman returned attired in an even fancier gown. Aimil decided that she would not let her temper slip again no matter how the woman pressed her. She would bear all with the dignity of an adult and a lady.
It was not an easy vow to keep. Catarine seemed bent on becoming permanently attached to Parlan even though she had to reach across Malcolm to touch him. When Malcolm excused himself to take his turn at guard, Catarine quickly took his place at the table. After that, it was all Aimil could do to stop herself from lopping off the woman’s hands with the carving knife. The constant touching quickly became subtle then not-so subtle groping. Aimil’s jealousy ate away at her, exasperating the temper she sought to control. When Catarine’s hand disappeared beneath the table, Aimil’s patience gave out even though she restrained the urge to inflict extreme violence on the woman.
“Lost something, have ye?” she asked brightly, and peered under the table to see Catarine moving her hand between Parlan’s legs. “Allow me to help you,” she purred, and reached for Parlan.
As he was extracting Catarine’s hand, Parlan felt Aimil’s slim fingers give him a painful pinch. Leaping back with a shouted curse, he nearly unseated himself. Rubbing his abused parts, he glared at her.
