“I will take my chances, witch,” he growled against her breast. “I think I must raise your ransom.”
“If it goes any higher my father willnae be able to pay it and take me home,” she pointed out in an increasingly husky voice.
“Exactly.” He slowly drew the hard tip of her breast into his mouth, delighting in her soft cry of pleasure.
When their passion had spent itself, he lay with his head against her breast. Aimil smoothed her hand over his broad back and her cheek rested against his thick hair. It was hard for her to recall a time when she had not shared his bed. She did not even try to.
Now she began to mull over her recent revelation. It brought her both happiness and sorrow. There was an indisputable pleasure in loving someone. She did not need experience to know that was why their lovemaking was so good. That she loved the man who held her and possessed her and helped her reach those high levels of desire and satisfaction. Aimil was confident of that. It also kept her wanting more.
She wondered if love was what had kept guilt and shame away. It had been there from the start, had simply been too new to recognize. She had so easily accepted his absurd bargain because the seed of love had already been planted and had begun to grow within her.
The sadness came from the fact that he did not share her love. He desired her, and she did not think it was vanity that made her so certain that he liked her as a person. It was not love, however. He gave passion and friendship while she gave him her soul. It was not the fairest of trades and not one to make any woman happy. Unrequited love was all the poets claimed it was she decided.
Her real pain stemmed from the knowledge that it must end. Once her ransom was paid, she would be sent home, home to marry Rory Fergueson. She could not believe that Parlan could stop that as he claimed he could. Holding Parlan a little tighter and smiling when he murmured her name in his sleep, she stoutly vowed not to think of what was to be but only of what she was enjoying at the moment. She would wallow in her love without a thought to the morrow.
Chapter Ten
“Elfking is a verra smart horse.”
“He is a verra contrary beast.” Parlan, leaning against the fence watching Aimil feed the stallion an apple, fought a smile as he added provocatively, “Just like his mistress.”
“Because he willnae let ye woo him doesnae mean he is contrary.”
“Ah, ye have caught me.” He made no attempt to deny her accusation, saw no reason to do so.
“Aye, though I was slow to do so. I said, ‘Nay, Parlan wouldnae be so sly.’ Then ye said that sly thing to my father.”
“Sly am I?”
“Aye, a bit. Verra clever with words ye are. What ye say is the truth and lulls a person, stopping their questions, but ’tis not the whole truth.”
“Here I am thinking I am being charming and gallant, wooing ye and your beast and ye call me sly.”
She sent him a mock glare, struggling not to laugh at his crestfallen expression. “Give it up. Dinnae ye have aught to do this day aside from pestering me?”
“Aye. Actually, I do. I must leave for the Dunmore keep soon.”
“Ye are taking Catarine home?” She tried hard to appear casually interested.
“Nay. She claims she needs time to ready herself before she travels to the court at Stirling.”
He could not hide his smile at the annoyed expression Aimil could not disguise. It pleased him to see the hint of jealousy and possessiveness in her. He knew there was more to it than that, however. Catarine was annoying. If she was any but a Dunmore and his sense of hospitality any less, she would have been tossed out on her ear a long time ago. Instead, she lingered, accosting him at every turn and filling Aimil’s ears with poison, making far too much out of one evening of lust. It was fortunate that Aimil did not let jealousy turn her shrewish. He hoped it would not take Catarine much longer to realize that she could not gain her obvious objective of replacing Aimil in his bed and to see that he had absolutely no interest in her. Aimil might have the strength to tolerate the woman, but he was rapidly losing all patience.
“I will be gone twa days, mayhaps three.”
Pleased by the expression of distress that fleetingly passed over Aimil’s face, he idly wondered if she knew how easily read she was. She could shutter her expression, but more often than not, not fast enough. He had quickly learned to keep his gaze trained upon her face when he said anything, for in that first brief instant was the chance to glimpse her real reaction to whatever he had said.
“I see.” She told herself that she was glad he would be gone for a while and did not believe a word of it.
Quietly drawing nearer to her, he mused, “Aye, there will be talking, dealing, drinking…”
“Wenching,” she muttered.
“Nay,” he said softly, and kissed her ear, meeting her start of surprise and resultant scowl with a smile. “None for me. I must give the poor, wee fellow a rest. Ye are so greedy.” He sighed. “I fear t’will be worn out before its time.”
“I am greedy?” she squawked, turning to look at him in outrage.
Moving so that she was caught between him and Elfking, who now tolerated Parlan completely, even if the horse still did not let Parlan ride him, he drawled, “Weel, mayhaps I am nae so temperate meself. Of course, ye being such a comely lass…”
