Parlan heartily swore at the mount he clung to, but there was no stopping or turning the animal. The reins swung out of his reach, nearly impossible to get ahold of even if he had not been weakened by his wound. He was enraged by Aimil’s trick yet understood why she had done it. Most of his anger came from the knowledge that he had failed in protecting her from Rory.
Left with no choice, he clung to Elfking and resigned himself to being taken back to Dubhglenn. He could only hope that there would still be time to snatch Aimil from Rory before the man reached the security of his keep. Parlan tried not to think about what Rory would do to her, but the knowledge refused to be ignored, tormenting him as he rode.
When Elfking finally reached Dubhglenn, Parlan was barely conscious. As he was lifted from Elfking’s back, he noticed that his men were readying themselves to ride out. Espying his horse, he realized that his riderless mount had alerted his men to the trouble. He then found himself confronted by Leith.
“Where is my sister?”
“Rory holds her. Ride quickly. Mayhaps luck will be with us and we can intercept them.” He started to move toward Raven only to have Malcolm and Lagan restrain him. “I must…”
“Ye must get that wound seen to.” Lagan urged him toward the keep. “The men can ride without ye this once.”
The truth of that was ascertained even as Parlan was pulled toward the keep. With Leith at the fore, Parlan saw his men ride out. He ached to be with them but knew that Lagan was right, that he had to have his wound tended. In his present state he would have been a hindrance, and speed was vital if his men were to catch up with Rory and rescue Aimil. For now he would have to swallow his pride and let others do what was necessary. He could only pray that they would be successful.
It did not take long for Parlan to realize that his wound was far more serious than he had thought. The removal of the arrow was an agony, but he grimly clung to consciousness. What worried him, and the ones nursing him, was how difficult it was to stop the bleeding. It was not its affect upon his own well-being that worried him the most but how it would affect his ability to try and rescue Aimil if his men failed to stop Rory.
“What happened?”
Revived a little by a strong drink after Old Meg had stitched and tightly bound his thigh, Parlan told Lagan all he could recall. Parlan realized that he had noticed less than he usually did in such a situation. In the past, even the smallest detail of a battle or an attack had not escaped his attention. He realized that he had been too concerned with trying to save Aimil from Rory for Parlan to exercise his usual alertness. It troubled him because he feared he may have missed some important detail.
“There is no way he could have kenned where ye would be. T’wasnae a habit of yours to go there. Nay, nor Aimil’s.”
“That occurred to me. I fear we have a traitor in our midst. Someone told him where we would be and when. For Rory to find us, that low traitor must have crept to Rory last night. I want the whoreson found.”
“He will be, Parlan.” Lagan was not sure it would be easy to find the traitor for the confusion caused by Leith’s and Aimil’s attempt to escape would have provided a very good diversion, insuring that few noticed any mysterious comings and goings.
At that moment Catarine burst into the room. Artair, a little stiff from his healing lash wounds, followed at a more discreet pace. Catarine put on a show of great distress until Parlan crossly told her to shut her mouth and stop pestering him.
Hiding her anger, she stood quietly while Parlan told Artair what had happened. She bitterly cursed Rory Fergueson for it was clear that the man had never meant to honor his part of the bargain, had intended Parlan’s murder from the start. When mention was made of a traitor, she felt an alarm of fear but pushed it aside. Her man-at-arms would never betray her and the only other one who knew of her betrayal was Rory, who, if he ever came face to face with Parlan, would undoubtedly be dead before he could expose her. She relaxed as she decided that she had little to fear. What she needed to concentrate upon was ingratiating herself with Parlan by helping to tend to his wounds, to nurse him until he healed. By then she was certain she would have him snared.
When Leith entered the room, Parlan did not have to hear the younger man say that they had failed, he could read in it the man’s face. With a raging roar, Parlan struggled to his feet. He did not need Old Meg’s furious babble to tell him that had been a mistake. The pain that ripped through him and the sudden rush of warmth pouring down his leg told him that all he had succeeded in doing was opening his wound, which would only delay him more.
He cursed everybody and everything as he was pushed back down upon his bed. The restitching and rebandaging of his leg severely strained his hold on consciousness. When Old Meg handed him something to drink, he groggily did so only to realize too late what she had given him. With a foul oath, he threw the goblet across the room.
“Ye old corbie, I dinnae want to sleep.”
Not in the least quailed by his anger, Old Meg retorted sharply, “Ye may not want it, ye young fool, but ’tis what ye need.”
“I need to go after Aimil.”
“Ye need to give that great hole in your leg time to close. Ye have just seen what happens when ye move.”
“I dinnae have time.” Frustration and despair gnawed at Parlan as he felt the potion Old Meg had given him start to cloud his mind, pulling him toward a sleep he did not want. “I must free Aimil from that hellhound.”
“He willnae kill her, Parlan.”
“Nay, he willnae, Leith.” Parlan’s eyes closed as blackness began to overcome him. “Nay, I dinnae think he will kill her, but I ken weel that he will soon have the poor lass wishing that he would.”
Chapter Fourteen
Groaning softly, Aimil made the final struggle toward consciousness with reluctance. Her whole body ached. It took her a few moments to discern that one pain amongst the many was greater than the others. Muttering a curse, she gingerly touched her throbbing jaw. After another few minutes she recalled why her jaw hurt, and a sudden panic forced her that last step into awareness. Her eyes wide, she glanced around fearfully and with a sigh of relief, saw that she was alone.
Realizing her thoughts were clouded by her discomfort, she slowly sat up, fighting dizziness as she did so. Carefully, she eased herself off the crude bed. With slow steps she walked to a basin and pitcher that stood upon a rough table. After washing her face in the cold water, she leaned wearily against the wall and dabbed herself dry with the coarse cloth left by the bowl.
Looking around the ill-lit room, she felt the small hope of all that had happened being a nightmare falter and die. She recalled the room from the last brief stay at Rory’s earlier in the year. Glancing up at the cobweb-strewn ceiling, she decided that she recognized them as well. If there were any maids about, they were clearly not made to do any cleaning, she mused. Considering the extreme care Rory took with his personal appearance, she was surprised that he would tolerate living amongst such filth.
Espying a decanter of wine and a goblet on a scarred table by the bed, she quickly moved toward it. A drink of wine would help her to think, she mused, and wash the dryness of a lingering fear from her mouth. She took a hearty swallow and nearly gagged. After the wine at Dubhglenn, what she drank now tasted little better than vinegar. Rory clearly spent very little money on wine either. Or, she thought crossly, it was purposely chosen to make her sick. She decided that Rory did not know her very well at all if he thought a little sour wine could accomplish that. Sitting on the bed, she sipped from the goblet and tried to think of what to do next.
A few moments passed before she decided that she was not going to talk herself out of trying to escape. She did not want to stay near Rory any longer than she was forced to. Neither did she think she could calmly wait for her father to arrive for he would either hand her back to Rory or lock her up firmly until the wedding. The only way she would see Parlan again was if she escaped. It would be dangerous but it was the only choice that gave her any chance of having what she wanted and that was to be with Parlan.
