Moving to look out of the window, she glanced down and cursed softly. She had forgotten how high up the room was from the ground, but she suspected that Rory had chosen this room for that reason. Even though she searched, she was not surprised to find that there was nothing in the room that would make an adequate rope. The bedclothes were not only too few but too worn and frayed to be safe.
The door proved to be securely bolted from the outside. Aimil frowned because she could not remember noticing that the last time she had been at Rory’s. It was as if he had been prepared to hold her prisoner which meant that Rory’s appearance at the copse had been planned.
There was very little chance that he had accidently come upon her and Parlan in a remote corner of MacGuin land. Someone had told Rory where and when to find her and Parlan. She wondered if that traitor had intended Parlan’s death or her capture or both. If she knew that, she would know better who the traitor was. The reasons for the betrayal would point the way to the betrayer.
The first person she thought of was Catarine, but she knew some of her readiness to suspect the woman was because she loathed Catarine and would like nothing better than to have a good reason to have the wretch banned from Dubhglenn. She also preferred it to be Catarine rather than the other suspect who came to mind—Artair. It would devastate Parlan to discover that his own brother had betrayed him. Aimil was not sure she would have the heart to tell Parlan if the traitor did prove to be Artair.
Her troubled thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Rory entered the room. Standing firmly between her and the door, she decided yet again that his physical beauty lacked a certain quality that made him moving to look at. It occurred to her that it could be the coldness in his eyes that stole the beauty from his face. She wondered if Rory ever smiled, then was not sure she wanted to know what might make him smile.
“And when does my father arrive?”
“He willnae arrive for I havenae sent for him.”
“Nay? Weel, I suggest ye set about doing it.”
“Nay, I think not.”
“Ye cannae hold me here without at least telling my father where I am.” Aimil did not like the way he studied her.
“But I can. Ye are my betrothed, my bride.”
“Aye, but not yet your wife.”
“That matters not. Your father gave me rights over ye when he agreed to the betrothal.”
“Ye should at least tell him that he neednae keep collecting the ransom.” She was suddenly desperate to let her father know where she was even if it meant facing his indifference and confinement to her chambers until the wedding.
“I will in time. I willnae let him pay that whoreson MacGuin. I have uses for your dowry and dinnae wish it depleted.”
Inwardly, she cursed. She should have known about his need for her dowry. Everything she had seen in the few times she had been at his keep told her that he suffered from a lack of coin. It also explained why he had been so firm about staying betrothed to her despite knowing that she shared the Black Parlan’s bed. She then wondered if she could make a bargain with him. If his only interest was in her dowry, she would give him as much as she could get her hands on.
“Has my father given ye my dowry yet?”
“Nay, he willnae even let me borrow on it. I cannae touch it ’til we wed.”
That was clearly a sore point with him, and she felt her hopes for a mutually satisfying bargain rise. “Mayhaps I can get ye the coin.”
“And how would ye do that, my pretty, aside from wedding me whereupon I get it anyway?”
“I can get it and then ye would have the coin ye need but wouldnae need to marry me.”
“Mayhaps I wish to wed ye.”
“Why should ye? We dinnae suit, never have. If ’tis the coin ye need, then I will get it for ye. There isnae any need for us to wed.”
“Ye would leave unhonored my dead uncle’s last wish, one your father swore to honor?”
She suddenly realized that he toyed with her. He was interested in hearing her bargain but only to be amused by how desperately she would try to get him to agree with it. It was hard to control her fury, but she fought to for she knew that raging at him would gain her nothing. She did not doubt that he would find that amusing, too.
“What game do ye play?” she asked with a calm she did not feel. “Ye dinnae wish to wed me yet hold to the betrothal.”
“But I do wish to wed ye.” He stepped closer to her and stroked her cheek with his knuckles.
His touch made her stomach knot, but she hid it. So too did she resist the impulse to pull away. It was a fairly innocent gesture, and she had no real reason to resist it. She suspected that to do so would make him very angry. Nevertheless, it troubled her to have him so close, to have that cold, emotionless gaze fixed so steadily upon her face.
What she had to do was convince him that he did not want to marry her. She also had to convince him that she had no wish and no intention of wedding him without insulting him and provoking his anger. Recognizing that her own temper was only loosely reined, she decided that it was going to be very difficult to do either.
“’Tis not necessary to tie yourself to a lass ye dinnae really want for a promise made to a dead man.”
