“Did I not just say that I wish to wed ye?” He stroked her neck.
“But why? I ken weel that there is much about me that ye dinnae like.”
“Because ye are a lovely whore—just like your mother.”
She slapped his hand away. “My mother was no whore.”
“Aye, she was. She wasted her beauty upon that fool Lachlan. I could have given her youth and an equal beauty. We would have been a pairing to make the world sick with envy.”
“And what do ye ken of my mother?”
“Enough. Ye are just like her. Aye, just like her. Ye too could have had me but ye turned to that whoreson MacGuin, turned to him and made me look the fool.”
Each step he took nearer to her, she retreated in kind. There was something fearfully unsettling about the way he talked. Aimil sensed that he did not really see her or, at least, see her as Aimil Mengue. What really troubled her was all this talk about her mother. She had not realized that Rory had even known the woman.
“I was a captive, a prisoner for ransom.”
“Ye were Parlan MacGuin’s lover, his whore. All these months ye have wallowed in the mud with him.” His hand darted forward and he grasped her tightly by the throat. “Ye have soiled yourself, cast away whatever honor ye had between his sheets.”
Desperately Aimil tried to ease his grip, a grip so tight it was cutting off her air. She tried to pry his fingers loose, but they were like bands of steel. He seemed oblivious to the way her long nails scored his skin. Aimil suddenly realized that she was the captive of a madman. In thinking he would not kill her, she had made a serious error in judgment.
“Here now, ye dinnae want to kill the lass.”
The breath-robbing grip on her throat was suddenly eased, and Aimil fell to her knees. As she massaged her bruised neck and gasped for air, she looked to see who had saved her. Her brief hope that it might be someone she could make an appeal to quickly died. She recognized the burly, sour-faced man calming Rory. Geordie would help no one save for Rory and perhaps himself. She could only think that Geordie had decided that killing her now was not good for Rory. The man did not act out of mercy.
Seeing that Geordie had left the door open, she glanced at the two men. They seemed too engrossed in their whispers to notice her. Cautiously, careful not to make a sound, she edged toward the door.
Suddenly, Geordie moved with a speed that was awe-inspiring. He slammed the door and latched it securely. Then he looked down at her with an expression that, in any other man, would be seen as pity, but Aimil doubted that Geordie suffered from that weakness. He had been Rory’s faithful hound for too long.
“Ye arenae going anywhere, lass. Ye will set right here ’til Master Rory says otherwise.”
“Then ye will be a party to my murder.”
“Oh, he isnae going to murder ye. Not yet, leastwise. Ye need to be alive for the wedding.”
“Then let us not waste time. He may as weel kill me now for I will never wed him.”
“I shouldnae be so sure, Mistress Mengue. Our Rory has a way with the lasses, a way to turn ’em to his hand, ye might say. I would be verra surprised if he cannae change your way of thinking.”
Before she could reply, she was painfully yanked to her feet. As she watched Rory’s fist hurtle toward her face, she saw his expression. Now she knew what made him smile and she had been right. It was not something she had really wanted to know. Rory Fergueson found joy in inflicting pain.
His blow sent her flying back against the bed. Although groggy and one eye blinded by the pain of his blow, she managed to elude him when he grabbed for her again. While Geordie did nothing to help her, she was relieved that he was not going to assist Rory either. Twice more she eluded Rory before he landed another punch that sent her reeling.
She knew she was no match for Rory, but she refused to give up. However, when she tried to gain hold of something to use as a weapon, Geordie was there to stop her. Finally she grew too weak to break free then try to evade Rory. He delivered a blow that sent her slamming into the wall. As blackness overtook her, she wondered if Geordie had misjudged matters for, if Rory kept at her, she was sure she would never survive the night.
Rory stood over her supine body and watched as Geordie checked her over. “Dead?”
“Nay, she be a strong lass. Ye best temper your hand some though if ye mean to wed her before ye kill her.”
“I have learned that lesson, Geordie. Ye dinnae need to keep carping on it. Get those cursed clothes off her and tie her to the bed post.”
Even as he did as he was ordered, Geordie said, “Mayhaps ye ought to let her recover a wee bit.”
“She needs her spirit broken, Geordie, and swiftly. I must have her wed to me before she is rescued or her kin comes after her.” He watched closely as Geordie undressed the unconscious Aimil. “She is as fine a piece as her cursed mother ever was. We shall have us a fine time with her.”
“Now?” Geordie lashed her hands to the bed posts.
“Nay, let her fash herself over it. She will suspect it, and the wondering about when it might happen will sorely torment her. First she must be punished for letting the Black Parlan between her thighs. Fetch my whip. The wee one. As ye say, I cannae let her die on me yet. There is a wedding she must attend. Move quickly. I want it in my hand before she wakes.”
