“I think ye have paid more than the beast is worth.”
Again she blushed furiously and stared at him helplessly, unable to think of any reply. The ones that did come to mind would tell Parlan far more than she wanted him to know. She had the sinking feeling that her father knew the state of her heart.
“Elfking’s a verra fine mount,” she said, and grimaced when her father smiled.
“I think the debt is now MacGuin’s.”
“Aye, Mengue, it is and I mean to pay it in full. T’will only be by a priest.”
“My thoughts exactly. Handfast isnae firm enough.”
“Papa,” Aimil gasped, realizing that they spoke of marriage. “Ye cannae make the man wed me. I willnae stand for it.”
Callously, if gently, Parlan pressed her face into the pillow so that she could not speak. “How soon can we find a priest?”
“As soon as it takes to bring him from my keep where he has suffered my hospitality for this past month,” replied Lachlan.
“Ready for the wedding that was to take place between Aimil and Rory?” asked Parlan idly, not believing it for a moment.
“Of course,” Lachlan replied smoothly, and started toward the door.
“I ask a boon for this sacrifice I make.” Parlan grinned at Aimil’s clearly outraged, if muffled, squeal.
“And what is that?”
“That ye hold seeking revenge against Rory Fergueson until I can ride at your side.”
“Agreed. Coming, Leith?”
“The old rogue,” Parlan murmured with admiration after Lachlan and Leith had left.
Released from the silencing folds of the pillow, Aimil snapped, “Ye didnae let me have my say.”
“Nay. ’Tis a matter between men, lassie. Now that your father has seen what a beast parades as Rory Fergueson ye are left no maid and with no husband. Ye came to my bed a virgin, and he calls upon my sense of honor to see things set right.”
She consigned his honor to a dark and uncomfortable place. When he simply chuckled and kissed her forehead, she cursed and turned her face into the pillow. To talk a man like Parlan out of what he saw as the honorable thing to do was impossible, but she struggled to think of a way to do it. She wanted to be his wife but not for honor’s sake. It was his heart she ached for, his love, not simply his good name.
“Come, Lagan, help me up. I must test this leg. I willnae take my vows before a priest whilst on my back.”
Startled out of her sulk by her concern for him, she cried, “Ye will open the wound, ye great ox.”
Gritting his teeth as Lagan helped him stand, he said, “I willnae push it that far, sweeting. Walk me to my dressing room, Lagan. Even if I must be in bed when I marry, I will be dressed fine. I will send Old Meg to ye, lass. Ye too will be done up as fine as possible.” He frowned and glanced at her back. “There must be something ye can don that willnae hurt your back.”
By the time he reached the chair in his dressing chambers, Parlan was awash with sweat but his wound stayed closed. That showed him that, despite his weakness, he was on the mend. He collapsed into his chair and made quick work of the drink Lagan passed to him. When he saw Lagan frowning, he raised his brows in query.
“Some sweet words might have soothed her,” Lagan offered quietly.
“When I give her sweet words, t’willnae be simply to soothe the lass. Let me see what clothes I possess.”
Picking out the best of Parlan’s attire and laying it on the bed, Lagan mused, “She wants a husband who cares for her.”
“Ye think I dinnae? Aye, the black and silver will do verra nicely. I will have it freshened.”
“Aye, I think ye do and mayhaps she suspects that ye do, but a woman needs words. She darenst guess at what her man feels. Can ye not give her a few?”
Parlan shrugged. “I willnae tell her sweet lies. When I speak love words, t’will be because I feel them. I dinnae now.”
Recalling the man’s frenzy when he thought Aimil lost to him, Lagan asked, “Are ye certain of that?”
