“Aye, best that ye do.”
For a while they lay quietly in each other’s arms, idly caressing each other and enjoying the closeness they had both sorely missed. Parlan knew Aimil shared those feelings by the way she touched him and sighed with something more than passion when he touched her. No matter how puzzled he might get over what else she might feel or think, he knew he could trust in her passion. That was always honest and open, given forth without hesitation or any attempt at subterfuge. He knew that a lot of husbands would pay a king’s ransom to find that in their wives.
One small problem pricked at his current contentment, however. Aimil had said nothing about Artair. Neither had Artair said a word about his meeting with Aimil. Although Parlan knew there had been no time to enter into such a conversation, he could not relinquish the fear that things had not gone well between the two. He knew Aimil had a right to be angry, especially since any memory of the time Artair had attacked her still caused him a twinge of fury, but he wanted his wife and his brother to get along, to be friends. It was especially important now that Artair seemed sincere in his wish to change and there was the chance of a better relationship between them.
Although he was not sure he wanted to hear that their meeting had gone terribly wrong, Parlan finally gave into his need to know. “Aimil, Artair said he was going to talk with ye today.”
“Oh, aye, he did. Just before the wedding.”
When she said no more about it, he became impatient despite the fact that her soft, gentle caresses were heating his blood. “So? What happened between the pair of you? He still lives is all I ken at the moment.”
Wondering why he was so interested in the subject now when her interests were somewhere else entirely, she looked at him with a mixture of puzzlement and mild annoyance. “He apologized for what he had done to me and asked my forgiveness. I gave it.”
“Just like that?” He could not believe that what could have been a real problem had been solved so easily.
“Aye, what did ye think had happened?”
“I wasnae sure. Neither of ye said a word so I began to think…” He shrugged. “Ye were quick to forgive.”
“Nay, not truly. Weel, after Rory, what Artair had done seemed little or naught. Then too, Artair didnae accomplish what he had intended. He was then shamed by a public lashing. What truly, or mostly, prompted my forgiveness was that he kenned he had done wrong, was shamed by his actions. He wasnae mouthing words he didnae feel to make us all happy.”
“He says he intends to change.”
“Aye, so he told me. Dinnae ye think he can?” She trailed her fingers up his inner thigh, and felt him tremble slightly.
“I daren’t. He has disappointed me far too often. I will help him all I can though, not just sit back to see if he falters. Aimil, are ye listening to me?”
“Oh, aye, I cling to your every word.”
Since her small, clever hand was stroking him in a way that made thinking very difficult, Parlan rather doubted the veracity of her claim. His grin faded into a soft groan of enjoyment as her tongue gently lathed his nipples. He decided that there were a lot better things to do on one’s wedding night than talk. Closing his eyes, he reveled in the way she could make him feel and knew that she shared that feeling, a thought that both comforted and stirred him.
He grimaced when her caresses moved over the rough scar on his leg, the pinch of his vanity causing him to be concerned over how she saw it. “Nay, come away from that ugliness, dearling. I had hoped that t’would be faded more before now.”
Although she moved so that she was held tightly in his arms and could kiss his cheek, she had to smile. She heard his concern about his scar in his voice. It amused her to think that a man like Parlan should be troubled about his appearance.
“A wee scar doesnae trouble me.”
“’Tis hardly a wee scar.”
“Wheesht, wee enough when it sits upon a man as strong and fine of line as ye are, Parlan MacGuin.”
Unsettled by her flattery, he muttered, “Fine of line? Ye speak of me as ye would your stallion.”
“Ye mean the horse ye married me for?”
“Married ye for Elfking, did I?”
“Aye. Ye can admit the truth. I ken how weel ye like to ride him.”
“Aye, I do, but there is something I fancy more than riding Elfking.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
Gently pushing her onto her back, he growled, “Riding Elfking’s lady.”
“Ye are a crude man, husband.”
“Be quiet and kiss me, wife.”
