Chapter Twenty
Sighing heavily, Aimil tossed aside her needlework petulantly. She was tired of sitting, tired of doing little or nothing. Glancing at her well-rounded figure with a hint of disgust, she reluctantly admitted that she was, perhaps, a little hindered in what she could do. To her dismay, she did waddle when she walked, but Parlan valiantly managed not to laugh, something he found difficult when he had to help her get out of bed in the mornings.
Still, she thought crossly as she struggled to stand up, there had to be something she could do that would satisfy the sudden extreme restlessness that had lately afflicted her. Plying her needle was certainly not enough. Suddenly, she knew what she wanted to do and, she mused as she started out of the hall, without Parlan about, she just might be able to accomplish it.
Partway to the stables she had to fight the impulse to giggle. She had been trying to be secretive, to slip away unseen. The whole idea was ludicrous, and she suddenly saw it that way. She was far too pregnant to move about stealthily. Everyone was keeping a close watch upon her as well, far too close for her to elude it completely. She was the laird’s wife, carrying his first child which was now past due and Rory was still alive, had even been spotted a time or two far too close to her for anyone’s comfort. Finally, chuckling over how she could have ever thought that she could sneak about Dubhglenn, she stepped into the stables and moved toward Elfking.
“What do ye think ye are doing?”
Gasping and pressing a hand over her rapidly beating heart, Aimil whirled around. “Artair, dinnae frighten me so.”
“I didnae mean to.” He eyed her very protuberant belly warily as he stepped closer. “Do ye feel all right?”
“Aye, I willnae have the bairn here and now, though, if ye scare me so again, t’wouldnae surprise me if I did.”
“Then I shall be verra careful not to frighten ye again. Now, answer me. What are ye doing?”
“I intend to go for a wee ride.”
“Are ye mad?”
“Aye, with boredom.”
“Now, Aimil, I ken how ye must feel…”
“Nay, ye dinnae. Ye could never ken. ’Tis as if I am a prisoner again. Nay, ’tis worse. I had more freedom when all I carried was ransom value. I cannae abide sitting still, doing needlework and just waiting for another moment. I must do something.”
“Fine, but that doesnae mean going for a ride.”
“Aye, it does.”
“Ye could hurt yourself or the bairn.”
“Aye, and just mayhaps I will shake this wee one into recalling that a bairn is supposed to come out sometime.”
“Exactly, and he could decide to do so whilst ye are out there somewhere, nowhere near the women ready to aid you.”
The way he was standing before her, his arms crossed and looking down at her as if she were some errant child reminded her a great deal of Parlan at his most overbearing. It annoyed her just as much. However, she hid her annoyance for she knew that, unlike Parlan, Artair could be persuaded to change his mind. The younger MacGuin was susceptible to subtle pleading.
“Artair”—she laid a hand upon his arm—“a wee ride, a gentle wee one, cannae hurt the bairn. I have been riding all my life. T’willnae hurt me to do something I have been doing all my life. Aye, and whilst I carried the bairn, right up until I grew too round to mount with ease. Ye can help me mount. I can do it. I just need a wee bit of help.”
“If ye need help to get into the saddle, then ye shouldnae be riding.”
“Nonsense. There are a lot of ladies that willnae even try to mount a horse without aid yet they are never told not to go riding.”
“They arenae big and round with Parlan MacGuin’s heir. I am certain Parlan has told ye to do no more riding.”
“Weel, ye are wrong in that. He hasnae ordered me at all, never said I couldnae go riding.” She decided that was not really a lie for Parlan had never told her not to, even if he had made it clear that he was about to when she had ceased her rides all on her own. “I stopped because I was beginning to feel verra silly and awkward atop Elfking, looking as I do.”
“Then why do ye suddenly need to ride now?”
“Because I cannae abide another moment of doing naught!” she snapped then sighed, honestly sorry to be so short-tempered with him. “Sorry. ’Tis just hard to be so verra big and so verra restless. The twa dinnae go together weel at all.” She smiled hopefully at Artair. “Can ye help me with the saddle?”
“Aye, I can,” he grumbled even as he did so, “though I ken weel I will be sorely regretting this. I should make ye wait until Parlan returns.”
“Parlan willnae be back until ’tis far too late for me to go riding.”
“I ken it. I just pray he comes back late enough for me to have got ye back safe from this folly.”
