“We will ne’er catch them.”
“Nay, Malcolm, but ye ken that we must follow. Parlan may need aid if he catches her. ’Tis also unwise for him to be abroad alone.”
Malcolm followed as Lagan urged the group to ride on, but he grumbled, “Nae sure I want to be about if Parlan loses the race.”
Parlan was determined to win but he knew it would be the most difficult race he had ever been involved in. Despite appearances, the girl did not hold all the advantages. The ground was unfamiliar to her and had already stolen some of her lead. He grimly followed and awaited his chance.
Aimil clearly recognized her weaknesses. She had watched her lead eaten away as she faltered to avoid an obstruction, one her pursuer had already adjusted for. One look at him had been all she had needed as it made her think that Satan himself was at her heels and, if rumors about Black Parlan could be believed, he was or at least one of his henchman.
It was not speed, skill, knowledge, nor terrain that ended the race, but something so insignificant that Aimil wondered if fate was playing games with her. She felt the subtle change in Elfking’s gait and knew she was lost. Elfking would run until his heart stopped if she asked it of him, but she never would. Neither could she cripple him perhaps to the point where he had to be destroyed. None of the fears that had prompted her attempt to escape were strong enough to make her do that. Weeping silently with frustration, she halted him and dismounted to look at his leg.
The change in Elfking’s gait had quickly been seen by Parlan. He cursed, feeling certain that a female would continue to ride an injured animal until the injury was past fixing. Because of that cynical view, he was unprepared for her halt and overshot his quarry. By the time he got his steed under control and turned round, she was sitting on the ground, staring at something in her hand. He dismounted and quietly moved to where she sat by Elfking, who appeared to be suffering only a tender hoof.
“A pebble,” she remarked dejectedly. “I would have made it save for this.”
“Aye, I think ye might have.” He signaled the newly-arrived men to keep her from Elfking.
“’Tis all your fault,” she snapped as she surged to her feet and flung the pebble at him.
Flinching as it struck his cheek, he growled, “What in the Devil’s name are ye on about? I had naught to do with this.”
In too high a temper to care who she was yelling at, Aimil gladly replied. “Men,” she said in a voice heavy with disgust. “Aye, and ye most of all. I could have stayed with Leith if it werenae for men, animals that ye are. Aye, ye and your damnable appetites. That is why I had to climb down the keep wall and near crippled Elfking.”
“My appetites?” Parlan asked, laughing, his gaze flicking from her face to her finger prodding his chest to punctuate her remarks.
The way she stood berating him amused him as well as stirred his admiration. He could snap her slim lovely neck with one good blow yet she faced him squarely. Her delicate face, with its wide, slightly-tilted, aquamarine eyes, drew his appreciation even when it was flushed with anger. Again he wondered how old she was for there was the promise of passion already visible in her full mouth. Her age suddenly became a question of immediate importance to him. His gaze fell to the pourpoint she wore, but it hid any curves she might have.
“Take your doublet off,” he ordered, not giving any thought to how that might sound, but only concerned with discovering her true age.
Aimil gaped then grew even more furious. “Go to hell.”
Parlan’s amusement fled for he was not accustomed to such resistance or having his wishes denied. “Ye will do as I say, wench.”
Being called a wench only increased her fury. “When cows grow wings I will.” She swore when he began to see to her compliance himself. “Get your paws off me, ye great hairy brute.”
Trying to hold her steady as he unlaced her doublet, and wondering crossly how she could be so slippery, he snapped, “I mean to see how old ye are, brat.”
“Ye neednae take my clothes off for that.”
“How old are ye then?” His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he watched her face.
She suddenly realized her age could determine how she was treated, and why it was of interest to him. “Twelve.”
He grinned, catching her flailing hands by the wrists and securing them behind her with one large hand. “Then ye will-nae care about the loss of this”—he finished unlacing her doublet—“for there will be naught to see.” He held her close to stop her squirming as he worked.
Alex, the young man Aimil had knocked out, suddenly came upon the scene. He had come to inside Leith’s room when the lass had whistled for Elfking. Although somewhat groggy and loathe to ride a horse, Alex had followed the riders. Guilt over his part in her escape drove him.
“Watch out for the wench’s knee,” he called out as he dismounted somewhat gingerly.
Aimil squirmed not only to try to escape but to position herself for attack. Much to her annoyance, her previous victim’s warning came just in time to save Parlan from the full force of her knee, but he still loosed his grip on her, bending over in an instinctive gesture. But, when she swung her two-handed fist toward his head, he caught her by the wrists before the blow could connect. She suddenly found herself on her back, staring up into a dark face made all the darker by fury. Fleetingly, she noticed that he had positioned himself so that her knee was no longer a viable weapon. He had, in fact, rendered her almost immobile.
When he pulled out his knife, she tensed. There were two things he could do with it. She actually found herself hoping that he meant to cut off the short, padded tunic she had refused to remove, and sighed almost with relief when he did. An affront to her modesty was far easier to bear than a cut throat or pierced heart. The chastity she was strugglingto protect seemed minor compared to keeping her life. She did think, however, that he could cease staring so hard.
Parlan was struggling hard not to stare but most of his will had gone to quelling the strong desire to take her there and then. Since she had put the doublet on over her shirt, she had not bothered to lace the shirt thus giving him an almost unobstructed view. His hands itched to flick the shirt open to reveal what he judged might be the most exquisite breasts he had ever seen. One of the things that stopped him was that he had no wish for the men encircling them to share that sight. He intended to be the only one to enjoy the pleasure of viewing her beauty.
“Ye are a weel-formed twelve, lass.” He finally tore his gaze from her breasts and looked at her face.
“Oh, verra weel, I was seventeen last Michaelmas. Satisfied?” she snapped.
