excellant horseflesh the pair of lads had with them was a prize worth taking as well. His brother had not sanctified Artair’s raids but Artair felt sure that such gain would ease whatever anger was aroused by them.
Drawing his sword, Leith stood firmly between Aimil and the MacGuin raiders, pushing her toward her horse. “Flee while ye can. I will try to hold them.”
The instant’s pause Aimil took while pondering the desertion of her brother cost her dearly. She had barely vaulted onto the back of her steed when a MacGuin was there, trying to seize her reins. He received a small booted foot in the face which sent him flying. She realized it was only a temporary victory for she was surrounded by MacGuins and prevented from making a run for safety. She and her horse put up a valiant battle nonetheless, leaving many a MacGuin and his mount with bruises to remember. The melee seemed to last for hours, but Aimil knew it was only of a few moments’ duration. A scowling man ended it swiftly by the judicious wielding of the flat of his sword against her head. As she slumped into unconciousness, she saw her brother fall beneath a half-dozen MacGuins. The last sound she made was a terrifying scream that Leith was about to be murdered.
The strong smell of horseflesh was her first sensation as she edged back into awareness. She then realized that she was tied to the back of her horse, her face pressed against his sweat-dampened coat. They moved at a ground-covering pace, but her body seemed numb to the abuse. All except her head, she mused with regret, which throbbed with each hoof-beat. She could not see Leith so she could only assume that he was in a similar ignominious position just out of view. The thought that he might be dead was one she forcibly rejected.
The strong keep of the MacGuins came into her limited range of vision, and the horses slowed their pace. Her heart sank for, once inside the gates, it would be nearly impossible to escape. Though no soldier, she easily recognized the strength of the place as a fortress and a prison. There was no doubt in her mind that she and Leith would be ransomed, but even the shortest term of imprisonment made her quake. Was her disguise still intact, she fretted, and, if it was, how long would it remain? She had heard enough to know how she would be treated if these fierce Highland raiders discovered that one of the lads they held was really a lass.
“So, ye be awake. Weel, I will wager all the fight has been ridden out of ye, laddie.”
Her eyes closed briefly in relief then she glared at the burly, dark man who was untying her bonds. He looked nothing like a man who would cut a man’s heart out without a blink, but she was wiser now. She did not trust so easily, especially not in her own opinions. After all, she had felt that her father’s love was secure and she had been proven painfully wrong.
“Here now, there isnae any use in your looking like that, me wee ghillie,” the man scolded jovially as he released the last bond holding Aimil, then caught her as she slid helplessly from the broad back of Elfking. “Ye are in no state to carry out the threat in them eyes.”
“Put them in the dungeon, Malcolm,” Artair ordered coldly.
Still supporting the weakened Aimil, Malcolm frowned. “They be only a pair of lads and nae too healthy ones at the moment.”
Artair scowled. “Those lads have sore bruised half my men. Aye, and several good mounts. In the dungeon with them. Leastwise there I willnae have to worry about a close guard until Parlan returns and decides what is to be done with them. Best if he decides the ransom to be asked.”
Malcolm continued to frown as he picked Aimil up in his arms, since the lad seemed too groggy to walk. He noted that the other young man needed carrying as well. To put two young boys into the pit, as the dungeon was aptly called, seemed cruel. They were in no condition to be a threat. Prisoners they might be, but Malcolm felt sure the laird would not treat them so callously. He was at the steps of the keep before he realized the huge white stallion was following at his heels, treating any who tried to stop him with lethal viciousness. Malcolm eyed the horse with an astonishment tinged with fear.
“Put me down.”
“Ye cannae even stand upright,” Malcolm grumbled, uneasily eyeing the huge horse that faced him.
“Then hold me upright. I must speak to Elfking or he will kill to stay with me.”
Steadying Aimil, Malcolm was not the only one who watched in near awe as the small boy caressed the stallion’s head, crooning, “Nay, Elfking, ye cannae follow. Stay with the men. Stay. We will be here but a wee while. Stay with the men.” Aimil felt the thick fog of unconsciousness claiming her again. “I think ye must carry me again, Master Malcolm, if ye would, please.”
“It isnae right,” Malcolm grumbled a bit later as he watched the door secured over the unconscious prisoners.
“Ye have ever been soft of heart, Malcolm,” one of the other men said with no real condemnation.
“Aye, but he is right this time,” remarked Lagan Dunmore, a cousin to the laird, who often visited with the MacGuins.
“Right or wrong, Artair’s the laird whilst Parlan is away. He said to put the lads in here so here they be staying.”
Lagan exchanged a helpless look with Malcolm then sighed. “Weel then, let us pray that Parlan returns soon or there will be naught for the ransoming.”
“Aye, only for the burying,” Malcolm said heavily before stalking away.
Darkness greeted Aimil when she woke. As she lay trying to come to her senses, she became more aware of her surroundings. There was a pervasive damp, and beneath her hands was cold, moist earth. By the time she spotted the grate over her head, she knew she was in a dungeon, perhaps even an oubliette. She fought the urge to scream for she knew it would be fruitless and she did not want to expose her terror.
Blocking out the feel and knowledge of the myriad of small creatures that no doubt shared the pit, she groped around for Leith. In so small an area it was easy to find him. He was still unconscious so she settled his head upon her lap, her hands gently searching his form for serious wounds.
“Aimil?” Leith groaned as he tried to sit up only to fall back with an oath.
“I am right here, Leith. Where are ye hurt? I cannae tell by feeling ye, and ’tis too dark to see,” she muttered.
“’Tis all right. A few scratches and more bruises than I care to count. Dinnae fash yourself.”
She frowned for his voice was weak and strained but, without any light, she could not tell if he was lying. “We have been tossed in a ground dungeon.”
He searched out her hand to clasp it comfortingly. “It willnae be for long. We are for ransoming. Father will be quick to buy us free.” A shaky laugh escaped him. “They must have been sore impressed with us to lock us up so tightly. We being but a pair of lads.”
Knowing that he sought confirmation that her disguise still held, she replied, “Aye. What should I tell them when they ask my name?”
“Tell them ye are Shane. Father will ken what is about and will follow through with the subterfuge. Aye, he will be glad of it.”
“He must wonder where we are even now.” She sighed, knowing that her father would be sorely worried, if only for Leith.
Just as Lachlan Mengue had noted the absence of his two offspring, word had come that the MacGuins had raided the Ferguesons. He began to fear the worst as the searchers he had hastily dispatched continued to find no sign
