places they often rode to could have been in the path of the retreating MacGuin raiding party, a prize easily snatched up. Only a fool would miss seeing what an easy chance for ransom they presented, and Parlan MacGuin was no fool.
As night faded into another day, Lachlan sat drinking and praying for some word, any word. His heir and his youngest daughter were a loss he was not sure he could bear despite four other children who could have consoled him. In anticipation of a ransom demand, he began to review his purse and his options for supplementing it. Even as yet another day passed with no word, he clung to the thought that they were prisoners. Anyone who even looked as if he might think differently suffered the heat of Lachlan’s impressive temper. His children were alive, and he refused to consider anything else unless their lifeless bodies were brought before him to be seen with his own eyes.
Aimil very much feared for her brother’s life. His injuries may have been slight but they had been untended. Two days and nights in the cold, damp hole had sapped his strength. He was unconscious more than he was conscious. She was also certain that he was feverish. Meager food once a day and a thin blanket had not helped at all. She could not believe the callousness of the guards who ignored her increasing pleas. Two men had shown some pity, but they were gone. The less compassionate men who had taken their place hinted that that consideration had been the reason the other two were gone from Dubhglenn.
By the time a man arrived with the daily ration of food late on the fourth day, there was no longer any question in Aimil’s mind that her brother was feverish. She held him as he ranted, weeping over her inability even to bathe his face. She had slept little during the night, dozing only during the few times her brother was quiet. Her dirty face streaked with tears, she glared at the man who peered down at them.
“Will ye not take him from this rat hole now?”
“I cannae, laddie,” the man said with sympathy for the tear-streaked child who stared up at him. “The laird hasnae returned yet. His brother holds this place and he willnae free ye.”
“Then he is a fool. He will have naught for ransoming. Even a blind man can see that my brother is feverish. He could easily die.”
The man did not have the heart to tell how Artair was indeed blind, blind drunk, and that he had been since the successful raid. There was no hope of reaching the man, of getting him to understand the plight of his captives. None dared to act without word from Artair. To remind him of Parlan’s fury if he should return to find a dead youth only gained a beating. There was nothing that could be done until Parlan returned. With a sigh, the man closed the grate, wincing at the stream of abuse that came from the hole. The small boy had a vicious, colorful tongue. The man felt no urge to retalliate, however. He only wished that Artair was there to be verbally lashed for he deserved it.
“How is Artair this eve?” he asked the guard at the head of the stairs that led to the dungeons, emboldened enough by pity for the two boys to consider approaching Artair.
“Sore-headed and drinking to cure it. How fare the lads?”
“If the laird doesnae return in a day or twa, there will be but one laddie in that hole and him with a rightful vengeance to take.”
Aimil was a little startled at how vengeful she could feel as she held her brother and wept with frustration and grief. In all the time they had been in the pit, no one had even asked their names so she knew that ransoming was no hope to cling to yet. From things said, she knew her only chance for Leith was if Black Parlan, the much-feared laird of the MacGuins, returned in time. It struck her as funny that she should wish for the return of a man often used by nursemaids as a bogey to scare their charges into obedience. Her laugh had an hysterical note to it, however, so she abruptly stopped.
Clutching Leith whose breathing grew more terrifyingly rasping, she began a slow rocking motion. It was vital that she retain her wits, but she feared that they were beginning to slip. Being held captive in a damp, black hole that was far from fresh of smell was hard to endure. To be kept there to watch her brother slowly die was a torture beyond bearing. At this point, she mused, she would willingly sell her soul to Satan to gain some care for Leith. As she began to pray for the Black Parlan’s return, she wondered if she was doing just that.
Catarine Dunmore stretched very much like a contented cat. It had taken a lot of time and work to get the Black Parlan into her bed but it had been worth it. He made all her other lovers seem like fumbling boys or eunuchs. Watching him as he stood staring out the window, she let her gaze greedily roam over his large, muscular frame. She had him now and he would not slip away. A well-earned confidence in her ability led her to believe that one night in her bed would be enough to secure him.
“Come back to bed, Parlan,” she purred, licking her lips when he turned, giving her a full view of his endowments.
Eyes so dark brown they were nearly black studied the woman on the bed with little expression. Parlan did not like Catarine but could not deny that she had serviced him very well indeed. There was, however, something repulsive about her insatiable appetite. He cared less about the state of her emotions, but he did not particularly care to be seen as little more than a well-proportioned staff that happened to have a man attached. She could no doubt have done as well with some inanimate object shaped appropriately.
Inwardly, he sighed as he moved toward the bed where she wantonly displayed her indisputable charms. They did nothing for him now that his need had been dulled. Noting the anger that settled upon her lovely face as he reached for his clothes, he began to form his farewell. It had to be phrased carefully for she was attached to his family. If he insulted her in any way, her anger would be formidable and he did not want to be troubled with it. Her kin were anxious to get her wed and that made her a little dangerous.
As he pulled on his trunk hose, he watched her sardonically. She would probably accept an offer to leave his pintle behind, he mused bitterly. After her avaricious attentions, the poor abused fellow would likely be useless for a few days anyway. He smiled to himself at the track his thoughts had taken. Parlan knew he could not really complain. He had succumbed to her invitation solely because he wished use of the skill for which she was so well-noted.
Even six months ago he would have climbed back into her bed, ready for more. Lately, however, he suffered from a malaise of dissatisfaction. Once his initial lust was sated he lost interest in the woman. At but eight and twenty he felt sure his virility was not waning. The problem was not how much he wanted but what he wanted. It was plainly not to be found in the arms of Catarine Dunmore.
“Ye cannae mean to leave now. The night is still young.”
“Aye, but the dawn comes early and I begin the long trek back to Dubhglenn then,” he murmured without glancing her way.
“Ye truly are leaving?” It was difficult but she managed to keep from screaming the words in anger and frustration.
“I must. I have been gone near to a month and ’tis folly to leave Artair in charge for so long.” He frowned, caught up in thoughts of all his brother could do wrong in his absence.
“Surely ye need not fear that he would try to usurp your place.”
“Nay, but he plays the role too seriously and with little thought. I have plans afoot and I cannae risk his ruining them.”
She knew better than to ask what those plans were. Sitting up, she adjusted her hair so that it did not hide the full curves she knew were attractive to men. It was ending far too soon. She needed more time to entrap him completely. Her family was urging her to take another husband. Parlan MacGuin would suit her fine. She could not catch him by crying over lost virtue or
