marriage bed. Yet each one required time. She could not allow this chance to slip away. Unfortunately, it looked very much as if Parlan was going to yank it away.
“Come, Parlan,” she crooned, reaching out to caress his manhood and hiding her anger over his evident disinclination, “what is one more night?”
“Too long,” he replied succinctly as he put on his pourpoint and stepped out of her reach. “All is readied for the journey. I cannae forestall it.”
Gritting her teeth against the curses she wished to hurl at him, she queried, “When do you plan to return this way?”
Parlan wondered if the woman knew how obvious she was in her ploys. “I cannae say. ’Tis a busy time of the year.”
“I must return home soon myself,” she lied smoothly. “Mayhaps I could stop at Dubhglenn on my way.”
“If ye like.” He hoped fervently that she would not as he gave her a light kiss. “Take care, Catarine.”
As soon as he was gone, Catarine gave vent to her fury, demolishing her quarters, then keeping her servants busy most of the night restoring it to order. Parlan would not get away so easily with using her like some tavern wench, she vowed. She would give him time to settle his business then go to stay at his keep. Once there and in his bed, she was certain she would win the game.
Dawn found Parlan on the road and riding hard for Dubhglenn, his keep. Although he partook of the delights of town, he did not like being away from his home. If Artair was older and less rash, he would be sent on some of the necessary trips to town. Unfortunately, Parlan knew Artair would either spend his time soaked in drink and wenching, or make them new enemies they did not need. It saddened him but Artair’s unreliability was why Lagan Dunmore was the man most often at Parlan’s side. He could only hope that during his absence Artair had done nothing too terrible.
When Parlan finally reached Dubhglenn two days later, he knew immediately upon riding into the bailey that something was not right. The people he met greeted him jovially but with a poorly disguised air of relief. There was also that air of someone waiting to speak but not wishing to be the one to carry tales. Parlan was about to demand explanations when he espied the horse.
Speechless with admiration, he did not even inquire about where the animal had come from, but merely spent long moments studying the fine points of the stallion. The animal was at least a hand taller than his own, very impressive mount. The horse’s lines indicated strength as well as speed. The white coat of the beast was startling in its purity. Parlan was ready to test how far the stallion’s tense, aggressive stance could be tried when Malcolm and Lagan returned to Dubhglenn. They wasted no time in moving to speak to Parlan.
“Have ye seen this magnificent animal?” enthused Parlan, slowly becoming aware of the men’s tension.
“Aye, I have seen him.” Malcolm turned to one of the men lurking nearby. “How fare the laddies?”
“Nae too weel. The older one be sickening something fierce and the wee one has condemned the lot of us to seven kinds of hell.”
“And weel we deserve them,” cried Lagan who got no argument. “Has naught been done? Has no one tended to them?”
“Aye, they be fed and watered regular,” protested another man but weakly.
“I gave them extra blankets last eve but I fear the wee one be right when he says they will only be used as a shroud,” added the first man.
“Hold!” The silence that immediately met Parlan’s bellow was a tense one. “What lads?” he snarled.
“Artair raided the Ferguesons,” Lagan explained, knowing that would displease Parlan because it was done without his consent. “As we rode back to Dubhglenn, we chanced upon twa laddies in Mengue colors and seized them.”
“How wee are the laddies?”
“One must be nearing twenty, mayhaps a year or twa less,” replied Malcolm. “A man by some’s reckoning but still a laddie by mine. The other cannae be more than twelve.”
“What ransom has been asked?”
“None,” Lagan answered reluctantly. “They rot in the pit awaiting your return so that ye can decide upon it.”
Malcolm and Lagan followed Parlan as he strode into the keep. Several other men followed hesitantly. When Parlan’s request for Artair met with the word that the young man was sleeping off yet another long night of whiskey and women, Parlan’s fury was a glory to behold. Usually brave men scattered before him as he made his way to the dungeons where the sound of a soft keening greeted his ears.
The grate was speedily opened, and Parlan looked into the hole, a lantern held inside its depths. He saw a small, slightly-built boy holding a larger one, rocking and weeping softly. The elder boy was evidently dangerously ill. Suddenly the small lad became aware of the intruders and looked up. Even streaked with filth and tears, the small face had a delicate beauty that seemed strange for a boy. It was not even marred when that face was contorted into a snarl of hate and rage. Parlan noted all of that as he struggled to control his ever-growing anger with his brother.
At any other time the dark, imposing face peering down at her would have made Aimil at least hesitant, but she had no thought of caution when she held her dying brother in her arms. “Carrion! Filthy corbies! Ye have come too early to pick at this flesh.”
“Get them out of there. Now!” Parlan snarled as he moved back from the pit’s opening, his voice clipped with fury.
Chapter Two
For a moment Aimil doubted that she had heard right. It quickly became apparant that the Black Parlan himself was there, biting out commands in a deep voice that barely escaped being a very feral snarl. With her brother’s vital needs at the fore of her thoughts, she neither asked nor cared if they meant to free her too. Once Leith was lifted out, she started to sit down again.
“Ye as weel, laddie,” Parlan called, failing to keep all his fury at Artair out of his voice despite his efforts to stay calm so as not to frighten the boy.
She slapped away the hands that were offered to assist her, scrambling up the rope by herself. The time spent in a pit in which she could barely lie down had sapped her strength, but she refused to reveal that. In fact, she had practiced some odd exercises several times a day to keep her strength up for Leith’s sake. It had served its purpose for she was able to stand without wavering badly. The last thing she wanted was for these men to espy any weakness in her.
“Dinnae touch me, swine,” she hissed when, as they began to leave the dungeons, a hand moved to assist her.
Parlan was unused to being spoken to like that but he quelled an instinctive burst of anger. Later, he would even find amusement in the thought of the seething, somewhat filthy boy. For now he only wanted to ease the dangerous situation Artair had created. Despite the dirt, there was no mistaking the richness of the boys’ attire, which meant that they were of a high standing within the Mengue clan. An incident such as this could easily provoke a blood feud that could last for generations. That was the very last thing Parlan wanted or needed.
When they reached a room that could be secured from the outside, the MacGuins hastily attended to Leith who was for the most part, unconscious. Aimil stood out of the way but watched their every move. Even
