Free Highland Captive by Hannah Howell Page B

weighted her limbs.
She looked about in sleepy confusion.
    “What
are ye doing in my chambers?” she demanded in a voice husky with sleep.
    “These
are my chambers,” Parlan corrected with a soft laugh.
    Rubbing
the sleep from her eyes in a childlike gesture, she looked around again. “Oh.
What am I doing in your chambers?”
    “Ah,
how quickly they forget,” Parlan mourned, casting a laughing glance at a
grinning Lagan.
    Bright
color flooded her cheeks as memories of the night rushed into her mind. “‘Tis
easy to forget the little things in life.”
    Lagan
clamped a hand over his mouth but it did not stifle all of his laughter, and
Parlan sighed. “Ye wound me sorely, mistress.”
    “I
doubt much can pierce that thick hide,” she grumbled, then grimaced over the
small discomfort her introduction to passion had left her with. “T’would it be
possible for me to have a bath?”
    Parlan
astutely guessed the cause of her grimace. “Aye, I will have Old Meg see to it
and to restoking the fire in here.”
    “There
is no need of a fire here. I will be in Leith’s chambers.”
    “If
ye are, I will drag ye, tub and all, right back here. These are your chambers
now.” He started out the door.
    “Ye
ask a high price for my horse.”
    “‘Tis
a fine steed.” He saw her open her mouth to speak. “I wouldnae if I were ye. I
havenae broken my fast yet and ye must ken how short a man’s temper can be when
his belly is empty.”
    “She
has a quick and sharp tongue,” observed Lagan as he followed Parlan to the hall
where they would find some hearty fare. “That is a lass who will do little
stroking of a man’s vanity.”
    “Aye.
I wouldnae like to feel the lash of that tongue when it is unleashed by anger
or hate.”
    “Ye
dinnae think she feels either now? She has a verra good reason to feel both.”
    “True
but she doesnae. I offered her a choice in all this. She cannae blame me for
the choice she took.”
    “To
give herself to save her horse.” Lagan shook his head. “‘Tis an odd thing for a
woman to do.”
    “Grown
men have wept like bairns over their steeds. We never find that a puzzle. She
raised that brute by hand. There isnae any denying the bond between them. And I
ken there is none who claims her heart so there was little to hold her back in
that way, no man she feared to hurt or to lose. Howbeit, I do have a strong
feeling that there was far more behind her decision. In truth, I cannae help
but wonder how much this betrothal prompted her choice.”
     
    As
Aimil watched her bath being prepared, she thought about her betrothal to Rory
Fergueson and the duty she owed him. She wondered where her guilt was as well
as her shame. Being a fallen woman was not affecting her very much. She knew
the reason for that was her betrothal. Although the chance that it might be
ended because of what she had done was slim, it was something to be considered.
Then too, she had honestly enjoyed herself and she knew she never would with
Rory.
    “Weel?
Are ye going to use it or stare at it?”
    Grinning,
Aimil got into the bath. Old Meg reminded her of Annie at home. Both, rail thin
and sharp of tongue, were past their prime, although it was difficult to guess
how far past. She wondered if such women were common features of keeps.
    “Ah,
so ye were a virgin,” muttered Old Meg as she and two young maids took the
linen from the bed.
    Concentrating
on washing her legs and cursing her blushes, Aimil snapped, “What matter if I
was?”
    “Ye
never can tell. Nay, ye never can tell, lassie. Ye remember to do as I told ye,”
Old Meg growled at the maids.
    The
younger, less comely of the two maids looked at Aimil. “Did ye really do this
to keep a horse?”
    “Some
men have killed for less,” Aimil replied, determined to cling to that story
even if people did think her mad. “I simply lie back, closed my eyes, and
thought on king and country.”
    She
had to choke down a giggle over the astounded looks upon the