With equal haste Aimil covered her breasts with her arms and sank a little deeper into the soapy water. Old Meg tittered over the sight of a gasping, dripping Jeanne as did Lagan who hovered inside the door. The other little maid clearly wished she was someplace else. Aimil sympathized for she found herself wishing the same but decided to hide her embarrassment with haughty bravado.
“What the Devil is going on here?” Parlan demanded, cursing softly when he saw that he was now wet.
“I lost my soap and she was helping me find it.” Aimil tried to ignore Lagan who fell into a fit of laughter.
“She tried to drown me,” screeched Jeanne.
“Nonsense,” snapped Aimil. “If ye had kept your big mouth shut when ye went under, ye wouldnae be in such a state.”
“Aimil.” Parlan’s voice was a growl of warning as he restrained a furious Jeanne and with a firm grip held the other maid’s arm. “Ilka, tell me what happened here.”
Reluctantly, Ilka obeyed the command, shrinking a little when Parlan’s face darkened with anger. “Then ye came in.”
“Since ye cannae keep a civil tongue around your betters, Jeanne, I suggest ye keep to the kitchens.” He spoke coldly to the maid then turned to Aimil as Jeanne stormed away. “Ye must learn to hold your temper.”
“Coming from ye that advice lacks a wee bit,” she drawled. “Now, may I have some privacy for my bath?”
“But of course, m’lady.” He bowed mockingly. “Just try to restrain the urge to drown my serving wenches.”
“If I must, I must,” she sighed, and waited for the door to close after him before she began to bathe again.
“Ilka, ye make the bed afresh.” Old Meg looked at Aimil. “I cannae think of what to get ye for clothes. There hasnae been a lady here, save serving wenches and crofters’ wives, for a score of years. They wouldnae have anything to suit ye even if they had it to spare.”
“It doesnae matter. Most all here have seen me dressed as a lad. It willnae shock them if I continue so.”
“Aye, ’tis how it must be for now, but I may yet come round with an idea. T’would be best if ye were dressed as the lass ye are.”
Shrugging, Aimil continued to bathe. When her father had started to ignore her existence, she had done as she had pleased. One of the things that had pleased her was to ride dressed as a lad. She did in truth find it far more comfortable than female attire. To have to wear it was no hardship in her mind. She only hoped that Leith did not see it as a further insult that needed avenging.
Leith feared his family was facing dire hardship as he reacted in horror over Parlan’s exorbitant ransom demands. “T’will leave us naught.”
“Do ye think your father will pay it?”
“He will try to whittle ye down, as he should. This demand is far beyond reason.”
“Aye, I thought so but nae too far beyond, so it should be taken seriously.”
Frowning in confusion, Leith muttered, “I dinnae ken what ye are about.”
“I dinnae want this much. ’Tis not my way to leave a man in rags. I expect him to haggle and I will be stubborn, slow to come down. If he accepts it or a still too high cost, t’will take him a fair while to raise it in coin. Time is what this is all about. I but try to buy time. A man should pay a goodly fee when he was foolish to let his kin be caught.” He ignored Leith’s scowl. “Howbeit, I wouldnae pay this much for my own mother.”
A reluctant laugh escaped Leith, but then he grew serious. “I hope that time will solve the problem.”
“It has to. Time is important no matter what and this game will buy that. I but hope that your father doesnae see that we play a game or we shall quickly be robbed of that time.”
Lachlan Mengue felt that time weighed far too heavily upon his hands. Even his ability to believe that his children still lived had begun to waver. No word and no sighting of them had weakened his confidence in their continued existence.
His family had gathered close to him to lend their quiet strength. Both married daughters, their husbands at their sides, had come home to be with him. All they could do was wait with him for either a ransom demand or, as they all silently feared, the discovery of the bodies. Waiting put a strain on the nerves, however, and the arrival of Rory Fergueson helped little.
Tall, strong, and almost too handsome, Rory Fergueson had little taste for waiting. When it concerned the possible loss of Aimil Mengue, he had no taste for it at all. It was not only her handsome dowry he saw slipping away but the chance to possess Aimil, to dominate her and to avenge an old slight that had festered for many years. He faced Lachlan, trying to force the older man to act.
“Curse it, man, the only solution is to ride against the MacGuins. ’Tis past time that thieving clan was put to the sword.”
“We arenae sure they have the pair,” Lachlan reminded the man. “No word or ransom demand has come.”
“They make ye wait so ye will pay quicker and without question. ’Tis an old game.”
“And one I havenae heard of the Black Parlan playing,” the redheaded Iain MacVern growled.
“The man is the Devil himself and we all ken it. He would play any game if it suited him. He raided me the verra day Aimil and Leith disappeared. What more proof is needed?”
“T’was Artair who raided ye from what I heard,” James Broth drawled in his deep gravelly voice. “The Black Parlan was away.”
“Aye,” agreed Jennet Mengue Broth, her light blue eyes shining with the sudden hope she felt. “That may be why we have heard naught. Artair could await his brother and laird’s return before any ransom is asked. Could that not be the how of it, Father?”
Lachlan nodded slowly. “Aye, could be the way of it. He may fear to ask the wrong amount and so leaves it for Parlan to decide.”
Jennet watched how Rory Fergueson reacted and felt certain that the man was grinding his teeth. “His call to ride against the MacGuins would carry more force if he were to ride at the fore of the force,” she murmured to her husband, James.
James hid a smile over the dry sarcasm in his wife’s voice. Rory Fergueson was well known never to leave himself open to charges of cowardice yet was overly fond of his own skin, never really turning from a fight but keeping himself well out of any danger. If there was an attack made on the MacGuin, Rory would be there but well to the rear until the worst was over.
Giorsal, Lachlan’s firstborn, also watched Rory. He repelled her despite his beauty of face and form. She was not very close to her youngest sister but the thought of Aimil wed to such a man brought tears to her eyes. If that was to be Aimil’s fate, then it might be best if the girl was dead. Giorsal suddenly clasped Iain’s hand, fervently glad that such a good man had been chosen for her. For all her sulkiness when the match had been set, and her disappointment in his ruddy, plain looks and gruff character, he was good to her and the two children they had been blessed with. She looked back over nearly five years of a peaceful, secure home life with a faithful, kind man and suddenly realized she had been a shrew. Sweet words and fine looks mattered little. She had what was important.
“Here now,” Iain blustered, blushing fiercely when his usually undemonstrative wife kissed his cheek, slipped her arms around his waist, and hugged him. “Are ye ailing?” he whispered, his hazel eyes moving nervously as he assured himself that they were unnoticed for now.
“Nay, I just felt I must let ye ken how verra glad I am that ye were chosen for me,” she replied as she pulled away.
“Humph, weel, ’tis about time ye kenned how lucky ye are,” he mumbled, but the light that flared