“Take your doublet off,” he ordered, not giving any thought to how that might sound, but only concerned with discovering her true age.
Aimil gaped then grew even more furious. “Go to hell.”
Parlan’s amusement fled for he was not accustomed to such resistance or having his wishes denied. “Ye will do as I say, wench.”
Being called a wench only increased her fury. “When cows grow wings I will.” She swore when he began to see to her compliance himself. “Get your paws off me, ye great hairy brute.”
Trying to hold her steady as he unlaced her doublet, and wondering crossly how she could be so slippery, he snapped, “I mean to see how old ye are, brat.”
“Ye neednae take my clothes off for that.”
“How old are ye then?” His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he watched her face.
She suddenly realized her age could determine how she was treated, and why it was of interest to him. “Twelve.”
He grinned, catching her flailing hands by the wrists and securing them behind her with one large hand. “Then ye will-nae care about the loss of this”—he finished unlacing her doublet—“for there will be naught to see.” He held her close to stop her squirming as he worked.
Alex, the young man Aimil had knocked out, suddenly came upon the scene. He had come to inside Leith’s room when the lass had whistled for Elfking. Although somewhat groggy and loathe to ride a horse, Alex had followed the riders. Guilt over his part in her escape drove him.
“Watch out for the wench’s knee,” he called out as he dismounted somewhat gingerly.
Aimil squirmed not only to try to escape but to position herself for attack. Much to her annoyance, her previous victim’s warning came just in time to save Parlan from the full force of her knee, but he still loosed his grip on her, bending over in an instinctive gesture. But, when she swung her two-handed fist toward his head, he caught her by the wrists before the blow could connect. She suddenly found herself on her back, staring up into a dark face made all the darker by fury. Fleetingly, she noticed that he had positioned himself so that her knee was no longer a viable weapon. He had, in fact, rendered her almost immobile.
When he pulled out his knife, she tensed. There were two things he could do with it. She actually found herself hoping that he meant to cut off the short, padded tunic she had refused to remove, and sighed almost with relief when he did. An affront to her modesty was far easier to bear than a cut throat or pierced heart. The chastity she was strugglingto protect seemed minor compared to keeping her life. She did think, however, that he could cease staring so hard.
Parlan was struggling hard not to stare but most of his will had gone to quelling the strong desire to take her there and then. Since she had put the doublet on over her shirt, she had not bothered to lace the shirt thus giving him an almost unobstructed view. His hands itched to flick the shirt open to reveal what he judged might be the most exquisite breasts he had ever seen. One of the things that stopped him was that he had no wish for the men encircling them to share that sight. He intended to be the only one to enjoy the pleasure of viewing her beauty.
“Ye are a weel-formed twelve, lass.” He finally tore his gaze from her breasts and looked at her face.
“Oh, verra weel, I was seventeen last Michaelmas. Satisfied?” she snapped.
He leaned down until their faces were very close. “T’will take more than a peek to satisfy my damnable appetites.”
She flushed then scowled at his amusement at his barb. What truly bothered her was her awareness of him as a man. His dark, good looks and strong, well-formed body were arousing an uncomfortable interest. There was fear stirred by his suggestion, but she suspected it was no more than any virgin would feel when faced with her first bedding. Her body’s indiscriminate desires annoyed her. After all, she had been wooed and left unmoved by many a handsome Lowland gentleman and yet her body had the gall to warm to a barbarous Highlander.
If one overlooked that he was a MacGuin, she mused, as well as the unsavory tales told about him, and studied him simply as a man, there was no denying that he was very fine indeed. His face with its high, wide cheekbones and the modest aquiline cut of his nose gave him a fierce, hawkish look which was far from unattractive. Black brows, gently winged, rose above surprisingly heavily-lashed eyes giving him a saturnine air, an air increased by the darkness of his skin and the midnight black of his long hair. He had to be one of the tallest men she had ever seen, possibly even topping six foot, and was muscular without the lumps or ridges some men developed. The partially-opened shirt and the lack of hose with his kilt let her see that he had a fine layer of hair on his broad chest and a light coat on his long, muscular legs.
He was big and, she grudgingly admitted, beautiful, but she would not let that sway her. Black Parlan was a MacGuin, the laird of that thieving clan, and a Highlander. She knew rumor and tale should not condemn a man, that in the newly-marked century of 1500 men did not, could not, do such things as roast babies and dine upon them, but it could not all be discounted. Behind all gossip and rumor there was usually some hint of truth. There was little doubt in her mind that he certainly did take his pleasure of women freely and with great gusto. It was not all that, however, which would make her fight if he sought to possess her. Instinct told her that she could lose more than her chastity and that terrifed her. But she had no intention of revealing her terror.
“Now that ye ken what ye wished to, will ye get off me, ye great ox?” she snapped. “I cannae feel my legs anymore.”
“I would be quite glad to feel them for ye.” He met her glare with a grin, and his men laughed.
“How verra amusing.” His cockiness replaced her fear with annoyance. “Will ye remove your great hulking self before I am crippled for life? What is it?”
Her last question was asked softly and somewhat anxiously for his face had suddenly darkened with anger. Her gaze followed his to her breasts again, but she could see nothing worth such fury only a few bruises from the young man’s attack. That the bruises enraged him was made suddenly very clear, and it took Aimil a moment to get over her surprise.
Parlan surged to his feet and softly, too softly, asked her young attacker, “How did ye ken the way the lass would protect herself?”
Clearly, if a little shakily, the young man replied, “She used it on me when I attacked her.”
His words had barely cleared his lips when a blow from Parlan sent him reeling. Scrambling to her feet and clutching her shirt closed, Aimil gasped as the laird of the MacGuins sentenced her would-be ravisher to an alarming number of lashes. Although the young man paled, he made no protest nor did any of the others look surprised. It was evident that the notorious Black Parlan did not tolerate the abuse of women, and did, in fact, consider it a crime worthy of harsh punishment. Aimil decided she would wonder later how that contradicted the image painted of the man. Right now, she felt she had to intervene for it was too harsh a punishment. She had to let it be known how little the man had accomplished.
“Nay, nay,” she cried, clutching Parlan’s tensed arm. “It wasnae so bad.”
“Enjoyed it, did ye?” purred Parlan, angered by her defense of the young man.
“Dinnae be an idiot,” she snapped, causing several of Parlan’s men to gasp. “I didnae mean that. I meant t’was naught but a kiss and a wee grapple.”
“A kiss and a wee grapple wouldnae leave such marks.”
“Aye, they would and, even so, t’wasnae all his fault. I was wearing naught but this shirt and that undone. Aye, and my hair was loose. He was expecting twa lads not what he found. T’was but a brief tussle before I knocked him out, and, ’tis true, I bruise easily.” She saw the doubt in his eyes and asked, “Did ye mean to mark me just now?”
“Nay,”