Highland Captive. Hannah HowellЧитать онлайн книгу.
Still supporting the weakened Aimil, Malcolm frowned. “They be only a pair of lads and nae too healthy ones at the moment.”
Artair scowled. “Those lads have sore bruised half my men. Aye, and several good mounts. In the dungeon with them. Leastwise there I willnae have to worry about a close guard until Parlan returns and decides what is to be done with them. Best if he decides the ransom to be asked.”
Malcolm continued to frown as he picked Aimil up in his arms, since the lad seemed too groggy to walk. He noted that the other young man needed carrying as well. To put two young boys into the pit, as the dungeon was aptly called, seemed cruel. They were in no condition to be a threat. Prisoners they might be, but Malcolm felt sure the laird would not treat them so callously. He was at the steps of the keep before he realized the huge white stallion was following at his heels, treating any who tried to stop him with lethal viciousness. Malcolm eyed the horse with an astonishment tinged with fear.
“Put me down.”
“Ye cannae even stand upright,” Malcolm grumbled, uneasily eyeing the huge horse that faced him.
“Then hold me upright. I must speak to Elfking or he will kill to stay with me.”
Steadying Aimil, Malcolm was not the only one who watched in near awe as the small boy caressed the stallion’s head, crooning, “Nay, Elfking, ye cannae follow. Stay with the men. Stay. We will be here but a wee while. Stay with the men.” Aimil felt the thick fog of unconsciousness claiming her again. “I think ye must carry me again, Master Malcolm, if ye would, please.”
“It isnae right,” Malcolm grumbled a bit later as he watched the door secured over the unconscious prisoners.
“Ye have ever been soft of heart, Malcolm,” one of the other men said with no real condemnation.
“Aye, but he is right this time,” remarked Lagan Dunmore, a cousin to the laird, who often visited with the MacGuins.
“Right or wrong, Artair’s the laird whilst Parlan is away. He said to put the lads in here so here they be staying.”
Lagan exchanged a helpless look with Malcolm then sighed. “Weel then, let us pray that Parlan returns soon or there will be naught for the ransoming.”
“Aye, only for the burying,” Malcolm said heavily before stalking away.
Darkness greeted Aimil when she woke. As she lay trying to come to her senses, she became more aware of her surroundings. There was a pervasive damp, and beneath her hands was cold, moist earth. By the time she spotted the grate over her head, she knew she was in a dungeon, perhaps even an oubliette. She fought the urge to scream for she knew it would be fruitless and she did not want to expose her terror.
Blocking out the feel and knowledge of the myriad of small creatures that no doubt shared the pit, she groped around for Leith. In so small an area it was easy to find him. He was still unconscious so she settled his head upon her lap, her hands gently searching his form for serious wounds.
“Aimil?” Leith groaned as he tried to sit up only to fall back with an oath.
“I am right here, Leith. Where are ye hurt? I cannae tell by feeling ye, and ’tis too dark to see,” she muttered.
“’Tis all right. A few scratches and more bruises than I care to count. Dinnae fash yourself.”
She frowned for his voice was weak and strained but, without any light, she could not tell if he was lying. “We have been tossed in a ground dungeon.”
He searched out her hand to clasp it comfortingly. “It willnae be for long. We are for ransoming. Father will be quick to buy us free.” A shaky laugh escaped him. “They must have been sore impressed with us to lock us up so tightly. We being but a pair of lads.”
Knowing that he sought confirmation that her disguise still held, she replied, “Aye. What should I tell them when they ask my name?”
“Tell them ye are Shane. Father will ken what is about and will follow through with the subterfuge. Aye, he will be glad of it.”
“He must wonder where we are even now.” She sighed, knowing that her father would be sorely worried, if only for Leith.
Just as Lachlan Mengue had noted the absence of his two offspring, word had come that the MacGuins had raided the Ferguesons. He began to fear the worst as the searchers he had hastily dispatched continued to find no sign of Leith or Aimil. Instinct told him that they had been caught. Several 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,