Highland Captive. Hannah HowellЧитать онлайн книгу.
“It may be the tales ye just mentioned that drive him to such an act,” Malcolm suggested quickly as he hurried to keep pace.
Struggling against his anger, Parlan finally nodded as he glanced at Malcolm. “’Tis true. I will keep that in mind whilst I am beating the brat.” He looked back toward the small figure gingerly descending the wall just as the wind stole the bonnet the lad wore. “Jesus wept.”
Parlan’s soft curse was repeated by all around him.
In her haste, Aimil had not only failed to secure her bonnet but her hair as well. It tumbled free in glorious thick waves, the wind catching it and tossling its beauty with abandon. The predominant color was a blond so fair it was silver in color but streaked with shades of gold and red that caught and held every beam of light. What Aimil thought a bane, an unruly mass that could not decide upon a color, Parlan and those with him thought beauty itself.
After shock had released its hold, the first thought that entered Parlan’s mind was that he would like to wrap himself up in that hair which was like silken sunlight. He then wondered if she was old enough to be used in the ways he was thinking of. Her small stature might yet indicate youth. Few mature women he knew could so easily and successfully disguise themselves so. The disappointment he felt when that possibility occurred to him surprised him some. Suddenly he recalled the “lad’s” delicate features and swore at himself.
“I should have seen it,” he snapped as he again moved toward where Aimil was now hanging some feet short of the ground.
“The lass has come up short. We best hasten before she tries to drop to the ground,” suggested Lagan. “She could land afoul and break a bone.”
“I am sorely tempted to break a few of her bones. T’was a foolish move for a laddie to make. For a wee lass…” He shook his head, stunned by the daring of the girl, even as he guiltily admitted that his reputation, which he had done little to clear, might have driven her to the rash act.
The advance of the men halted as abruptly as Aimil’s whistle pierced the air. Parlan sensed what was about to happen, but his shout of warning barely came in time. Men hurled themselves out of the way of an onrushing Elfking who stopped directly beneath the dangling girl. They watched in astonishment while they rose, dusting themselves off, as she neatly lowered herself onto the stallion’s back. Her plan of escape was clear to all now.
Aimil recovered quickly from the jolt of dropping onto Elfking’s back and grasped the reins. Riding bareback did not trouble her. She did, in fact, prefer it. Exhilaration filled her though she tried to quell it. Freedom was so close she could taste its nectar.
Chapter Three
“Close the gates! Get my cursed horse. Fools! Dinnae bother with a saddle. She will be sitting at Mengue’s table before I have even mounted.”
If Aimil had not been so afraid that she could yet fail, she would have laughed at the sight of the much-feared Black Parlan bellowing orders and his men scrambling to obey. She knew, however, that what looked like confusion was not. It was only haste, a haste that could rob her of her goal when she was so close to it. With a yell that rivaled any battlecry, she urged Elfking toward the gates that were already being shut against her escape.
Men threw themselves clear of the horse but there was barely enough space to get through when she reached the gates and the men closing them were hurrying to take even that away. She urged Elfking to rear and, as she had expected, the men instinctively shied away from the flailing hooves, allowing her to break clear of the bailey into open ground. The delay had caused Elfking to break stride and she feared it would cost her dearly for she could hear that pursuit had already begun in earnest.
Although he cursed the men at the gate, Parlan did not blame them for dodging the white stallion. They did at least have the sense to start reopening the gates even as Parlan thundered past them on his black stallion, the purity of the animal’s coat marred only by a small patch of white on his nose and a circle of it round his left rear hoof. His horse, Raven, was as yet unmatched in speed, but Parlan sensed he would be pressed to keep pace several lengths behind his quarry. Elfking, with his far lighter burden, fairly flew over the ground. Watching the horse run only increased Parlan’s desire to have the mount.
As he watched the girl ride, he recognized her skill, a skill increased by the obvious rapport between rider and horse. With her hair unbound, her lithe shape nearly one with her animal of such grace and speed, there was an air of other worldliness to the pair. Parlan decided that Elfking was a suitable name for the milk-white stallion.
So thought Malcolm and Lagan who followed with a small group of men. They crested a small rise to see Parlan and the girl galloping over an open field. The sight of the black horse with its large dark rider pursuing the white horse with its small fair rider conjured up a vast number of fanciful images. To see two such magnificent animals racing was spellbinding. It would be a close-run race, and both men agreed that they and their horses would not even be in the running.
“We will ne’er catch them.”
“Nay, Malcolm, but ye ken that we must follow. Parlan may need aid if he catches her. ’Tis also unwise for him to be abroad alone.”
Malcolm followed as Lagan urged the group to ride on, but he grumbled, “Nae sure I want to be about if Parlan loses the race.”
Parlan was determined to win but he knew it would be the most difficult race he had ever been involved in. Despite appearances, the girl did not hold all the advantages. The ground was unfamiliar to her and had already stolen some of her lead. He grimly followed and awaited his chance.
Aimil clearly recognized her weaknesses. She had watched her lead eaten away as she faltered to avoid an obstruction, one her pursuer had already adjusted for. One look at him had been all she had needed as it made her think that Satan himself was at her heels and, if rumors about Black Parlan could be believed, he was or at least one of his henchman.
It was not speed, skill, knowledge, nor terrain that ended the race, but something so insignificant that Aimil wondered if fate was playing games with her. She felt the subtle change in Elfking’s gait and knew she was lost. Elfking would run until his heart stopped if she asked it of him, but she never would. Neither could she cripple him perhaps to the point where he had to be destroyed. None of the fears that had prompted her attempt to escape were strong enough to make her do that. Weeping silently with frustration, she halted him and dismounted to look at his leg.
The change in Elfking’s gait had quickly been seen by Parlan. He cursed, feeling certain that a female would continue to ride an injured animal until the injury was past fixing. Because of that cynical view, he was unprepared for her halt and overshot his quarry. By the time he got his steed under control and turned round, she was sitting on the ground, staring at something in her hand. He dismounted and quietly moved to where she sat by Elfking, who appeared to be suffering only a tender hoof.
“A pebble,” she remarked dejectedly. “I would have made it save for this.”
“Aye, I think ye might have.” He signaled the newly-arrived men to keep her from Elfking.
“’Tis all your fault,” she snapped as she surged to her feet and flung the pebble at him.
Flinching as it struck his cheek, he growled, “What in the Devil’s name are ye on about? I had naught to do with this.”
In too high a temper to care who she was yelling at, Aimil gladly replied. “Men,” she said in a voice heavy with disgust. “Aye, and ye most of all. I could have stayed with Leith if it werenae for men, animals that ye are. Aye, ye and your damnable appetites. That is why I had to climb down the keep wall and near crippled Elfking.”
“My appetites?” Parlan asked, laughing, his gaze flicking from her face to her finger prodding his chest to punctuate her remarks.
The way she stood berating him amused him as well as stirred his admiration. He could snap her slim lovely neck with one good blow yet she faced him squarely. Her delicate face, with its wide, slightly-tilted,