Highland Captive. Hannah Howell

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      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 maids’ faces. Old Meg eyed her narrowly, and Aimil suspected that there was as little chance of fooling the woman as there was Annie. Suddenly, the buxom, pretty maid flounced to the edge of the tub, her hands on her well-rounded hips and her eyes glinting with maliciousness. Aimil wondered idly how many times Parlan had used the maid.

      “Are ye expecting us to believe that ye lay with the Black Parlan and thought on the king?” she sneered.

      “There are one or twa of us that can keep more than one thought in her head at a time.” Aimil smiled sweetly at the woman.

      “Let us get out o’ here, Jeanne,” urged the other maid when Jeanne swelled with fury.

      Old Meg cackled merrily and made no attempt to interfere. She had been Parlan’s nurse and was interested in the girl. Only the finest would do for the man she still called her lad. He could not be happy with any weak-willed girl.

      “Mayhaps ’tis best if ye keep your mind on the king. T’would never do for ye to take a fancy to the Black Parlan. He has no use for some Lowland slut and will send ye off as soon as your cur of a father begs the ransom.”

      Aimil moved so quickly that Jeanne had no chance to avoid retribution. Aimil might have ignored the slur upon herself but she would not allow an insult to her father to go un-reprimanded. Jeanne’s screeches were cut off by the water when Aimil pushed the girl’s head under.

      Parlan stopped abruptly in his advance toward Leith’s chambers when he heard a scream come from his own chambers. It ended quickly, but he still decided it warranted checking. Parlan burst into the room, gaped at the sight of the well-endowed Jeanne bent over the tub, arms and legs flailing, and then hastily yanked her free of Aimil’s hold.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ