charges into obedience. Her laugh had an hysterical note to it, however, so she abruptly stopped.
Clutching Leith whose breathing grew more terrifyingly rasping, she began a slow rocking motion. It was vital that she retain her wits, but she feared that they were beginning to slip. Being held captive in a damp, black hole that was far from fresh of smell was hard to endure. To be kept there to watch her brother slowly die was a torture beyond bearing. At this point, she mused, she would willingly sell her soul to Satan to gain some care for Leith. As she began to pray for the Black Parlan’s return, she wondered if she was doing just that.
Catarine Dunmore stretched very much like a contented cat. It had taken a lot of time and work to get the Black Parlan into her bed but it had been worth it. He made all her other lovers seem like fumbling boys or eunuchs. Watching him as he stood staring out the window, she let her gaze greedily roam over his large, muscular frame. She had him now and he would not slip away. A well-earned confidence in her ability led her to believe that one night in her bed would be enough to secure him.
“Come back to bed, Parlan,” she purred, licking her lips when he turned, giving her a full view of his endowments.
Eyes so dark brown they were nearly black studied the woman on the bed with little expression. Parlan did not like Catarine but could not deny that she had serviced him very well indeed. There was, however, something repulsive about her insatiable appetite. He cared less about the state of her emotions, but he did not particularly care to be seen as little more than a well-proportioned staff that happened to have a man attached. She could no doubt have done as well with some inanimate object shaped appropriately.
Inwardly, he sighed as he moved toward the bed where she wantonly displayed her indisputable charms. They did nothing for him now that his need had been dulled. Noting the anger that settled upon her lovely face as he reached for his clothes, he began to form his farewell. It had to be phrased carefully for she was attached to his family. If he insulted her in any way, her anger would be formidable and he did not want to be troubled with it. Her kin were anxious to get her wed and that made her a little dangerous.
As he pulled on his trunk hose, he watched her sardonically. She would probably accept an offer to leave his pintle behind, he mused bitterly. After her avaricious attentions, the poor abused fellow would likely be useless for a few days anyway. He smiled to himself at the track his thoughts had taken. Parlan knew he could not really complain. He had succumbed to her invitation solely because he wished use of the skill for which she was so well-noted.
Even six months ago he would have climbed back into her bed, ready for more. Lately, however, he suffered from a malaise of dissatisfaction. Once his initial lust was sated he lost interest in the woman. At but eight and twenty he felt sure his virility was not waning. The problem was not how much he wanted but what he wanted. It was plainly not to be found in the arms of Catarine Dunmore.
“Ye cannae mean to leave now. The night is still young.”
“Aye, but the dawn comes early and I begin the long trek back to Dubhglenn then,” he murmured without glancing her way.
“Ye truly are leaving?” It was difficult but she managed to keep from screaming the words in anger and frustration.
“I must. I have been gone near to a month and ’tis folly to leave Artair in charge for so long.” He frowned, caught up in thoughts of all his brother could do wrong in his absence.
“Surely ye need not fear that he would try to usurp your place.”
“Nay, but he plays the role too seriously and with little thought. I have plans afoot and I cannae risk his ruining them.”
She knew better than to ask what those plans were. Sitting up, she adjusted her hair so that it did not hide the full curves she knew were attractive to men. It was ending far too soon. She needed more time to entrap him completely. Her family was urging her to take another husband. Parlan MacGuin would suit her fine. She could not catch him by crying over lost virtue or seduction, for her lack of celibacy since her husband’s untimely death two years ago was far too well known. There were, however, a number of routes to the marriage bed. Yet each one required time. She could not allow this chance to slip away. Unfortunately, it looked very much as if Parlan was going to yank it away.
“Come, Parlan,” she crooned, reaching out to caress his manhood and hiding her anger over his evident disinclination, “what is one more night?”
“Too long,” he replied succinctly as he put on his pourpoint and stepped out of her reach. “All is readied for the journey. I cannae forestall it.”
Gritting her teeth against the curses she wished to hurl at him, she queried, “When do you plan to return this way?”
Parlan wondered if the woman knew how obvious she was in her ploys. “I cannae say. ’Tis a busy time of the year.”
“I must return home soon myself,” she lied smoothly. “Mayhaps I could stop at Dubhglenn on my way.”
“If ye like.” He hoped fervently that she would not as he gave her a light kiss. “Take care, Catarine.”
As soon as he was gone, Catarine gave vent to her fury, demolishing her quarters, then keeping her servants busy most of the night restoring it to order. Parlan would not get away so easily with using her like some tavern wench, she vowed. She would give him time to settle his business then go to stay at his keep. Once there and in his bed, she was certain she would win the game.
Dawn found Parlan on the road and riding hard for Dubhglenn, his keep. Although he partook of the delights of town, he did not like being away from his home. If Artair was older and less rash, he would be sent on some of the necessary trips to town. Unfortunately, Parlan knew Artair would either spend his time soaked in drink and wenching, or make them new enemies they did not need. It saddened him but Artair’s unreliability was why Lagan Dunmore was the man most often at Parlan’s side. He could only hope that during his absence Artair had done nothing too terrible.
When Parlan finally reached Dubhglenn two days later, he knew immediately upon riding into the bailey that something was not right. The people he met greeted him jovially but with a poorly disguised air of relief. There was also that air of someone waiting to speak but not wishing to be the one to carry tales. Parlan was about to demand explanations when he espied the horse.
Speechless with admiration, he did not even inquire about where the animal had come from, but merely spent long moments studying the fine points of the stallion. The animal was at least a hand taller than his own, very impressive mount. The horse’s lines indicated strength as well as speed. The white coat of the beast was startling in its purity. Parlan was ready to test how far the stallion’s tense, aggressive stance could be tried when Malcolm and Lagan returned to Dubhglenn. They wasted no time in moving to speak to Parlan.
“Have ye seen this magnificent animal?” enthused Parlan, slowly becoming aware of the men’s tension.
“Aye, I have seen him.” Malcolm turned to one of the men lurking nearby. “How fare the laddies?”
“Nae too weel. The older one be sickening something fierce and the wee one has condemned the lot of us to seven kinds of hell.”
“And weel we deserve them,” cried Lagan who got no argument. “Has naught been done? Has no one tended to them?”
“Aye, they be fed and watered regular,” protested another man but weakly.
“I gave them extra blankets last eve but I fear the wee one be right when he says they will only be used as a shroud,” added the first man.
“Hold!” The silence that immediately met Parlan’s bellow was a tense one. “What lads?” he snarled.
“Artair raided the Ferguesons,” Lagan explained, knowing that would displease Parlan because it was done without his consent. “As we rode back to Dubhglenn, we chanced upon twa laddies in Mengue colors and seized them.”
“How wee are the laddies?”
“One