Highland Captive by Hannah Howell

him.
    “I
cannae carry on like this with my father so close at hand,” she whispered, even
as she was stirred by his gentle rhythm.
    “I
will muffle your cries.” He grinned over her look of outrage then bent his
head, his mouth moving eagerly to her breasts.
    The
tart rejoinder she intended to make never emerged. Her nails dug into his hips
as she tried to urge him on. He soon gave her what she cried for, bringing
their union to a swift yet highly satisfying conclusion.
    She
scowled at his broad back as he rose to dress. He had every right to look the
contented male. She never put up much resistance. In fact, she enjoyed herself
so much that she never felt any inclination to say no. What truly bothered her
was the problem of facing her father without looking like she had done exactly
what she had just finished doing. She was sure she radiated sexual
satisfaction. Something that gave one such pleasure had to leave its mark. She
may have chosen to be where she was, but she did not want her father guessing
that.
    “Out
of the bed, wench. There is your father to face this fine morn.”
    “Nay,
I cannae.” She rolled over and buried her face in a pillow.
    Yanking
the covers off her, he resisted the temptation to show his appreciation of her
lovely back, and gave her a sharp slap on her pretty backside. “Ye can and ye
will. I wish to show him clearly that at least one of his offspring is hale and
hearty.”
    Gathering
the covers around her, she sat up and glared at him. “Ye dinnae understand.”
    “Aye,
I do but ye are wrong, lassie. He willnae guess. He may wonder, but he will
never ken for certain unless ye tell him.”
    His
words still ran through her head after he had left, making it clear that she
had better appear in the hall before too long. If she did not look guilty, she
suspected her father would not be able to tell that she had lost her innocence,
or, worse, had enjoyed losing it. After all, she mused, as she took one last
look at herself in the mirror, there was no evident outward change in her
appearance.
    As
she headed down to the hall, she shook her head. It was foolish to worry. There
was no retrieving what had been lost. In truth, her father took so little
notice of her that she doubted he would notice the change in her even if it was
branded on her forehead.
    When
she heard her father’s deep voice, she edged into the hall, standing by the
door to look at him. A large man, he was nearly as tall as the Black Parlan,
and broad of shoulder. There was white mixed with his thick blond hair but he
was still youthful of figure and face despite his four and forty years. The
signs that life had dealt a little harshly with him were on his face. His
well-cut, handsome features were drawn with lines that nothing could erase, and
a sadness lingered in his blue eyes.
    She
adored her father, and the ache of his rejection never left her. Not only fear
of his discovering she had shared Parlan’s bed had made her want to avoid him.
She avoided him as a matter of course for it hurt too much when he ignored her.
The pain was less if she stayed out of his way. Unfortunately, that was
something she could not explain to Parlan.
    Parlan
watched her as she stared at her father. She reminded him of a starving child
viewing a feast being devoured by others who offered not even the scraps. It
was a situation that escaped his understanding. Too often a parent was burdened
with an unloving child yet this man turned his back on one who adored him.
Parlan grimaced over the twinge of jealousy that assailed him.
    He
watched Lachlan Mengue closely when Aimil approached the table, reluctantly
obeying his signal to join them. When she came into Lachlan’s view, there was
an instant brightening in the man’s blue eyes but it was quickly veiled. A man
did not try to bury his affection for his child unless there was a good reason.
Parlan was determined to discover that reason.
    “Hello,
Father,” Aimil whispered as she sat down next to