What a fool she was… She had been frightened her father would lock her away or send her into exile? She was the daughter of the king…a pawn for men to use. Surely her father would marry her off to someone. When he saw she was nothing remotely royal, a worthless daughter, he would get rid of her quickly.
But a king would use the match to his best advantage…country and politics had to come first. Just the fact that she was raised in secret was proof enough of her value.
Oh God…she hung her head in her hands and for a moment, she wanted to heave over the side. Were she weak and a coward, she would have flung herself overboard. All the possibilities of her plight raced through her mind. She could be given--would be given--to some man as a prize, a reward for duty or a task well done. Her father could easily give her away in marriage to one of his enemies as a peace offering.
What else was her worth to him? She was little more than a roasted boar on a serving platter with an apple in her mouth. Here, take my daughter.
She could and probably would be sent far, far away, to the places she only heard of through Alastair’s storytelling. To England? To Normandy? Germany? She shuddered. Did not the Germans bury their women alive as punishment?
“You… Lad.”
Her father could send her off to the burning hot deserts of the east, where a husband had the right and duty to chop off his disobedient woman’s head with a scimitar.
“Lad!”
The Norse! Visions filled her head…of men clad from head to toe in thick wolf fur and rough hides, who tied their women to their waists with ropes and dragged them to huts where they forced them into servitude as cooks and bed slaves.
She looked up, feeling terribly despondent.
“Lad!” Montrose shouted.
She faced him.
He was striding toward her, his hands in fists, his long legs eating up the distance between them. Some things did not change. She sighed with a bout of hopelessness. He was her own personal guard, sent by her father, and unbeknownst to all but her, he was leading her to a future she could not chance.
“Are you bloody deaf?” Montrose towered over her, huge fists on his hips. “Lad.”
Oh, I forgot. I’m lad.
A heaviness that was almost too overwhelming swept over her. She could barely face what she believed lay ahead for her. She faced him instead, aware she'd like to forget she was the daughter of a king.
* * *
The Marram wharf at mid-morning was busy. They had come into port later than planned, having to travel northward along the coast after the storm blew the ship far south. Then they were forced to wait for a merchant cog to cast off from the end dock, many of them having sought safe moorage with the storm.
Lyall eased his temperamental mount down the gangplank, his hands firm on the lead, following Glenna and her horse and hound, both of whom happily trotted down from the ship in the blink of an eye. They waited on the edge of the wharf for him to conquer his horse, which was still riled and skittish from the storm. The truth was that for all the black’s spirit, he was never good at crossings, rivers or seas. Standing and waiting below were Glenna and her hound.
Soon, no longer than it took their horses’ hooves to cross the wharf boards, new clouds had begun to form high in the distant sky. Lyall wondered if they were an omen of more rain to come—or recompense for the deviled madness of his actions. He looked away and cursed. Now they would have to ride all that much harder and faster, and if another storm was coming, he would be hard-pressed to arrive as planned.
But as they wound their way on horseback, the crowd grew thicker on the narrow stone road by the wharves. Poor luck would have it that two ships besides theirs, along with several small local fishing boats, had come to dock that morning, so the town was bustling even before the drifts of morning fog had burned off.
A large English trade ship had anchored in the inlet, unable to unload yesterday, was now unloading supplies, and the hawkers’ carts were set up by the docks. Blocking Lyall’s immediate path was a cheese cart tilted sideways and filled to the brim with English cheese; its owner rushed to examine the damaged wheel, so they had little choice but to draw in their mounts and wait for the lumbering dray to turn. Nearby, fishwives sold savory smoked fish hung over their peat fires and fishmongers loaded their carts with ling and herring, haddock and cod from the small fishing boats offloading their morning catches.
Soon the hawking was loud and growing frantic. Lines formed around all the bright stalls fronted by servants from the local manors, who arrived with fat leather purses to pick the best catch for their lords’ supper tables. His empty belly growled like a lion, and he knew Glenna must be even more hungry after puking for most the day before, so he dismounted and bought supplies, some smoked fish and fresh dark bread, turnips, apples and cheese along with a flagon of pressed cider.
He handed Glenna some smoked herring. “Here. Eat something.” He drank deeply then gave her the cider.
She merely stared at his outstretched hand. From the look on her face, it was apparent her foul mood had not changed since the moment she woke.
“Why, my lord,” she said, sarcastically.”How perfectly kind of you to ask so sweetly if I would care to break my fast.”
He bit back the inklings of a smile. He supposed she had a point. “Take the food, lad.” His voice was kinder.
She rolled her eyes and grabbed the smoked fish and cider.
After purring like a kitten against his side until the early hours of the morning, she had awakened in the hold with an attitude seemingly determined to give him trouble. Her seat in the saddle was spine-stiff, shoulders squared and back, her face shaded from her hat, pulled low now, like it could hide that Canmore pride he’d seen more than once. She looked exactly like what she was: the offspring of a king, even turned away from him as she was now. He imagined that were she not as starved as she was, she might have refused the food and called him something else altogether. Turnipbrain or clodpole or some other such female foolishness. Mairi must have called him every name imaginable over the years.
He tore off a piece of fish, and so they were both eating and going nowhere.
The longer they were at a standstill, the more the risk. They needed to ride, and ride soon and quickly.
They waited for the blasted cart, but the longer they were stuck there, the more likely someone might recognize him. On horseback, he was head and shoulders above much of the crowd. To hide in Marram, where some of the nearby nobles knew him was worrisome and one of the major reasons he traveled alone.
Had he sailed with Glenna in the evening as planned, they would have arrived in the evening, Mornings at the docks were hectic and crowded, and there was a stronger chance for him to be seen.
Time moved as if caught in mud. The sun was higher and the approaching clouds began to fill the western skies, then to add coal to the fire, the cursed hound began to frolic, barking and running in circles around Glenna, restless after being stowed below for too long. Again Lyall was forced to calm his horse. To Glenna he said harshly, “Control that hellhound of yours!”
“Fergus!” She tossed some fish at the dog and it sat on his large haunches chomping with its big mouth and looking happy as a lark…unlike its owner, who glanced pointedly back at him, giving him a look that said she wanted the earth to open up and swallow him. She was like a flea in his hose. If her intent was to annoy him, it was working.
Women were his curse and his salvation. They were single beings with the most power over him and his conscience, and they were those who loved him most and who he had no choice but to disappoint.
He thought of Isobel, the beautiful and innocent daughter of Teàrlach de Hay, one of the most powerful and cunning men in the land. He had known he was walking into a snake pit, tying himself by marriage to the de Hay family, but in his rush to have all he desired, he gave little thought to his bride before they wed. Guilt washed over him, followed by a horrific image from the past. Marrying him had driven th
e fragile Isobel de Hay to her death.
His conscience spoke to him as clearly as if it actually had a voice. The idea that he was repeating his mistakes gnawed at him. Prior to his mission, he had not given much thought to Glenna, other than who she was: the king’s secret daughter—more valuable than gold and his only means to Dunkeldon lands. He had valued her the same way he had valued Isobel.
He studied her for a moment, looking for frailty and seeing none. She was a thief, he had to remember that, and must have been trained to hide, sneak, and cover up any fears. Chances were high innate bravery and spirit were not what he saw in her, but instead schemes and deceit, as refined and honed as those who plotted treasons, kidnappings, and other betrayals.
Many men claimed women could be more deadly than any enemy, although the women in his life had great faith and belief and honest loyalty. He thought then of Mairi and what his sister would think of what he was doing.
He could feel his skin flush. She would chew his ears off, as would his mother. He looked back at Glenna, taking in her features, her stature. If she and Mairi were to have stood side by side, it would be like looking at a moonless night and a sunny day—both impenetrably strong.
She was an interesting mix—thief and royal daughter—no meek woman, simpering and wringing her hands and crying at the slightest dark look. Isobel.... He doubted Glenna Canmore would jump from a tower. More likely that she would man it.
A loud and piercing crack made him turn back to the wharf. Shouts and curses came from the cart seller, now stuck with a broken axle. The cheese cart upended and huge cheese wheels were spilling everywhere, some rolling down the small planked street and others headed for the water.
People were rushing after them, and the chaos was more than Lyall had patience for. He started to dismount and take over, but then there came the loud blast of a trumpet, heralding to all the imminent arrival of a nobleman with his troops. His gaze shot toward the southern end of the road.
In the distance, he saw the dust cloud of approaching horses, men-at-arms-- and then to his dismay, he caught the flicker of a pennant. Swearing, he moved swiftly to hide his shield and turned his horse, sidling up to Glenna. “Turn around. We will go north and around all this madness. Come. Quickly.”
Lyall all but trampled his way to the northern edges of Marram, earning shaking fists and curses from bold villagers and wharvesmen who gave not a fig for the powerful sword at his side.
When they were safely away from the edges of town and well out of sight of the wharves, he reined in, his mount side-stepping, uneasy and nervous and his own heart pounding like hoofbeats in his chest. His nerves were raw.
Ahead lay fields turned fallow after a recent harvest, then hill after rolling hill, some spotted with deep green copses of ancient oaks and rowan, and lacy birch just beginning to turn golden. Yet each hillock was a little higher than the last and led up to rings of surrounding jagged toothed fir forests to the north, from the middle of which stood a huge and majestic crag, bare and gray and looking like a wise old man’s head. It dominated the northern horizon.
The safest and most obscure route was to the southeast, where all that stood before them were rolling green hills for as many leagues and as far as the eye could see…and the storm clouds, gaining size and heavy gray color and beginning to fill the southern skies with the promise of rain.
He nodded at her hound. “Can your dog keep up? The horses are biting at the bit for a good run.”
“Perhaps, my lord, we should put your question to the test,” Glenna said and kicked her horse forward, across the low rolling hills, her dog loping at her side and her sudden laughter carrying back to him on the brisk and waxing wind.
9
Glenna rode as swiftly as the fast approaching storm, across the wide expanse of rolling hills and staying a good five horse lengths ahead of him. ‘Twas a gift to her, this race he had foolishly dared to start. She almost laughed at the irony--a test to see if he could catch her, if he and his black were faster than she and Skye, and whether Fergus could stay with her as long as Montrose and his horse could.
In other words: could she outride him? Could she escape now? If not now, then this was her mock escape. Surely she had run plenty of times before, Fergus at her side--any thief had close moments-- although she was usually far away before anyone was the wiser…unless she was foolish enough to be stealing a spice wife’s gown or take the horse right out from under a man. She had only done that once before Montrose, a serendipitous encounter with some earl’s son who was so blindingly drunk it was barely horse-thievery at all.
Never had she been chased by anyone on a horse as strong and powerful as Montrose's. She leaned low and cast a quick glance over her shoulder.
He and the black were still well behind her.
Good. She kicked Skye, upping the speed, but then had to slow to jump a brook, landing easily on the other side, Fergus romping happily through the water behind her.
Her dog loved to run. She had almost laughed in Montrose’s face when he asked if Fergus could keep up. Fergus could keep up, but she knew not for how long he could keep such a pace.
Dark clouds roiled in from the south, and the taste of rain was in the air. Ahead of her, she spotted a bird of prey—a hawk?—like a crucifix, wheeling in the sky, again and again, circling over its poor carrion. As she came closer, she saw it was not a hawk, but a golden eagle.
One quick glance back told her Montrose was hard on her tail. The wind whipped her hat back and then some of her hair flew from its braid. Perhaps the winds had brought her fortune and this was the moment she could escape.
I want to be free. I must escape. I must.
Escape to where? The silent voice in her head said plainly.
But just as swiftly as the thought had come to her, her mind flashed with the emotion that she cared not where, only that she managed to get far away and save herself. Alone now, only she could change her destiny.
She did not want to be the daughter of a king and did not ask to be. She did not want to be a pawn to be given in marriage to any man. Her choices were slim. She had to get away and hide. And for now, she cared not where that place was, only that she was safe and it was far away, perhaps as far away as England.
Ah! The perfect plan had escaped her! She had missed a perfect opportunity in Marram to stow on board that English ship. When given the choice: marriage-- the choice of even facing her father--or running, she decided she would choose to walk all the way to London.
“Glenna!” His shout pierced the air.
She ignored him, a habit she was quickly honing to a fine art, helped by the fact that she knew Skye had more in her and Fergus was staying true. She used her heels again and Skye went faster, stretched her length in her run, her hooves eating up the ground and the distance. She could hear each whoosh of Skye’s breath and her coat grew damp.
Montrose shouted her name again. His voice was loud, loud enough to call down the heavens, and sounded very angry. The race was his idea. Let him be furious, she thought recklessly.
If he and his mount are tiring, this is my moment.
Fear and some emotion she could not explain drove her on, pushing and pushing, past sanity and reason. Ahead of her was a wide copse of trees, wide enough she could take the chance and ride into them, perhaps losing him. She leaned lower and looked back over her left shoulder again.
Montrose was not behind her. She frowned. What?
To her utter shock, the devil was beside her, passing on her right, their horses almost neck to neck. The look in his eyes reflected the skies overhead when he leaned toward her then, another surprise, and before she could think what he was about, his arm snaked around her waist and he plucked her from the saddle as if she weighed no more than a sparrow, pulling her to him, pinned against his hard body, her buttocks planted sweetly between his powerful thighs.
Then he did not slow the horse, but rode even harder, as if anger drove him and his horse to push the limits of sani
ty. ‘Twas madness, this. The speed of his horse seemed to grow faster, faster and felt harder than she had ever ridden in her life. The thundering of the black’s most powerful hooves against the ground, pounding and pounding, and Montrose’s hard, tense body against hers, and she who could do naught but cling to him or fall to a sure death. The ground passed by so swiftly it was a blur, like looking through fog. Fear gave her no choice but to wrap her arms around his neck and hang on for her very life, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears that she was certain she could not even hear him shout at her, exertion making his breath come hard and strong, like wind against her face, his spicy scent tinged with seasalt and smoke filling her nose and mouth with each panicked breath of air she took.
Truly frightened, she wanted to scream at him to slow down, to stop now. But her pride and fear stole her voice from her.
He finally began to slow the horse. She felt the tensing of his thighs and the black’s well trained reaction. His arm tightened around her. “What the hell were you doing?”
Running away.
The horse slowed down to a trot. She had failed.
“That was foolish thing to do. Your antics made us ride the horses into the ground.”
“You wanted a race,” she said, but her voice sounded breathless and strange and more vulnerable than she cared to ever be with a man like him. Between them was only a startling and frightening moment, with his body so close to hers, his scent raw and the dampness in the air and on their bodies, the musk scent of his horse’s sweat, his hot breath in her ear. She could feel the tensing of the muscles in his arm and knew he was strong enough to break her.
His face was but a hand’s breadth away from her own. She looked up from his cruel mouth, from the thin line of his lips showing starkly from the dark beginnings of his beard, and into his eyes.
What she saw there made her heart race. Desire was not the reaction she wanted…in either of them. With all the arrogance and haughtiness she could muster, she added, “I merely gave you what you wanted.”
My Something Wonderful (Book One, The Sisters of Scotland) Page 12