But he was no longer a callow youth whose lust guided his actions, who plunged his sword recklessly into his prey—he had lived that lesson--and his ego was not such that he needed to tick off another conquest. The consequences were too high a price and he had waited a long, long time for Dunkeldon.
The half full wine ewer sat in front of him, and he refilled his cup. His desire and drive to regain what was taken from them was what consumed him--an obsession that was behind every single piece of silver or gold he’d earned, and behind the choices he now made. He drained the goblet and set it down hard on the table, wiping his mouth with his other hand. The girl did not matter. She was merely a means to an end.
“Get up!”
Glenna awoke from the prod of Montrose’s boot tip. Disoriented, she opened her eyes. The wooden wall was just inches away from her nose. She had to turn over to face him and winced.
He stood over her, his face hard and shadowed; he held a bright yellow torchlight that flickered over his taut features.
She threw her arm over her eyes and groaned.
“God’s eyes, woman! Cover yourself!”
What was wrong with him? She kicked and wiggled her gown down over her bare legs. He grunted something and turned away, so she closed her eyes. Just a little more sleep...
“Get. Up,” he said impatiently. “The ship sails with the early tide.” He paused, then bellowed. “Glenna!”
Lord, but the man was loud. She took a long-suffering breath and sat up, shoving the hair out of her face andfrowning up at the intensity she saw in his gaze. “Why are you so angry?”
“ ‘Tis late.”
“But it is still dark.”
“Change back into these.” He tossed her peasant clothes at her. “We have no time for arguments.”
“I was not arguing. I was pointing out a simple fact.”
“We have no time for idle chatter.” He spun around and walked to the door that led to the stables. “Come dog!”
Fergus loped over to his side—the traitor—and a minute later the door closed with a resounding thud. The urge to throw her shoe at it was overwhelming, but she cherished those red shoes and would never risk damaging them. Although… Had he still been standing there barking at her—Montrose not Fergus—she might have risked her shoe for the joy of watching it bounce off his hard head.
She paused and picked up the infant coverlet, touching almost reverently the stitches that formed the intricate designs.Her mother made this for her.She bit her lip against the silly tears she felt rising. She swiftly wrapped it up and tucked it away before Montrose came back in bellowing for her to hurry. She dressed, carefully sliding into her peasant boots--the red shoes had rubbed blisters on her toes-- and she braided her hair, muttering a litany of new names for him, “My lord Judas…” No, that was her dog. “My lord Thickskull. My lord Goathead. My lord Lackwit.” All had a certain satisfying ring to them.
When he came back through the door, Fergus at his side, she was ready to leave and stood there hugging her satchel tightly to her chest, stubbornly determined to remain silent. Apparently he still was angry because he was glaring at everything. He bent down and picked up her hat, shoved it down on her head and said, “Cover your cursed hair.”
Silent, she twisted her braid up under the hat and tied the strings under her chin. Like some lackey she followed him outside, where their mounts were waiting. They led their mountstoward the docks with him lecturing her about acting like a lad—apparently there was time for idle chatter-- before he went moodily quiet. From then on he spoke no more, except to warn her to stay clear of everyone and to keep 'that hat on.'
“According to my brothers, my lord, even a lad is unsafe from some men aboard the ships, so I don’t see why keeping my hat on matters.”
“Just do as I asked,” he said through gritted teeth, tightening his grip on her arm and half dragging her along.
"Odd that I heard no question...only a command."
He said her name as if it were a curse word.
Fine! Do as he arrogantly demanded, she thought miserably and was about to say so until she caught a glimpse of his face. Clearly he wanted to fling her into the sea and be done with her. At the gangplank, he released her and stood stewing as she led Skye up the wooden ramp, then he began barking directions at her and warnings that were completely unnecessary, since Skye moved swiftly and easily onboard. Montrose followed with his horse, which balked and pulled at his bit and gave him some trouble. She smiled, then echoed his warnings, which earned her a cold look that said he had no sense of humor.
On the captain’s orders, poor Fergus was stowed on the dark belly of the mid-deck with the horses and cargo, above the oar deck. After she removed Skye’s saddle and secured her belongings by Montrose’s packs, she paused, then turned toward the ladder, but Fergus gave her that big-eyed lonely look. She started to walk away from him, head high. “Do not look to me for pity, you traitorous hound. Turn your lamenting looks upon your new master, my lord Thickskull, Goathead, Lackwit Montrose.”
Fergus whimpered pitifully.
So Glenna ran back and rubbed Fergus on his big shaggy ears and under his chin. “You are an ungrateful whelp.”
His eyes wide and contrite, he licked her hand lovingly.
“I’ll come back later,” she promised, just as Montrose stuck his head down the hold, a bright lantern hanging from his fist—the man had a penchant for blinding her--and he blustered at her to come up.
“Did you not hear me?” He half-yelled.
