The breadth of his shoulders, the thick, lean sinew of his thighs held her captive, led her mind to places where only dreams were made. That he was an impressive man was undeniable, and, were she in the market for one, he might have been a decent choice.
Clinging to him the night before made her feel safe, something she had thought she’d lost. She looked away, disliking the direction of her thoughts. Survival was what she needed to concentrate upon…not standing there ogling him like she would a honeyed comfit. She was wasting time, time she needed to be plotting how to get as far away from the man as possible. She turned swiftly, moving toward the stern, running away from him and her foolhardy thoughts.
However one thought led to another, and a few moments later she was almost brought to her knees by a new revelation. She reached out blindly and sat down hard on a ballast stone, white-knuckled and suddenly feeling pale.
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’mlad.
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 wharfat 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 onher 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.
