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 andrunning 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 the 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 beliefand 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 hillafter 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 toslow 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.
