“And that is where you are mistaken. ‘Tis not a simple question.”
“To me it is,” she said quietly.
He slowed his mount and looked at her. She tried to hide her hurt by looking down at Fergus, who had wandered toward a large bush. “No!” she snapped her fingers. “Come.”
Montrose said nothing for long moments and she decided it was time to give up.
“Surely you understand you are not supposed to be so cursed pleased about what happened between us.” He sounded disgusted.
“No. I do not. But you can explain why.”
“Why? Why? You keep asking why.”
“And you become angrier. I am thinking I should keep asking until you answer me.”
He turned in the saddle. “It is not my duty to defile the king’s daughter!”
Her spine went rigid. “Oh, I see…” She said bitterly. “ ‘Tis better to keep the daughter pure. Keep the royal virginity unsoiled, so it can be sold to the highest bidder or bartered to the first of my father’s enemies to offer him peace. Me? Unsoiled? “ She laughed without humor. “Why should it matter? I am destined to be a vessel for a man’s use and pleasure. In truth, I am, by birth, naught but a man’s whore.”
“Glenna…” he said with a dark warning.
“What? I am to be married off, sold as the royal prize, and that is supposed to make me happy? Pardon me, my lord, if I do not dance about and shout with glee.”
“You are a woman,” he said so simply. “You will give your husband children, sons and daughters. Is that not a woman’s desire, to be protected and cared for, to bring forth children from her body?”
There it was: a woman’s entire life purpose in a single male thought. She laughed again. “Aye, Montrose,” she said without hiding her contempt for situation. “I long so deeply in my heart to be a brood mare.”
“You want an argument and I will not be lured into a game of words.” He kicked the black faster up the next hill.
“Iwant an argument,” she said indignantly, then glared at his back and followed, wishing she could ride off toward those tall gray crags and off into a world where her surname was not Canmore and there were no men around to pretend to love her, to protect and to guard her, or to use her.
So they did not speak of it again, and between them there was only silence and pouring rain. He rode and rode, onward for more leagues than she had ever ridden in such foul weather. Poor Fergus was drenched, mud on the long shaggy hair of his belly and sucking at his paws. He hung his head down and trudged gamely onward. The rain grew into splattering sheets of water and she was getting colder...she couldn't get any wetter.
Soon riding was difficult: it began to seem as if night would never come, but she followed, silent still, slogging along through rivers of water, soft muck and mud, the weather getting worse as the day grew to a close. When she thought she was going to give in and demand he stop, she looked to Fergus for courage, because her dog stayed the course, one paw in front of the other, not a whimper or a sound.
Rain sluiced off her hat and onto her hands. The reins were wet and she was becoming accustomed to the odor of wet horsehair every time she inhaled. She wondered at the man’s endurance, and questioned her own, and his sanity. She had been wet for over two full days.
How much longer would they go? She watched Fergus stay at her side, plodding through the thickening mud, and finally couldn't let him slog on. "Montrose," she said, intending to rein in and pull the large hound up in front of her.
Montrose stopped. “Beauly Priory is over that hill,” he said.
"I'm taking Fergus up with me."
He looked at her for a long, icy moment, then dismounted and picked up Fergus as if he weighed little and mounted with her wet dog in front of him.
The sky was dark and moonless and she could barely stop from shaking and could not respond her teeth were chattering so. She had almost fallen asleep in the saddle more times than she cared to count. Her hands were so cold she could not feel her fingers.
By the time they finally ‘rounded the last hill, rang for entrance, and rode through the gates of the priory, her head pounded and she could barely see in front of her. Her teeth chattered no matter how hard she locked her jaw together, and she doubted her feet were still at the ends of her legs.
The horses clattered into the stone courtyard, where rivulets of water ran like small rivers down towards the southern walls. The thick oaken doors of the monastery opened almost immediately, sending warm yellow light spilling into thecourtyard. She caught herself in mid-gasp. The light meant warmth.
Two young oblates rushed out to take the horses, followed by an older monk dressed in the black robes of his order and carrying a brightly burning reed torch, the shaven circle of his tonsure shining from the flickering torchlight.
“Hallo!”Montrose said.
“Who is there?”
“Lyall Robertson,” he said. “The Baron Montrose requests shelter for the night!”
