Halfway back to the cottage he pulled her head back and checked the gag. She wiggled and kicked, but was still pinned to his side, and he swatted her for good measure as well as vengeance. But she retaliated by pinching him blue and viciously twisting his skin. “God’s legs, woman,” he muttered and shook off her hand, then he struggled, tossing her this way and that like a sack of turnips until her arms were pinned at her sides and she was tucked safely back under his arm.
The element of surprise was in his favor. He crossed over the rolling hill and was soon outside the cottage, with her still fighting him. In one swift motion he kicked in the cottage door, standing in the open doorway, the woman now clamped to his chest and the hayfork against her pale throat. He was angry as hell and naked as the day he was born—he and his ‘poor wee ballocks.’
“Do not move if you value her life,” he warned the two young men who were frozen in their seats. The dog rose up from the hearth, growling and baring its long teeth. “Hold back the hound.” He pointed the hayfork toward the dog, and the girl cried out behind gag and tried to fight him. He tightened his arm around her.
“Fergus! Down!” One of the men said, and the dog obeyed, but stayed with ears perked and eyes sharp.
“Where is Sir Hume Gordon?”
There was a heartbeat of uncanny silence and the man who had called off the hound darted his gaze to the girl, who was still as a rock.
Lyall waited, before he said in a calm, deadly voice, “You move your hand under the table again and you will be dead and bound for hell before you can think to move again.”
“Our father is dead,” the other one said quickly. “I am Elgin Gordon. He is Alastair, the eldest. You are holding our sister, Glenna.
“I know well who she is. She is the reason I’ve come to the godforsaken ends of the earth. I am Baron Montrose of Rossie, the king’s vassal, here to provide protection and safe passage for her. And she is no more your sister than I am.”
He heard her gasp, but did not look away. The flicker in the elder Gordon’s expression and the slight fall of his shoulders told Lyall all he needed to know. Alastair Gordon knew exactly who she was. “You may cease with your lie,” Lyall told him. “I’ve come by order of the king.”
Glenna was still as a rock.
“What lie? Alastair? Surely Glenna is our sister,” Elgin said, looking back and forth between them.
“Montrose speaks the truth,” Alastair told his brother, then ran a hand through his hair and shook his head dejectedly, looking at Glenna with worry in his eyes. “I beg you let her go, my lord.”
“First, hand me my sword.” Lyall leaned the hayfork against the wall but did not release his hold on it.
Alastair stood and reached for the scabbard.
“Wait!” Elgin grabbed his arm.
“He will not harm her.” Alastair handed Lyall the weapon and turned back to his brother. “God’s eyes, El, give theBaronMontrose his clothes.”
The emphasis Alastair Gordon made on the word baron was obvious to all. Lyall watched Elgin shed the leather jack so quickly it was almost comical.
The younger brother gathered the rest of Lyall's stolen clothing and dropped them at his feet before backing away two steps. “Now you will let her go, my lord,” Elgin said protectively, trying to stand taller. Still, he would only come to Lyall’s shoulder.
Lyall released her and she scrambled away, but did not seek her ‘brothers.’ She backed away from them all, looking unsure and frightened, like a wounded and cornered animal. He chose not to feel anything for her. Any wounds to her mind and heart made by the truth were not his problem. She would have found out she was no Gordon at some point.
He dressed quickly and moved to the table. After a day of walking too many uncomfortable miles across the moors and through the bracken, the sun burning his skin and briars piercing his bare feet, he was in no mood for talk. He was starved, so he downed a half-full mug of ale, refilled it from a ewer, and helped himself to the meat and bread. When his belly was close to full, he turned, watching her as he sopped his last morsel of bread in the ale. She said nothing. Her eyes occasionally followed hismotion, though her expression stayed stubbornly blank. Only once did he see her composure crack--she had angrily pushed her brothers away, then turned her back on them when they tried to talk to her.
Those two nitwits had so brainlessly included her in their thievery band, especially horse-thievery, which was punished by hanging. Would that have not made a great and welcoming tale for all and sundry, particularly for the returning king when he once again set foot on Scots’ soil? ‘Greetings, Sire, your eldest daughter was hanged by the neck for stealing horses, among other things.’
Their plunder was on every thick shelf and cranny in the room, stacks, sacks and large chests, all filled with what could only be the results of their thievery, much of what he could see was organized by type of item: the quivers and arrows in one corner, next to assorted daggers and knives, maces and swords, though none of the weapons as fine as his.
Hanging from the walls were copperware and leather-bound clusters of iron torches and candle holders, door and cabinet hinges, door locks, iron baskets and fire tongs, branding rods, pots and pans and kettle stands. Two long brass horns, a lute, drums, mouth organs and a small harp leaned against wall near the interior doors. Leather goods, shoes and boots, bolts of woolen cloth, bags, satchels and small wooden chests with sturdy locks stood in a precise line on wall shelves, beside a whole row of locked spice boxes that looked as though they were plucked from a village fair display. He had caught the scents of cardamom and nutmeg the moment he‘d first stepped into the room. Beneath those spice tins were salt barrels, sacks of peppercorns, and heavy jugs of vinegar, along with burlap sacks bulging with apples, and turnips, onions and other root vegetables.
The back rooms of the stable had been much the same, with neat rows of saddles and bridles, barrels of oil and bags of feed. As a lad he remembered walking across the castle courtyard to the kitchens, where the cook and the kitchen lackeys had, byorder of his own mother, neatly arranged all the foodstuffs, wines, ale barrels, and salted meats in regimented lines along the shelves and in the cellars. He suspected Glenna with her woman’s mind knew the exact placement of every single stolen item.
He poured another mug of ale and said, “You should pack your belongings, lass. We leave in the morning.”
"Where?"
"The order is from the king."
"What king?" she laughed.
"William of Scotland."
