He was a squat, thick man with long and powerful arms, large hands, an expression of evil…and the coldest eyes she had ever encountered. He pressed the sword even deeper.
Unable to stop herself, she sucked in a breath at the pressure of the sword tip.
“Nothing to say? Someone must have cut out your tongue. Hmmm…” He rubbed his bearded chin.
“I can speak.”
“Ah, so you can, lad,” he said pensively, staring at the chicken bones next to the fire and what was left of the few vegetables she had roasted. “Perhaps I will cut out your tongue before I cut off your hand or I could choose to hang you. I have options. However, I have found there is nothing better to dissuade others and save our game from greedy hands than a body hanging off the gates.”
Fergus growled ominously.
Munro pulled back his sword and quickly turned to his men. “Take this thieving fool who sleeps so easily after feasting on my birds. The lad is under arrest.” He sheathed his weapon and turned away to walk from the shed.
Two men jerked her up by her arms, Fergus acted up again, and while one tied her hands behind her back and the other called out to Munro. “What should we do with the hound?”
Glenna didn’t breathe.Do not kill him…please do not.
The sheriff turned and gave Fergus a cursory glance.
Her poor dog lay on his side, the arrow sticking out of him, his black lips curled and his long canine teeth bared at Munro.
“Leave him. He will be fortunate to last another day.”
Glenna exhaled the breath she’d been holding at the same time the truth of his words struck deeply into her heart. She looked at Fergus as the sheriff's henchmen each grabbed an armand dragged her from the shed. Fergus tried to rise again, viciously growling.
“No, Fergus!” she shouted. “Stay! Stay…”
Outside, the fire from the torches lit the small clearing, where their horses were gathered. They had not found her horse. Skye was tied deeper into the south side of the woods, where there was grass and she would not be seen. They stopped next to a large bay and one of the men tossed her up in front of the saddle and mounted behind her, warning, “Do not think ye to escape, lad. ‘Tis a far way down to the ground and Thor’s hooves will crush your bones.”
Glancing towards the shed, she could barely make out the silhouette of her hound lying by the dying fire, then the men all closed in around and with Munro leading, they rode down into the darkness of the trees.
No one spoke as they rode and time passed tree by tree, the only sound that of their horses hooves on the leaves and twigs covering the floor of the forest. The sudden wind had calmed down to a occasional gust high in the treetops. Whenever there was a break in the forest, she could see a few stars hanging high in the sky. The moon was gone, and the path ahead and behind them dark. She was numb with fear, contemplating her fate.
For a fleeting moment she wondered where Montrose was. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine his face, and absorbed deeply all of her regrets.
She didn't know how long it took to reach their destination--back to the manor on the hillside. She was panicked and lost in thought, but it was still dark outside when she caught a glimpse through the open shutters of the setting moon. There was no wind, no rain, just quiet. She stood before the sheriff in a chamber inside the stone and timber manor hung with tapestries. Logs crackled from a blazing fire burning in the huge stone hearth and the flames reflected on the stone floors. Iron lanterns with thick, sweet-smelling candles spread warm amber light down from iron hooks in the walls, and a bowl filled withfruit next to a plank with dark bread and cheese sat waiting on a table next to Munro’s huge carved chair.
He studied her silently over the rim of a large silver wine goblet trimmed with jewels she would have loved to show off to her brothers. She stood quietly still, taking long deep breaths to quell her fears and mask her weaknesses, like her sudden urge to cry at the sweet images of her brothers. Would they hear what happened to her? Would she hang? Or would they wonder about her and think of her living in the king’s castle as his lost daughter, not a thief hung or maimed. She thought of what he had done to poor Ruari.
Munro rose from his chair and slowly walked toward her, sword in his hand and he lifted her tunic with the blade, touched the ties on her trouse with the sword tip. “I wonder how repentant you can be?”
She dared not breathe.
“How much do you wish to live lad?” He touched her face and she wanted to wretch. “No sign yet of a beard,” he laughed.
His pleasure was for young lads. Her mind raced toward a single idea—a great risk but her only chance. She stepped away and shook her head violently, until her hat fell forward and her long braid cascaded down.
She could see his reaction in those icy eyes.
He grabbed the neck of her tunic and ripped it to reveal her breast bindings.
“I am no lad,” she said defiantly.
“I can see that," he paused. "I know you. You're the horsethief."
"I am not."
He waited a heartbeat or two and spun around. “Jock!” he called out to one of his men, who came rushing inside. It was the stocky, red-haired guardsman who had lifted her into the saddle and had been dragging her all about.
