She punched him hard in the back with her fist. “Put me down! Oaf!”
“Be quiet, Glenna.”
“I’m glad you did not kiss me,” she mumbled, trying to decide where to hit him where her fist could cause the most pain.
“What did you say?”
“Rot in hell, Montrose.” She hit him hard in the ribs for good measure before he set her down (dropped her really) by the horses. She shoved her hair out of her face and gave him a look that could melt a steel blade. “You have a hard, black stone where your heart should be.”
Silent, he turned his back to her and checked his saddle bags.
She looked from him to the black. “You do not take the time for the mere thought to give your horse a name.” She laughed without humor. “Why would I expect you to care about my dog?”
His hands stopped moving. He stood still as stone.
“You are a heartless man.” Words, bitter and ugly like toads, just spilled from her mouth.
He took a long, deep breath. “Perhaps I am,” he said evenly and adjusted his saddle strap. He did not face her.“But we areleaving.” His voice was gritty. “Mount your horse or I will do it for you.”
“If you ever have children what will you call them? Boy? Girl? What did you call you poor wife? Woman?” Still he was annoyingly silent. “What do you call her now…dead?”
“Enough!” He moved so swiftly she swallowed her words. His sword tip was at her throat. “One more word and I will call you dead.”
“I am not afraid of you.”
He groaned and let the sword tip fall to the ground. “You have no sense.”
“You have no soul.” She began to cry she was so angry and frustrated and hurting…and she was ashamed of the angry words she could not seem to control.
He looked at her, then turned back to his horse and mounted, his back to her as if he could not stand to see her cry. She, a weak and sniveling woman. She wiped her tears, sniffled, and found her pride.
Once in the saddle, she kneed Skye forward, her head high despite what she was feeling, and she stopped beside him. “ ‘Tis so cruel to leave without him,” she said quietly, her voice bitter and accusing. “You do not know what you ask of me.”
He turned in the saddle, his eyes glistening and his jaw so tight it looked carved from granite, and he said, “Ride.”
Tears streamed down her face.She hated feeling helpless and trapped and angrily swiped at her damp face. He would not know she was crying.
Let him ride like the devil himself.
And he did. They rode swiftly once they were over the ridge and down into the open lands to the south, and in silence, headed toward a place only Montrose knew. No matter how many times she had tried to pry their destination from him, hehad denied her, saying only ‘to the south,’ or ‘the east’ or her favorite response, ’You will know when we arrive.’
Alone with her own thoughts, she tried not to think of Fergus, to be brave and say goodbye, because she knew despite how much she wanted the truth to be otherwise, her beloved hound was gone.
But no matter how much she tried to send her mind elsewhere, Fergus’ silly, big-eyed, shaggy face came unbidden before her eyes: him loping beside her as a gangly pup; jumping up onto her cot in the small niche that was her room back at the island; chasing birds through the heather moors, and tragically, running across a grassy field with another bird—a chicken; and lying on his side by the flickering fire, blood dripping on the ground and an arrow sticking out of him.
To her horror a loud sob escaped her lips; it just seemed to spill from her throat.
Montrose cursed loudly and slowed, placing his hand on the cantle as he turned back in the saddle.
By then she had covered her mouth with a hand.
For a long moment he eyed her strangely. She had a hard time holding his gaze when everything inside of her wanted to turn away and sob.
Finally he said in a voice that was not unkind, “I must think of your safety, Glenna. I could not stay there and search.”
She dropped her hand and gripped the reins, rising in the stirrups. “I know that! I am not the village idiot.”
“But you often behave like one.”
