The pearl was the size of Lyall’s fingernail, yet perfect and round, with the same milky sheen of the moon. River pearls came from the mussels that lined the shores of the river. They were small and imperfect, in colors of pink and brown and gray, with knots and marks and sometimes they had large dark holes in them.
He had found river pearls when he was a lad, years back, another lifetime ago, when he was careless and young and free to comb the shores of the river, innocent enough to make wishes on magic trees, to fish and play at war and pretend life was less idyllic than it had been, back when he roamed the wild woods not comprehending the hard truths of life.
But he had never found a pearl like the one he was staring down at. Nestled in soft, tender and pale flesh, surrounded by the pearlescent wall of the shell, the pearl was huge, it was flawless, and it was in the last mussel…the one they argued over….the one he offered her…the one she had insisted he eat.
Glenna stared at it in such shock, almost as if the pearl had spoken. He knew that because of her life as a thief, she understood its value and its rarity. When she finally spoke it was with the reference of a truly larcenous soul. “It is beautiful.”
He glanced down at it, then held out the shell. “Here.”
“I cannot take it.” She looked up at him, clearly stunned, and said quietly, “ ‘Tis yours.”
He shook his head. “What am I to do with a pearl like this? I have jewels,” he lied. His stepfather had jewels. “Take it, Glenna.”
“Nay.”
“If I keep it, you will merely steal it from my bags at some point,” he teased, knowing it was most likely true.
“You do not trust me,” she said, but even she could not pull off that false humility; it just was not the Glenna he knew.
“Nay, I am not a fool.” He laughed. “How much silver have you taken from me?”
“I have not counted,” she said proudly, chin up a bit. However, she had not taken her eyes off the jewel he dangled right in front of her nose. Had wealth a scent, her nose would have twitched.
“If you do not take it,” he said casually. “I suppose I shall be forced to throw it back in the river.”
She looked from him to the pearl and paused—oh, she wanted it—but she stubbornly shook her head. “ ‘Tis yours, Montrose.”
He sighed heavily. “Then as mine, I can do whatever I wish with it.” He started to rise. “Even toss it back where it came from.”
“Nay! Nay!” She scrambled over so swiftly to grab his arm she almost made him light-headed. “Montrose! Do not!”
Moments later she sat across from him, crossed legged, with the pearl cupped tentatively in her hands as if it were more delicate than a robin’s egg, her expression filled with awe and a little touch of avarice that was Glenna.
He wanted to laugh out loud and his first instinct was to swing her up into his arms and kiss her senseless. But he stopped himself and stayed there, savoring what was an odd feeling--agreat and overwhelming sense of gratification at merely watching her.
Not much later, he had second thoughts, after he had banked the small fire and before they had made pallet on the ground or gone to sleep, that she came over, pearl clutched tightly in her fist, and placed her other hand on his chest as she stood up on tiptoe and gave him a tender kiss. “Thank you, Montrose. This is the loveliest gift I have ever been given.”
He called himself a fool as he watched her walk away from him, Glenna Canmore, the king’s daughter, with the chance at a future full of more than pearls, more than jewels, and he turned away from her and all the fine sense of joy left in her wake.
His hands clenching into fists at his sides and his face skyward, he stood there powerless. Everything he saw, even with his eyes closed, was tinged in bitter yellow—something else passed from father to son, he thought as the taste of betrayal swelled in his mouth.
And for a mere moment, he had to fight the sudden urge to hang his head in shame….because of what he was going to do to her.
“What in thename of Heaven and Hell are you doing to me, witch?”
Glenna froze. She was lying on the ground and tucked snugly under her woolen blanket. Yet Montrose was talking? She lay still and stopped breathing, and didn’t dare open her eyes.
Did she actually hear him speak? Or had she imagined it, a dream or wish or mind-trick? Did he believe she was still asleep? Was he even really there? What would she do if she opened her eyes only to stare back into his?
Oh God’s toes! She could not see a thing with her eyes closed!
He began pacing the grass for so long the monotonous soundof his footsteps might have lulled her into a soft sleep if not for the possibility that he had said those words. His voice had just come to her as real as if he were standing over her and talking.
She kept her breathing soft and slow and even. Before long some part of her could feel the heated warmth of his eyes on her. Oh, he was surely standing there. She knew as instinctively as she knew how to lift a purse.
Odd how she always knew the exact moment when he was looking at her, a kind of sixth sense came over her, a feeling of unearthliness, like when bees hovered right in front of one’s eyes or when the birds vanished just before lightening would strike the earth and set it on fire. But the feeling, the sense, happened with him alone, as if they were invisibly chained by their thoughts and minds as well as the wild emotion she was keeping secret deep inside her heart.
He wasn’t pacing any longer. The absolute silence came in the amount of time it took for her heart to beat once, like a moment of emotional clarity, or a snatch of color in the night--something warm and pink, like alpenglow, rare and only there in the last breath before night fell or the first glimpse of dawn.
