She lifted her hand to cheek. “I see the man I love,” she said simply.
“Your father could hang me, Glenna.”
She grew serious and stared at him, clearly thinking. “I will not let them hang you. I am the daughter of a king.”
“You are a woman, whose power is, in truth, only that which your father allows you, your father and the man you will wed.”
“I want no other man,” she said stubbornly. “I am yours. I give myself to you, Lyall Robertson…only you.”
But her words, the gift of herself, the truth she spoke, her devotion, her troth, all of it broke his heart because he could not have her. Still…he was a weak, weak man, who had no strength to fight the bond between them—he wanted her with a fever as hot and scorching as the fires of Hell--and he could do nothing but pull her into his arms and try to find the strength to let her go.
She lay her head down and he stroked her wet hair, tangled and spilling down over his ribs. He closed his eyes.
“I hear that sound,” she said. “Your heart beats here.” She placed her hand on his chest. ‘Tis mine, this heart of yours that beats so,” she said softly. “Say the words to me. Say them and then take me. We will be wed and there will be nothing anyone can do.”
To say the words would be fatal, for her more than him. Hewanted her. He would wed her without a hesitation were she anyone but the king’s daughter, his first born daughter at that.
He could promise me to anyone. Did you know the Germans bury their wives alive?
He closed his eyes, searching for the will to do what was right. Her mouth moved close to his but he stopped her, a finger to her soft lips, and he started to say nay, we cannot do this, but he whispered the words that would bond him to her, “I give myself to you, Glenna Canmore.”
She smiled slightly, and her turned-up mouth, so full and moist, found his, and he rolled over in the grass with her, covered her body with his own and gave in to the sweet, impossible fantasy that she could truly be his.
Ramsey rodeinto the small clearing, some of his men in his wake, and he took one look at the couple rolling in the grass, a tangle of legs, a tanned hand on a pale white breast, the long waves of shiny black Canmore hair next to a head of golden hair exactly like that of his old friend, and he bellowed Lyall’s name like the most foul, most blasphemous of curses.
The two broke apart as if touched by fire, showing flashes of skin and wet, twisted garments that were difficult to pull into place. But his stepson helped to right her clothing—had he only shown such gallantry before he ravished her on the grass--and then took to straightening what little he wore, unable to hide his erection in his wet, sodden hose. Her mouth was swollen and pink, her cheeks rubbed red from Lyall’s beard, and her face was that a woman flushed with passion, damp and loose and ready to swive.
He recovered himself quickly and ordered his men to stand away and waited until they left the clearing. He spurred his horse forward until he was close enough to see the sweat beading on his stepson’s brow. “In the name of Heaven are you daft? Rollingaround on the ground like some lackwit itching to plough the milkmaid?” He lowered his voice and his hand went to his sword hilt instinctively. “She is the king’s daughter you witless fool! I swear by all that is holy and right, at this very moment I could easily beat you boneless.”
Ramsey stared hard at Lyall, then at Glenna. Neither of them appeared to be the least repentant, humiliated, even mildly contrite, and as he continued to look at them, he thought the top of his head was going to blow off. “You have nothing to say?”
Lyall placed his hands on her shoulders. “Glenna, this is Donnald Ramsey, Baron Montrose, and my stepfather.”
Her dark eyes bright and quick, Glenna Canmore assessed him with one solid, slightly familiar royal look. “My lord.”
Lyall leaned down and whispered something in her ear. When he straightened again, Ramsey saw that his hands still rested there.
She looked up at Lyall over her shoulder, her expression saying clearly that whatever he had said was asinine. “I do not care. I will not deny you your place in my life.” She looked Ramsey in the eye, her expression the image of her father, and said without fear or any emotion other than absolute conviction, “It is done. Lyall is my husband. We have promised to each other.”
Ramsey pinned his stepson with a look he hoped struck hard. “Is this true?”
“Aye.”
“Speaking in the present tense?” Ramsey shot back pointedly, aware a handfast had two binding conditions, vows spoken in the present tense and consummation.
Lyall gave a sharp nod.
“Such a marriage is not binding unless consummated.”
Glenna immediately looked up at Lyall, and he frowned and shook his head slightly to warn her, but when she faced Ramsey, she did so without any fear and with conviction. “We became man and wife in the forest of Dunkeldon, by the River Tay.”
Lyall stared at some distant spot over Ramsey’s shoulder, his brow furrowed slightly, but said nothing.
She pulled a small purse from her trouse and spilled a large, impressive pearl into her palm. “He gave me this. A bride gift for my innocence, which I gave to him gladly, my lord.”
Racing like Greek fire through Ramsey’s head were the eventual reactions to this news from Sutherland and Douglas and worse, the king, Himself. Completely disarmed, Ramsey understood he had failed his duty in an insurmountable way. Not only had he allowed Glenna to be captured, handed over to the enemy, locked in a tower, but wed by custom, rather than ceremony to his own stepson, certainly not the king’s choice of husband for his eldest daughter.
Perhaps with enough silver the validity of the marriage could be put to test, particularly with no witnesses. “We will see what can be done with this union after the king’s councils hear of it. Witnesses,” he said pointedly, “are of great importance at a royal ceremony.”
