“You pompous, overbearing ass!” she stormed, coming to her feet, her fists clenched. “You will rot in hell first!”
“You are a stubborn wench,” he sneered disdainfully. “But you will find that I can be more so.”
With that he left the room, leaving Brenna so thoroughly maddened that she picked up her full tankard of milk and hurled it at the closed door. Seeing the damage done, she did not stop there. With a destructive glint in her eye, she toppled over the small table; the platter of food crashed to the floor and sent Dog scampering out of her way. Determinedly she went to the bed and tore the covers from it, then moved to Garrick’s coffer. With malicious pleasure, she flung its contents about the room.
So intent was Brenna on her task that she did not hear Garrick return. She was grabbed from behind and thrown on the bed.
“Your tantrums are those of a child, not the woman I know you to be!” he stormed, and followed her onto the bed.
When Brenna turned to face him he was on his knees, with one hand raised to strike her. She stared at that fist without flinching, daring him to do his worst. But Garrick hesitated a moment too long and the impulse passed. He lowered his arm with a curse and left the bed, then looked down on her with heartless fury.
“You have set your own task, wench. You will put this room to rights before eventide, or you will go hungry to bed this night. And if you have it in mind that one meal will not matter, then think again, for you will be denied sustenance until the task is done.” And with that he left the room, slamming the door behind him.
“What shall I do, then, Dog?” Brenna asked softly as if the powerful animal would have a solution to her problem.
“Shall I starve myself for spite? ’Tis not to my liking, but ’twould show that domineering jackal he cannot order me about. Damn him!” she cried. “Why does he do this to me? He would break my pride and grind it in the dirt!”
Everything was going so well before this, she thought. And now he would starve me. Aye, he has said the words and so cannot relent. ’Tis I who will have to concede this time.
Garrick topped a small hill and rested the stallion there. He dismounted and ran his hands through his tousled hair. His shoulders erect, he gazed up at the northern lights shining in the otherwise black sky, those mystical colors that cast a strange light on the land.
He had ridden hard for most of the day, at times not even aware of where he was, giving the great stallion his head to take him where he would. Still Garrick had not resolved the turmoil of his thoughts, and they had weighed heavily on him ever since he left the haughty Brenna. Her fate, the one he had set, hung like a dark cloud over his head.
He cursed himself a hundred times for the words he had spoken in anger, the words that might very well end the girl’s life. Could she really be that stubborn? And over such a trivial matter? He should have followed his first impulse, which was to beat her. But he had been appalled at the thought of striking her lovely face. If he returned to his room and found it still in shambles, what then? If he backed down this time, he would never be able to handle the girl. If neither of them gave in, the girl would die…If only he knew more of her character, then perhaps he could predict how she would react. But who was there to enlighten him?
“Imbecile!” he said aloud. “There is such a one who can shed some light on the stubborn woman I have found myself harnessed to.”
Garrick turned his mount in the direction of his father’s house. After only a short ride, he entered Anselm’s smoky hall and found his father and brother engrossed in a game of dice. His mother was busy sewing.
“Ho! What brings the merchant prince to our humble door this late of a night?” Hugh teased when Garrick joined them. “I would think you would need all your spare time to count the riches you have amassed.”
“Nay, only half of it,” Garrick rejoined, though he was in no mood for this light banter. “I came to have a word with one of the new slaves.”
“Is it only a word you would have?” Hugh asked, then slapped his knee and guffawed at his wit.
“Enough, Hugh,” Anselm said solemnly. His curiosity pricked, he turned to Garrick. “Which one?”
“One of the kin to Brenna,” he answered. “It matters not which one.”
“Oh?”
Garrick grimaced. “Father, I see the question on your face, but do not ask it. ’Tis I who have questions that need answering now.”
“From Brenna’s kin?” Anselm replied, grinning. “You would know more of her, eh?”
“Aye, I would know to what limits her pride would take her,” he admitted.
“You do not make sense, Garrick. Have you problems with the girl?”
“You are a fine one to ask me that—you who praised her spirit,” Garrick retorted. “Did you really think she would adjust to her new life here?”
Anselm sighed. “So the girl does not please you?”
“I have yet to decide if the pleasure she gives me in bed is worth the trouble she gives me out of it.”
“Give her to me,” Hugh broke in. “I would know what to do with the vixen.”
“You would break her spirit as well as her will,” Anselm remarked to his oldest son. “A woman with spirit is worth having, and must be tamed gently, not broken. Ah, Garrick, if that one ever gave you her loyalty, there would be none like it.”
