by Jill Barnett
Was it really him? She sagged forward as if her bones disappeared and clung to the tree branch.
“How long are you planning to stay up there?”
“Montrose! It is you!”
His voice had come from the back side of the tree. “Montrose!” she called his name as she scrambled from the branches, sliding down the tree trunk before she hobbled to him. Nothing could have stopped her as she threw her arms around him. “You are here… Montrose, Montrose, you are here…”
He pulled her up against him. “Ouch!” He stepped back quickly, rubbing his chest. “What is that?”
Glenna pulled the silver, jewel-encrusted chalice from beneath her tunic and held it up. “A gift from Munro.”
Lyall took the cup, frowning at it as he twirled it in his hands, then held it up. “Look there. Is that hair?”
Strands of coarse brown hair were caught in the large rubies on one side. “Most likely. Before I escaped, Munro’s head came in hard contact with it.”
He smiled slightly and handed her back the chalice, one arm still protectively around her. Looking down at her, his expression became almost unreadable. He seemed to be searching her face for something important and he raised his hand tenderly to her cheek, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “I want to beat you senseless for running away.” His expression and tone belied his words, spoken tenderly and without anger.
“Nay…you do not,” she said spritely, overcome by a sense of joy she did not want to over think. The look they exchanged then was powerful and made the racing in her heart earlier seem like nothing. Why, why him? Why did her mind go weak whenever he looked at her…whenever she thought of him….whenever he stood so close that goosebumps broke out on her skin that had nothing to do with the weather? Her hand went to her belly because it did some kind of somersault. She understood then, what she was feeling, and curiously, she did not try to pretend or tell herself she did not love him. How could she deny what her heart held so deep within it?
He moved first; his hand slid to the back of her neck and she was back in his arms, where she wanted to be. For just a sweet moment she was overcome by a powerful sense that she was truly safe. She closed her eyes and just let him hold her. He was warm and his body muscled and solid as the protection of a stone curtain wall. She took a deep breath and smelled leather and horse and pine. Montrose was here. She relaxed for the first time. His hand rubbed her back and he did not move; he did not step away. He just held her. The only thing better would have been if he kissed her.
She lifted her face upward.
Kiss me… Kiss me…
Mentally she tried to will the idea into his head.
But he merely held her. Then his hand left her back, stopped rubbing it.
He pulled some leaves from her hair and softly brushed at the hair at her brow. “You’ve lost your hat,” he said gruffly.
“Because of Munro. I had to let down my hair to save myself from his lust.”
His eyes narrowed and his expression grew harsh and black. “What did he do to you?”
“Surely not what you are thinking. He was much more interested in doing something other than hanging me when he thought I was a lad. Women hold no interest for him, other than to torture. He is so evil--the man who beat Ruari till he was almost dead. Did you know that?”
He shook his head.
“Munro would strangle cats, probably pull the wings off of butterflies, and beat children. He locked me in a dirt pit with an adder!”
“Aye,” he said, tightening his arm around her. “I saw the snake.”
She pulled back. “You were inside the manor?”
“It matters not.” His arms fell away from her and he was all business. He glanced around the woods cautiously. “We need to leave here.” And he started to turn away.
She grabbed his arm. “First we must go to Fergus. They shot him with an arrow, and they took me away from him and left him to die. We were hiding in a shepherd’s hut high in the forest. There.” Her voice grew higher pitched and faster as she spoke and she pointed toward the ridge and said in another rush of words, “Skye is there, too. She was tied to a tree in the woods behind the hut. We must go. I must go.”
“Calm yourself. We will go to the shed.”
Why had she thought he would argue with her? He did care…
“But come now,” he said. “We need to move swiftly.” He took her hand and strode toward the denser woods and she had trouble keeping up with him. He stopped turned back and caught her hobble. He looked at her foot. “What is wrong?”
“I fell. ‘Tis nothing.”
The next thing she knew she was up into his arms as if she were merely a bag of goose down. She didn’t protest, but slipped her arms around his neck and leaned her head on his shoulder until they reached the black and she asked for water and drank from the skin he had until she thought her belly would burst.
He took the empty skin. “There is water all through these woods. You did not know? You could not stop?”
“I dared not. And Fergus and Skye must need water as much as I do. If they go without, I can go without.”
“You would do them and yourself little good if you wither and drop to the ground from thirst,” he said, shaking his head in that way men had when they were exasperated with a woman and he set her on his horse and mounted, settling into the saddle.
She slipped her arms around his waist and said cheerily, “I am stronger than you would believe.”
“But more stubborn than I can even imagine."
She smiled. “Aye, we are much alike, I think.”
He laughed.
"You have a new water skin."
"Aye. Someone took mine."
And she leaned her head against his back as he spurred his horse towards the high forest.
With her directions, they reached the stream in the woods behind the shed, where Skye was munching on grass as if she hadn’t been abandoned there overnight and half the day.
Montrose dismounted and handed Glenna the reins of his horse. “You stay here,” he said quietly. “I will go get your hound.”
“But—“
“Someone could be waiting.”
She nodded.
He moved swiftly toward the trees, then stopped and turned back to her. “Do not move. You can take the horses to drink and fill the water skins.”
She nodded, watched him disappear into the trees with his sword raised, aware he gave her something to do to keep her from following him, which she was not planning to do anyway. She went to the stream, filled and rehung the water skins on his saddle and waited long moments as the horses drank noisily. Ears sharp, she listened for the sounds of swords and heard nothing but the watery noise of thirsty horses.
Her mind wandered and played its own game of magic thinking…if this, then that. If Montrose comes back carrying Fergus, he is alive. Please… Please…
She paced in a small circle, placing her foot in the same place where she had just walked—it kept her mind occupied, then she felt Skye nudge her and turned to stroke her muzzle. “I am sorry you were alone, sweet. I am sorry, so very sorry. Skye...Fergus has to be alive.”
A crunch of leaves made her spin around, her breath held tightly in her throat.
Montrose appeared out of the trees, sword sheathed, and his arms empty.
Her hand covered her mouth to stifle her cry.
He looked at her with an odd expression. “He is not there.”
20
“I will not leave,” Glenna said, standing inside the cool dark shadows of the shed, toe to toe with Montrose. “Fergus! Fergus! “ she kept calling out, desperate and panicking. Did he crawl away? “He is here somewhere. He has to be here.”
“There is no sign of him, Glenna. No trail. I looked for him. You can see…here. Look about you.”
“You do not believe me. You think I am lying. That he was not here.”
He ran an impatient hand through his hair. “I believe you, but that does not cha
nge the fact that your dog is gone.”
She searched the dark corners of the small shed. “He must have crawled away.”
“There are no prints in the dirt.”
“But there was blood on the ground. By the fire last night. He was bleeding. It was there.” She moved to where a small stone ring held blackened fragments of burnt wood and ashes, and she went down on her knees. “It must be here.”
But there was no sign Fergus had ever been there. There was no sign of the blood she had seen. She stood, looking at the spot where he had lain, frowning. “There are no footmarks of mine…or of Munro and his men.”
“Which is why we are leaving.” He grabbed her hand. “Come. We cannot stay here.”
She pulled her hand from his. “I will not abandon him again.”
“You are not abandoning him. He is not here.”
“I will not leave without Fergus!”
He took her by the shoulders, clearly angry. “Do you wish to come face to face with that snake again?”
Silent, she crossed her arms and stuck out her chin.”I believe I am looking at him now.”
He swore, quickly picked her up, and threw her over his shoulder, in spite of her threats and shrieks, then strode outside and towards the stream.
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 are leaving.” 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, he had 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.”
She raised her chin and scowled at him.
He scowled back. “Your dog is gone,” he said sharply, almost shouting before he turned around and rode harder than before.
“Fergus!” she called out, urging Skye forward. “He is not Dog!” She would keep up with him if it killed her. He could not ever accuse her of holding them back. And she raised her voice as loud as she could and shouted, “His name is Fergus!”
Her words echoed back, sounding hollow and distant and dying.
Night was chasing them, turning the skies a deep purple as the stars began to shine in the clear sky, and the moon rose huge and bright from the east. They dodged hart and hare that came out in the dusk and soon they neared a wide rushing river. When he finally reined in, they had ridden inside yet another forest flanking the river and to a small spot where darkness was beginning to fall through the leaves. There had not been another civil word between them, and she was fine with the heavy silence. She would be fine if the oaf never spoke to her again. At least that was what she told herself.
The night was calm and the air still; it tasted clean, of pine and moss and rushing water. The trees were tall and she spotted flat rock ledges between the openings in the trees. He reined in when they came to a glade, where moonlight lit the grasses on the ground and the sound of the river was loud. She could see its lush and rocky banks were barely a fathom away.
He dismounted and began to remove his satchel and bags so she swung down from the saddle as if her legs were not jelly and her body not numb. She was determined he would not see any weakness from her. No more tears.
Montrose turned and casually tossed the water skins at her feet.
She stared at them. Surely he did not just throw them at her? She opened her mouth intending to voice a series of cutting words for him, but she snapped it close. She would bite his head off and what good would that do? And she was weary of arguing, weary of crying, weary of the loud, shrewish voice that sounded as if it belonged to someone else—someone she didn’t know and someone unlikable--and she was weary of hiding her tiredness and feelings…she was just plain weary.
“You can fill those skins at the river,” he said matter-of-factly and without a single glance in her direction.
Over the river, the moon shone as bright as a lantern, the water gleaming silver and rippling with a swift current flowing away and down a slight rise to rush over rocks and grow wider before it disappeared into the dark, sawtooth outline of tall trees. It was the kind of river filled wit
h fish and ran clear and down in falls from the high granite cliffs. That he had happened to stop here was sheer blind luck, she told herself.
“The water is easier to reach down the lower bank, over there by the big tree.”
What was it about men that made them think they knew the lay of every thin plot of land, even a strange river bank in unfamiliar woods?
Once, when Alastair had sold three prime horses to the son of a Norse earl with holdings in the northern borders, she had spent a miserable half a day in the pouring rain and hail following Elgin in circles because he said he knew where he was going. Had she not found a road and stopped a passing carter to ask the way of things, they might still, two years later, be riding in useless, cold and muddy circles.
Ignoring Montrose, she silently tossed her saddle bag and blanket on the grassy ground, then removed her woolen cloak and made absolutely no attempt to bend down and pick up the skins.
Throw water skins at me and blurt out commands as if I am his lackey.
When she turned, she found him looking pointedly at the skins and back to her. She gave him what she felt was a scathing look of disdain.
She did not like the smile that teased his mouth; it showed a dimple in his right cheek. She did not believe ogres had dimples when they smiled.
He was shaking his head. “You might not feel or think of yourself as being born of royal blood, Glenna, but that look down you just gave me, down your noble little nose, is more proof than any decree or document or witness. Trust me, you are your father’s daughter.”
She did not know whether she should feel happy or angry, so she kicked one of the skins with the toe of her boot.
“Do not take your foolish anger out---“
But before he could finish reprimanding her, she kicked the skin up in the air like the finest of jugglers—she’d learned the trick from one--caught it, then turned her back and with her heel kicked the other skin backwards into the air and spun around and caught it, too. Tucking the skins under her arms with a smug smile, she walked past him, her head held regally high.
* * *
