Chapter 6 #2
He recognized the danger before him, but knew, too, that if he wanted her, he could have her.
A young man on the tourney circuit learned more than the techniques of war.
Seduction was as much a weapon as his finely- forged sword, and as a careless youth he had used that power merely because he could, or to fill time and satisfy his own curiosity--a desire to learn the extent of man’s power over a woman—how far could he go?
He learned he could go as far as he wanted.
But he was no longer a callow youth whose lust guided his actions, who plunged his sword recklessly into his prey—he had lived that lesson--and his ego was not such that he needed to tick off another conquest. The consequences were too high a price and he had waited a long, long time for Dunkeldon.
The half full wine ewer sat in front of him, and he refilled his cup.
His desire and drive to regain what was taken from them was what consumed him--an obsession that was behind every single piece of silver or gold he’d earned, and behind the choices he now made.
He drained the goblet and set it down hard on the table, wiping his mouth with his other hand.
The girl did not matter. She was merely a means to an end.
“Get up!”
Glenna awoke from the prod of Montrose’s boot tip. Disoriented, she opened her eyes. The wooden wall was just inches away from her nose. She had to turn over to face him and winced.
He stood over her, his face hard and shadowed; he held a bright yellow torchlight that flickered over his taut features.
She threw her arm over her eyes and groaned.
“God’s eyes, woman! Cover yourself!”
What was wrong with him? She kicked and wiggled her gown down over her bare legs. He grunted something and turned away, so she closed her eyes. Just a little more sleep...
“Get. Up,” he said impatiently. “The ship sails with the early tide.” He paused, then bellowed. “Glenna!”
Lord, but the man was loud. She took a long-suffering breath and sat up, shoving the hair out of her face and frowning up at the intensity she saw in his gaze. “Why are you so angry?”
“ ‘Tis late.”
“But it is still dark.”
“Change back into these.” He tossed her peasant clothes at her. “We have no time for arguments.”
“I was not arguing. I was pointing out a simple fact.”
“We have no time for idle chatter.” He spun around and walked to the door that led to the stables. “Come dog!”
Fergus loped over to his side—the traitor—and a minute later the door closed with a resounding thud.
The urge to throw her shoe at it was overwhelming, but she cherished those red shoes and would never risk damaging them.
Although… Had he still been standing there barking at her—Montrose not Fergus—she might have risked her shoe for the joy of watching it bounce off his hard head.
She paused and picked up the infant coverlet, touching almost reverently the stitches that formed the intricate designs.
Her mother made this for her. She bit her lip against the silly tears she felt rising.
She swiftly wrapped it up and tucked it away before Montrose came back in bellowing for her to hurry.
She dressed, carefully sliding into her peasant boots--the red shoes had rubbed blisters on her toes-- and she braided her hair, muttering a litany of new names for him, “My lord Judas…” No, that was her dog.
“My lord Thickskull. My lord Goathead. My lord Lackwit.” All had a certain satisfying ring to them.
When he came back through the door, Fergus at his side, she was ready to leave and stood there hugging her satchel tightly to her chest, stubbornly determined to remain silent.
Apparently he still was angry because he was glaring at everything.
He bent down and picked up her hat, shoved it down on her head and said, “Cover your cursed hair.”
Silent, she twisted her braid up under the hat and tied the strings under her chin.
Like some lackey she followed him outside, where their mounts were waiting.
They led their mounts toward the docks with him lecturing her about acting like a lad—apparently there was time for idle chatter-- before he went moodily quiet.
From then on he spoke no more, except to warn her to stay clear of everyone and to keep 'that hat on. '
“According to my brothers, my lord, even a lad is unsafe from some men aboard the ships, so I don’t see why keeping my hat on matters.”
“Just do as I asked,” he said through gritted teeth, tightening his grip on her arm and half dragging her along.
"Odd that I heard no question...only a command."
He said her name as if it were a curse word.
Fine! Do as he arrogantly demanded, she thought miserably and was about to say so until she caught a glimpse of his face.
Clearly he wanted to fling her into the sea and be done with her.
At the gangplank, he released her and stood stewing as she led Skye up the wooden ramp, then he began barking directions at her and warnings that were completely unnecessary, since Skye moved swiftly and easily onboard.
Montrose followed with his horse, which balked and pulled at his bit and gave him some trouble.
She smiled, then echoed his warnings, which earned her a cold look that said he had no sense of humor.
On the captain’s orders, poor Fergus was stowed on the dark belly of the mid-deck with the horses and cargo, above the oar deck.
After she removed Skye’s saddle and secured her belongings by Montrose’s packs, she paused, then turned toward the ladder, but Fergus gave her that big-eyed lonely look.
She started to walk away from him, head high.
“Do not look to me for pity, you traitorous hound. Turn your lamenting looks upon your new master, my lord Thickskull, Goathead, Lackwit Montrose.”
Fergus whimpered pitifully.
So Glenna ran back and rubbed Fergus on his big shaggy ears and under his chin. “You are an ungrateful whelp.”
His eyes wide and contrite, he licked her hand lovingly.
“I’ll come back later,” she promised, just as Montrose stuck his head down the hold, a bright lantern hanging from his fist—the man had a penchant for blinding her--and he blustered at her to come up.
“Did you not hear me?” He half-yelled.
Blinding her, apparently, was second only to his penchant for shouting at her….
The sun was not yet up and already her head ached from all his bellowing. Did the man not understand the concept of honeyed words?
“Are you deaf?”
She stopped. Her brother El would have turned and run like the Devil himself was at his back from the look she gave Montrose, but he appeared completely unaffected. The more he browbeat her, the more she felt the intense need to try to spite him.
She took her sweet time, moving as slowly as she could without being overly obvious, then she stopped, wincing. “Oh! There is a stone in my shoe.” She removed her shoe, shaking it, searching inside and taking her sweet time.
Eyes narrowed, he pinned her with a hard look that told her steam was ready to come out his ears. In a serious and deadly calm voice he said, “You would be well-served to move more swiftly.”
“With a stone in my shoe, my lord, ‘tis difficult to move at all much less more swiftly,” she said sweetly and then pretended to drop her shoe. “Oh!” She bent to pick it up and leaned against a beam for balance while she took her sweet time slipping it back on and tieing the strings.
His eyes were closed and his lips were moving as if he were praying…or counting.
“Oh. Wait,” she said. “How the devil did that happen?” She sighed hugely.
“Look at this.” She pulled on a hat string.
“My hat strings have come loose. How fortunate for me I caught it. We wouldn’t want my hat to fall off and reveal my cursed hair.
” She fumbled for a moment, then another, and another before she set about retying them… as swiftly as an ancient blind woman.
‘Twas quite enjoyable when she was finished to look up and see his jaw clenched that tightly. She resisted the urge to whistle a jaunty melody as she sauntered over to the ladder leading above-deck. She paused at the base, hand on the ladder rails and then sweetly smiled up at him.
He was counting.
She was trying not to laugh. A cursed eye for an eye…. A cursed tooth for a tooth….
The wind picked up shortly after dawn, and the oarsmen kicked the locks and pulled in their oars.
Square sails caught the breath of wind and billowed and snapped, sending the ship cutting through the water and out into the open firth, where the waters eventually grew as wild as the skies above, and became stormy and gray.
..the same color, Lyall realized, as Glenna’s skin.
For most of the day the ship rolled over the growing sea, and she clung to the railing near the aft, hanging there limply, and soon her pallor was no longer gray, but greenish, as if she had eaten grass. She lay with her cheek pressed to the side of the ship, her arm flung over her head.
He placed his hand on her shoulder.
She opened her eyes and stared dully at his boots. “If you have come to bellow at me again, do not…please… just kill me and put me out of my misery.”
She looked miserable. He thought to help and tried to give her some water, but she groaned, held up her hand, and told him to leave her be.
When he offered her an oatcake a while later, she muttered curse words he had never heard come from a woman.
The waters grew, waves sloshing over the deck, sending the ship lurching over the waves, and he was worried about her. He waited longer than he was comfortable before he approached her again and told her she should be under the canvas shelter where she was safe.
She answered him by spilling the contents of her belly at his feet, so he went to wash his boots. The crew appeared too busy to notice her, or if they did, they chose to ignore her. But Lyall stayed within sight of her, his hand on his weapon.