Chapter 9
Glenna rode as swiftly as the fast approaching storm, across the wide expanse of rolling hills and staying a good five horse lengths ahead of him.
‘Twas a gift to her, this race he had foolishly dared to start.
She almost laughed at the irony--a test to see if he could catch her, if he and his black were faster than she and Skye, and whether Fergus could stay with her as long as Montrose and his horse could.
In other words: could she outride him? Could she escape now?
If not now, then this was her mock escape.
Surely she had run plenty of times before, Fergus at her side--any thief had close moments-- although she was usually far away before anyone was the wiser…
unless she was foolish enough to be stealing a spice wife’s gown or take the horse right out from under a man.
She had only done that once before Montrose, a serendipitous encounter with some earl’s son who was so blindingly drunk it was barely horse-thievery at all.
Never had she been chased by anyone on a horse as strong and powerful as Montrose's. She leaned low and cast a quick glance over her shoulder.
He and the black were still well behind her.
Good. She kicked Skye, upping the speed, but then had to slow to jump a brook, landing easily on the other side, Fergus romping happily through the water behind her.
Her dog loved to run. She had almost laughed in Montrose’s face when he asked if Fergus could keep up. Fergus could keep up, but she knew not for how long he could keep such a pace.
Dark clouds roiled in from the south, and the taste of rain was in the air. Ahead of her, she spotted a bird of prey—a hawk?—like a crucifix, wheeling in the sky, again and again, circling over its poor carrion. As she came closer, she saw it was not a hawk, but a golden eagle.
One quick glance back told her Montrose was hard on her tail. The wind whipped her hat back and then some of her hair flew from its braid. Perhaps the winds had brought her fortune and this was the moment she could escape.
I want to be free. I must escape. I must.
Escape to where? The silent voice in her head said plainly.
But just as swiftly as the thought had come to her, her mind flashed with the emotion that she cared not where, only that she managed to get far away and save herself. Alone now, only she could change her destiny.
She did not want to be the daughter of a king and did not ask to be.
She did not want to be a pawn to be given in marriage to any man.
Her choices were slim. She had to get away and hide.
And for now, she cared not where that place was, only that she was safe and it was far away, perhaps as far away as England.
Ah! The perfect plan had escaped her! She had missed a perfect opportunity in Marram to stow on board that English ship. When given the choice: marriage-- the choice of even facing her father--or running, she decided she would choose to walk all the way to London.
“Glenna!” His shout pierced the air.
She ignored him, a habit she was quickly honing to a fine art, helped by the fact that she knew Skye had more in her and Fergus was staying true.
She used her heels again and Skye went faster, stretched her length in her run, her hooves eating up the ground and the distance.
She could hear each whoosh of Skye’s breath and her coat grew damp.
Montrose shouted her name again. His voice was loud, loud enough to call down the heavens, and sounded very angry. The race was his idea. Let him be furious, she thought recklessly.
If he and his mount are tiring, this is my moment.
Fear and some emotion she could not explain drove her on, pushing and pushing, past sanity and reason. Ahead of her was a wide copse of trees, wide enough she could take the chance and ride into them, perhaps losing him. She leaned lower and looked back over her left shoulder again.
Montrose was not behind her. She frowned. What?
To her utter shock, the devil was beside her, passing on her right, their horses almost neck to neck.
The look in his eyes reflected the skies overhead when he leaned toward her then, another surprise, and before she could think what he was about, his arm snaked around her waist and he plucked her from the saddle as if she weighed no more than a sparrow, pulling her to him, pinned against his hard body, her buttocks planted sweetly between his powerful thighs.
Then he did not slow the horse, but rode even harder, as if anger drove him and his horse to push the limits of sanity.
‘Twas madness, this. The speed of his horse seemed to grow faster, faster and felt harder than she had ever ridden in her life. The thundering of the black’s most powerful hooves against the ground, pounding and pounding, and Montrose’s hard, tense body against hers, and she who could do naught but cling to him or fall to a sure death.
The ground passed by so swiftly it was a blur, like looking through fog.
Fear gave her no choice but to wrap her arms around his neck and hang on for her very life, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears that she was certain she could not even hear him shout at her, exertion making his breath come hard and strong, like wind against her face, his spicy scent tinged with seasalt and smoke filling her nose and mouth with each panicked breath of air she took.
Truly frightened, she wanted to scream at him to slow down, to stop now. But her pride and fear stole her voice from her.
He finally began to slow the horse. She felt the tensing of his thighs and the black’s well trained reaction. His arm tightened around her. “What the hell were you doing?”
Running away.
The horse slowed down to a trot. She had failed.
“That was foolish thing to do. Your antics made us ride the horses into the ground.”
“You wanted a race,” she said, but her voice sounded breathless and strange and more vulnerable than she cared to ever be with a man like him.
Between them was only a startling and frightening moment, with his body so close to hers, his scent raw and the dampness in the air and on their bodies, the musk scent of his horse’s sweat, his hot breath in her ear.
She could feel the tensing of the muscles in his arm and knew he was strong enough to break her.
His face was but a hand’s breadth away from her own. She looked up from his cruel mouth, from the thin line of his lips showing starkly from the dark beginnings of his beard, and into his eyes.
What she saw there made her heart race. Desire was not the reaction she wanted…in either of them. With all the arrogance and haughtiness she could muster, she added, “I merely gave you what you wanted.”
His lips brushed against her cheek; his mouth was so close to hers.
I’ve gone too far, she thought…too late.
“What I wanted? I shall give you, sweet Glenna…” (There was nothing sweet about his voice or his meaning) “…exactly what you wanted.” His hand moved so fast she did not know he had pulled off her hat until he tossed it aside.
She gasped in reaction.
His fist gripped her thick plaited braid already hanging heavily down her back, and she cried out, reaching for it as he spun it around his hand and held her tightly.
His hard mouth swept down and closed powerfully over hers, possessing her in a way that shocked and weakened her, his tongue forcing its way inside, exploring, demanding, robbing everything from her he could steal and more.
The kiss was not all what Glenna had thought kisses were, soft sweet touches of the lips, like the touch of a butterfly, not this grinding, warring of tongues and even wilder warring of passions.
Her blood rushed quickly to her head and made her light headed, made her skin and face flush so very hotly that she felt faint. She was melting…in her very core.
From somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard Fergus barking.
He pulled his mouth from hers. “Get away dog. Go! Lay down!”
Then his mouth was on hers again, softer this time but still greedy with hunger.
He released his hold on her hair and cupped the back of her head.
Some deep place between her legs ached and she moved closer to him, her chest against his, and she had to tighten her hold onto him lest she fall apart and break into a thousand pieces.
To feel powerless, swept away by feelings she never had and could not control was too much for her and she felt the swell of tears in her tight throat and the backs of her eyes.
Then her traitorous body had completely forsaken her, squirming, needing with a sense of desperation to move against his, and reacting in all ways foreign to her.
She was on fire, wanting a touch she had never had and not known she could want, between her legs, in a place where before now there had been nothing, not even a ripple of need.
Secretly, she had thought herself immune to romance, to a woman’s need for a man, for his touch, and for coupling.
He was right. She did want this.
His lips left her mouth to slash hungrily across her cheek to her ear, and she moaned, wanting his kiss again, wanting the feel of tongue on hers, wanting his passion and his taste.
“You do want this. You want me,” he said over and over as he kissed her and touched her whole body with his roving hands, her legs and arms, her breast and throat, hands that wickedly knew where she wanted his touch, lifting and turning her at one point, then he pulled her legs up to his waist, pressing her against the hard length of him, rocking her until her body melted and was answering his rhythm instinctively.
It took a moment before she realized he had pulled her tunic over her head and that was only because his words changed from soft caresses to curses at the cloth bindings he had demanded so passionately that she wear beneath.