The wind carried the salty taste of the sea over the moorlands, and coastal birds with wide wingspans and mournful calls scavenged in spiraling circles in the clear sunshine. All around her spread mound after rolling mound of heather, the same color as the edges of an early morning sunrise. One never understood the gloriousness of a place until you had to leave it. She could never come back here, and perhaps that made her look all around her with different eyes, eyes needing to memorize all she saw, because if the day came when she could not picture this in her mind’s eye, then she would have no past behind her, and all the years she had lived before would be worthless. She would be nothing. She would have nothing…not even a memory.

Fergus romped some distance away from her, his long gangly legs sending dust and pieces of purple heather into the air. He frolicked and barked at it, as if the heather were bees and flies coming to get him. Glenna had to laugh at him, at his silliness, like that of a tomfool she had once watched at a Michelmas fair. Fergus brought her great joy and she felt some sense of peace in that, if for only a moment.

As long as Fergus was there, she was not completely alone in the world.

The last fortnight of summer on the island was always filled with color and sunshine. For those few gay and glorious weeks, the view from the rise above their cottage had always been that of the rich waves of heather upon the rugged land, soft color brightened against the broad blue of the unending skies and her island landscape of huge granite cliffs and sloping rises of dark gray rock.

But this wasn’t her island any longer. That she was leaving now, when she most loved the place, was even more bittersweet. Thoughts of home, and El and Alastair made her feel more lonely. Her mood grew heavy and she wished the storms would come; they were always the first warning that summer was coming to an end. ‘Twould make the leaving easier to swallow. Sadness seemed to grow in her the more they rode eastward, but she did not want to feel anything and stubbornly steeled herself against the weaknesses of her heart and memories that were not hers to own. They belonged to the girl who had brothers.

There was no Gordon blood in her veins and she could not be a sister only because she longed to be, only because she believed the lies told to her for years, or because she longed to go back to yesterday, before one encounter and a few words changed everything and she discovered she was alone in a world full of strangers.

Her skin began to prick and she shifted uneasily in the saddle. Montrose was watching her. His cool blue gaze was not easy to ignore, so she steeled herself to appear as if she were not, deep inside, merely a roiling, boiling cauldron of weakness and doubt.

Al and El were forever grousing about her stubborn pride, claiming it came naturally to her. Pride was her close friend, and gave her strength when the stakes were high.

She considered these stakes high; she refused to let Montrose see any frailty in her.

In truth, she did not know what to think of him, her lark in the cove the day before aside. The vision of him in the sea, a golden sea lion riding under the waves, came unbidden to her mind’s eye, and she felt a strange warmth as her blood sped through her. She had the sudden urge to ride as far away from him as possible.

Who was this man whose tone was often gruff and harsh? When he looked at her, he did so not in anger or disgust, at least not since that moment outside the cottage when she had kicked and bitten him. He was understandably angry then, and angrier still when he was naked in the stable. His body had shaken with it. She had thought he would kill her.

Instead he did worse. He killed the person she thought she was. But since then, he seemed different, as if he understood she’d had her fill of pain, and truthfully, she might have thought his words were gentle had El or Al spoken them. She wondered if that were the truth or only that her judgment was so flawed that she believed it to be the truth. She had no faith in anything any longer since she could not even trust her own judgment.

A quick glance at Montrose told her nothing. He only seemed to want to ride, something she supposed was best. She couldn’t outrun her own thoughts, and could not run and hide on the island. No one seemed to question that she would go willingly to meet her fate in the hands of a powerful, commanding father who knew her naught. Fools.... Her only choice had been clear--to wait until the odds of getting away were in her favor. And she needed more than the knives she'd hidden. She needed her bow and arrows.

She glanced at him again. The silence had stretched out between them. If she couldn‘t put him in his place, then she wasn’t going to talk to him. Questions drifted through her head. Why had he come now? Fate was a cruel and bitter enemy. What was it about this particular time in her life that she was to be plucked out of the northernmost isles? Why him? Who was Baron Montrose to her father. What kind of man was her father?

A coward, she thought bitterly. Her hands closed tightly over her reins and Skye balked at the bit. Glenna eased up and took a long breath. She knew the tales of the great house of Canmore, merely some of the many stories told to her over the years by Alastair, a fact that made her immediately question the accuracy of what she had been told.

Montrose claimed she was a Canmore. The name was mythic and didn’t seem to fit her. All had heard of the infamous Canmore king, who as a young man came across a maiden in the North Woods, fallen from her horse, injured and unable to walk, frightened and alone.

With her long silver-hair in hand-thick braids that reached her knees, skin like freshly drawn milk and eyes the color of the deepest sky, she was to the king, a Northern light, an angel fallen from Heaven. He carried her to his great white horse and, within the protection of his solid arms, he fearlessly rode without escort into his enemy’s fortress, the winter home of the great North prince, risking everything he was to take her safely home.

Oh, Glenna thought, if that were only true....

Their love was inscribed upon their hearts from the moment they met, the kind of romance and heartache in epic legends. In time, the great Norse Prince knew he would lose his beloved daughter if he did not agree to give her to the young king, who wanted the hand of no other.

So they wed in peace and happiness and joy, their love open and there for all to see. And for a short time, there was no war in the land. No more raids. No more plunder. Most understood that the Norse raids had finally ended with a blood bond treaty and the marriage of two great bloodlines. Yet that peace only opened the door to another war, more insidious, because many in his own country hated the gallant and brave young king, hated him for his fairness and intelligence, while some hated him for his success, for his passion, and others hated him even more for choosing his queen from the North.

Glenna could never think of the story and not wonder at that kind of legendary, epic love. For her lifetime, the king lived in exile after a group of power hungry men had contested his sovereign right to rule and had risen up with the aid of King Henry of England and defeated the young king. His beloved queen had died in childbed, along with the infant.

Glenna's heart stopped. Was she that child? Could it be true? She closed her eyes. The world was full of lies.

A dead infant that in fact was raised as someone else?

How could it be? Was that enchanting, Nordic prince’s daughter truly her mother? She looked as unlike a Nordic royal as a ruby did to a lump of coal. Her black hair and black eyes bespoke nothing of the coloring of the Norse. But, she thought, perhaps they were pure Canmore…

That romantic tale was of people Glenna knew little about. She could not hope for a legendary love. Thieves did not fall in love. Eventually thieves died by a rope to the neck, or bled to death from having their hands chopped off, or rotted in a dank, rat-filled prison. She could steal a gown, a spirited horse, she could steal a fat purse and a spice box—boxes-- but she had no hope of ever stealing a gallant heart.

Her belly growled like a wolf and she pressed her hand to it. She did not want Montrose to hear. ‘Twould be all she needed to make her humiliation complete. This morning, she had been in such a rush to make all the men in her life as miserable as she was, that she’d forgotten to break fast or even to pack some food.

She took a deep breath, willed herself to swallow the air, and then stared out at the southern horizon, where there would be no farms to stop and purchase food, no fisherman’s cottage with herring drying in the sun. Ahead was only the stony wilderness where no man could even scratch the surface with the sharpest spade, and not even the heath could grow through acres of bare, brindled stone, which formed in sheets and boulders, covered only near the streams with some green lichen from the moistness of the water. There was nothing to eat but her own hunger.

Off in the distance, the blue sea blended into the sky so she could not even see where one ended and one began and to the southwest was the distant hump of Bjorn’s Isle, morning mist still surrounding its coastal edges. Then, riding over the arch of a hillside stood a pair of red deer, grazing until they looked up and stood startled and motionless, staring, before loping off to the streams fanning downward through a trail of rocks towards the steep slopes at the sea cliffs.

Her belly called out again and for a brief moment a platter of plump, juicy venison swam before her eyes, surrounded by savory browned onions and turnips.

Over another golden mound that reminded her of freshly baked bread they rode, and her mind filled with dandelion honey dripping from a honey comb and running like liquid amber over that warm bread....

Their direction led down toward a gathering of rocks that looked like plums or roasted chestnuts or perhaps gooseberries and she thought she might die with the need to chew on something other than her lip.

Without a word, Montrose reined and dismounted.

She almost ran over him, and pulled back hard on the reins. Skye reared immediately and only Glenna’s consummate horse skills kept her mounted.

Montrose swore and reached for the reins.

But Glenna pulled Skye away, glaring at him. “Some warning you were going to stop would have been helpful.” She cast him a withering look, then turned back to find Fergus, who came loping down from the hillock, tongue lolling, and he ran past them to toward the stream.

“I am used to traveling alone.”

She supposed that was the closest thing Montrose had for an apology.

“There is water over there for our mounts and your hound.” He came over to her, his hands heading near her waist.

She jerked the reins and pulled back from him. “I’ve ridden horses for as long as I can remember, my lord. I need no help getting down and will do so when I am ready.” She had a purpose; she stayed in the saddle because she could look down at him.

Pointedly silent, he studied her through narrowed eyes that probably longed to chop her head off, or perhaps cut out her tongue. She understood she had made him angry, which was her point, but she wondered why she had the sudden urge to apologize. Bah! She was changing already and becoming someone she didn’t know.

Immediately she sat taller in the saddle and her smile melted into a thin line. “I have questions for you. Who are you to my father?”

He looked at her as if she were a flea he’d plucked from his shirt.

She wished she had fleas…she might eat them.

“Dismount Glenna. “ Was all he said.

“You did not answer my question.”

“The animals need water and to rest. So do you.”

“I can take care of myself. I do not need a man to tell me when to stop, when to dismount, when to water my horse. My bro--Al and El learned that lesson many times. You would do well to learn that.” Her belly tightened again, and began to gurgle and churn, so she closed her eyes briefly, willing her hunger and anger and hurt to go away.

Look how well she had taken care of herself. She was a fool whose pride was more important than remembering to pack some food.

Silent, Montrose did not move. Standing there looking all too powerful dressed in padded leather, heavy hose and his powerful legs in tall books, she had to look away because of what looking at him did to her. Fergus was romping in the stream, barking and splashing water. Her mouth was dry, her head growing light. She sighed heavily and dismounted. Pride be damned, water would fill her grumbling belly. And there was the fact that her pride would be sorely damaged if she swooned into a dead faint in front of him.

She did as he asked and took her horse to the stream, but only because that is what she would have done. Montrose followed her. Ignoring him, she pushed back her hat, knelt down and cupped her hand to drink.

“I have a water skin.”

Wiping her mouth, she turned and looked up at him standing over her, all noble baron who was used to telling everyone what to do. “And you are welcome to use it, my lord.” Then she continued to drink from the cool stream until she was full and washed the dust of the land from her face, which felt sticky with sweat and grime, then wiped it dry with the hem of her tunic. She sat back on her heels; she was full of water but still famished, and stared listlessly at the cool clear water skipping over rocks bright with green lichen and pooling below where it reflected blue from the cloudless sky overhead. She wished it were soup.

Pea stock flavored with salt pork.

A river of bean pottage.

Something thick and hearty to fill her gut.

Bread. Oh sweet Lord…she would give her heart away for a loaf of bread.

At that perfect moment her belly betrayed her and growled loudly. Her vision swam and she pressed her fist into it.

Montrose turned, swore under his breath and pulled her to her feet. “You should have told me you needed to stop.”

“I did not need to stop,” she said quietly, stumbling along behind him, before she plopped down bonelessly on a flat rock that was shaped like a pie. “I need to eat.”

He pulled a cloth from his bags knelt down next to her, unfolding the cloth to show her the bread (from God’s ears to her mouth) and a fat wedge of white cheese. “Here, Glenna. Eat.”

No more pride. She took the cloth, ignoring the soft look she saw in his eyes,--so blue they too reflected the sky--and tried not to devour the food whole. "If you had not destroyed my bow and arrows we could have meat."

"I imagine that meat would be my liver roasting on a spit."

He was not wrong.

Sitting crosswise, she watched him as she ate. Fergus was wet and sloppy and trotted back and forth between them, then shook himself all over a scowling Montrose. Glenna looked away to hide her laughter. The dog settled beside her and she gave him a piece of cheese.

“You reward him for his behavior?” Montrose was refilling his skin, squatting down at the water’s edge, his shoulders wide enough to block her view.

“I feed him. He is hungry, too. Would you have me starve the animals?”

He merely shook his head at her and went on as he had been. His light hair hung to his shoulders and was beginning to curl at the ends. She noticed he did not wear his gold signet ring on his tanned hand. She had tried the ring on as she rode home from the cove yesterday and it was heavy and big. Two of her small fingers could have almost fit into the ring.

He stood with the ease of a lion and she concentrated on her food and gave Fergus more cheese, then watched him from the corner of her eye. He took an apple from his pouch and sat down on a rock near her and used a small knife to cut off a piece, then paused and handed it to her.

She glanced down at the food in her lap and realized she and her dog had eaten over half of it. He must be hungry, too, she thought. A warm flush of shame surprised her, so she concentrated on folding up the cloth.

“Glenna.”

She looked up sharply. Her name on his lips sounded oddly foreign and strange. Not like the sour notes of a horn or a lute, but low and it was almost as if she felt his voice all the way to her toes.

Before her was his outstretched hand, his thumb pressed on his knife and holding the apple slice toward her. “Take it,” he said.

She did, then held out the cloth to him with a quiet, “Thank you.”

“You finish it.”

“Nay. I’ve had my fill.” She leaned forward and set the cloth of food on his knees. Leaning back on her elbows, she stretched out, crossed her feet at the ankles and popped the wedge of apple in her mouth and began talking whilst she chewed. “You eat. The truth is, Montrose, I don’t need you swooning halfway to wherever it is we are headed. You are huge and I don’t believe I could lift you. Why I believe merely your hard head alone would be enough to break my poor, wee back.” She paused, then added pointedly, “My lord.”

He laughed loud and long and hearty and something warm ran through her at the sound. Amusement changed his face, brightened a kind and sweet gleam in his blue eyes and revealed the sudden dimples in his hard cheeks. She found herself smiling back at him.

Montrose was a beautiful man. She had not forgotten the image of him by the sea, the one that was burned into her memory only to return unbidden and plague her too often for her own comfort. That was merely yesterday?

Perhaps he dominated her thoughts because he was only something new and different. Of late, her life had been mundane and uneventful, having spent most of the late spring and summer on the mainland, where they stolen their fill and had taken more than enough to trade for a long time.

His profile was strong, his nose long and noble, but she saw now as he laughed, that his mouth was wide, his teeth all there, white as the sun-bleached shells on the beach and perfectly aligned, not gaping like fence posts or crossed all over each other like a stack of firewood.

There had been a time when she’d had to pull one of Alastair’s teeth after it festered, and last year Elgin lost a front tooth in a hard fall from training a horse. Her own teeth were crooked on the bottom, too close together and food often caught in them. She wondered now if there was bread or cheese stuck in them and quickly stopped smiling.

“You asked who I am to your father. You said you had questions.” His voice was quiet, kinder, and she thought they might have reached a new kind of truce. He chewed on a morsel of cheese he had wrapped inside some bread.

Her mind raced. She might need to change tactic. Test the waters so to speak. She needed to find the way to gain his trust. When the time and place came for her to run, she would be best served if he was caught completely unaware. “Yes. I asked because I do not know you or know of you, and here we are together.” She sat up and leaned forward. “You claim you have a duty to the king.” She paused. “It would give me some comfort to know what I am facing.“

He finished the apple and sheathed the knife away before he spoke. “My father fought with yours, they were close friends, but he is dead.” The look in his eyes went suddenly distant. “Our family has long been sworn to yours by oath and by blood. My mother, through her own stepmother, was a distant cousin to your father, as was my wife. “

“Your wife is my cousin?”

“Was,” he said pointedly. “She’s dead.” His flat words carried not a lick of emotion and he casually tossed Fergus a crust of bread. He did not look at her, but seemed elsewhere.

There was more there he could not hide, even by not looking at her. What would be in his eyes if she were to look into them now? She wondered if Montrose and his wife had a great and legendary love as did her mother and father. Was his coolness hiding a deep loss? Certainly ‘twould explain why he was silent and gruff--she paused in thought--not that any of that mattered to her. Wounded or not, the man’s heart--if he had one--was none of her concern. “So it is for your family’s honor and deep ties to mine that you come to the very ends of the earth to bring the king’s lost daughter home,” she said curtly, using his own words. “Wherever home is. Tell me where my home is when my father happens to be a king who has been exiled for seventeen years?”

“There are many royal holdings,” he said.

“And you Baron Montrose. Do you have many holdings?”

“Castle Rossie, home to the barony, is on the River Esk.”

“Is that where you are taking me?”

“Nay.” His voice was gruff again.

She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “Where then?” she asked finally.

“To a safe place,” was all the lunkheaded oaf would say. He started to eat the last bit of cheese, but looked down at Fergus, who had slowly slithered closer to him and away from her. But then she had no food…the traitor.

Montrose eyed Fergus for a moment, then tossed him the cheese. He stood. “Come. The horses are rested and I need us to be in Steering before the tide can delay us for a day.

Steering. God’s bones! She said nothing but closed her eyes and followed him, trusting she could think of something to save her before they arrived there.

They rode on the beginnings of a rough road that started from the standing stones near Callenish, and by late in the day they came near the outer rim of the only coastal hamlet on southern ends of the isle, where they passed by some crofters stacking cut squares of dried peat into carts for the coming winter months, and where the air smelled of fresh soil and firesmoke. Glenna knew the road went through the center of Steering, and wound directly through the traveling market which was there for a sennight in late summer. If she were fortunate, the market would already have packed up and be gone until next year.

The closer they came, the more her hands began to turn clammy and she grew uneasy. Luck was not with her. She could see the colorful tents of the summer market, their bright flags waving in the sea wind. Sweat began to drip from her brow. Her hands tightened on the reins and Skye side-stepped. She looked down at her dog. He was as much of a liability as she was.

“Fergus. Heed!” she whispered harshly, panic racing through her. She pulled her hat down lower, then edged her horse to the left side of Montrose, hoping his size and horse would shield her. She should have cut her hair off and ridden hatless. She should have found a way to get Montrose to ride around the village. She should have, should have, should have…

He was a baron, and one who would not pass unnoticed through a village on the mainland, let alone such a nobleman on remote island village. His presence demanded attention, this man whose fat purse would appeal greatly to every single one of the vendors. Sneaking past them? Ha! ‘Twas like trying to hide the sun.

They were but a short distance from the market stalls. Her heart sped. She looked in the opposite direction and kept Skye even with his great black horse, and then the first call came. “My lord!” said the ironmonger. "Lanterns and candleholders. Kettles and pots! Only the finest wares!”

“Fresh pies, my lord!”

“Wool from Flanders!”

“Spices, my lord!” The familiar voice was loud as a fishwife.

Oh no… Glenna closed her eyes.

“Fresh hare and marten furs!”

A moment later a horrific shriek made Glenna wince and hunch down.

“You!“ The spice merchant’s wife was looking at her and she screamed again, grabbing and shaking her husband’s arm. “’Tis him! Look! The thieving bugger! There he is! Stop him!” The woman moved from the stall faster than Glenna thought possible. Leaning low, Glenna kicked her heels into Skye and took off. She did not look back, but from the corner of her eye, she could see the barest bit of Fergus’s head; he was staying with her, right at her side.

“Thief! Thief! Thief!” came the incessant shrieking.

Montrose’s cursing sounded like a battle cry and echoed from behind her.

Her heart pounded in cadence with Skye’s hooves. From over her shoulder she saw his horse rear, and a moment later he was thundering after her, his face frighteningly intense.

A sudden cacophony of voices was shouting “Stop! Thief!” The market was utter chaos, as a motley contingent of merchants pursued her, brandishing counting sticks and long knives, brands and candle snuffers, and the spice wife was leading them all, running after her and waving a hatchet. Villagers followed and the crowd grew.

‘Twas common practice to cut off the hand of a thief. And horse thieves had been hung from the nearest tree. Island law was unto itself, with no resident lord to oversee, and few questions were asked. Not that she had any answers.

Chills ran down Glenna’s spine. All were still after her.

Ahead of her, where the road narrowed next to a smithy, a drover struggled with a lumbering hay cart, the cart horse balking.

Think fast.

Montrose was closing in.

“Stay with me Fergus!” She snapped her fingers at him and he barked. She smiled. “Good dog.”

The cart was stopped now, blocking most of the path. She did not slow, but sped past so close her leg brushed the cart.

As she passed the drayage horse, she snapped her fingers and Fergus barked at her command, spooking the cart horse and sending it rearing into air. Fergus loped safely past.

More of Montrose’s curses filled the air as the cart spilled over with a loud crack and blocked his path. Hay went everywhere, and the noise suddenly became like a battlefield.

In the chaos, a spark from the smithy’s fire caught the hay. Smoke billowed upward. There was a shout—a warning of fire—then a heartbeat later, the whole thing flamed up like a bonfire on solstice.

Ahead of her were the long docks and the end of the road. Wharvesmen were unloading crates from a ship onto a cart and others were rolling barrels of pickled fish down the plankway up to the wharf.

There was no way she could keep riding. At a haphazard row of stone cottages, she went left and past a back lane near the cooper, flanked with huge empty ale barrels, and sped across a stone path that turned and led down to the docks.

In the distance behind her, the noise and shouts were fading, so she slowed Skye to a walk and easily doubled back around to the lane, where ahead of her, like an answer to a paternoster, stood the open doors of the stable behind a dockside tavern. She rode straight inside and dismounted before her horse had barely halted. Quickly shoving the bay and Fergus in a stall together, she muttered her thanks and ran back to close and lock down the stable doors, leaning against them, her heart pounding in her ears.

Now what?

* * *

Hay flew everywhere, a cloud of flying straw, and as it settled, Lyall saw the hayrack and horse blocked the whole road. Swearing, he had no choice but to rein in. Beyond the cart he could see Glenna, bent low over her horse, glancing back over her shoulder and riding as if the hounds of hell were after her, her own hellhound, all legs and fur and tail, at her side.

The colorful group of angry merchants was coming fast toward him, shouting en masse, weapons raised, a mob of curious villagers trailing at their heels. He knew they were not after him. To keep her safe, he had no choice but to keep them away from her. Lyall turned his mount, raised in his stirrups and took a stand, pulling the sword from its sheath. It felt strangely odd and unfamiliar in his hand.

A sword was a sword, he told himself and instinct overtook him. He shouted a battle cry, “A Robertson! “ Realized what he had said and wanted to swallow his words. This was not a battle. He cursed himself for an idiot and brandishing the sword he cried out. “Halt! All of you! Cease!”

The mob stopped immediately, eyes wide, murmuring. A few of the merchants taking up the rear took one look at his raised sword and turned and ran. A merchant in the forefront, the ironmonger, looked uneasy, before his eyes grew suddenly wide and he dropped his fire iron and frantically began to point. “My lord!”

Someone shouted, “Fire!”

“Behind you!”

There was a loud whoosh! A blast of heat hit him in the back, and his horse reared. He was suddenly falling through the air--intensely hot air--and bright flames flared all around him. The strong and sudden smell of smoke filled his nose and lungs, and he hit the ground hard, landing flat on his back. His head shot with jabs of sharp pain. Impact sent the air from his chest. Word would not come; they were lodged in his throat. He could not speak or move, could only stare upward, rendered frozen on the ground, the world spinning around him in images as foggy as if he had drunk too much wine.

Time too moved slowly, too, and the edges of his sight turned white and began to fade. He could not breathe and pain slithered in waves down through his whole body. His sword in his hand was heavy and warm and the metal was growing hotter and hotter. It was burning his hand. Why could he only lay there?

Burning ash swirled into his line of vision. He blinked his eyes. Red fire and flames licked all around him. Like before. So much like before… The air was burning, scorching and sweltering hot. Almost as if he were being cooked alive.

No! No! his mind screamed. He was coming back to his own hell. Something burned his eyes and he almost cried out, gasping for breath and he felt his lungs finally fill, but the air was choked with smoke. “Malcolm,” he murmured as his brother’s face swam before him. Then blackness descended, and he saw and heard nothing more.