He had the thieving witch right where he wanted her. But angry as he was, he forced himself to remember she was the reason he was there. She began to scream and bite and kick, so he set the fork aside, shifted his grip on her and ripped the sleeve from her tunic. Were he less angry, the panic in her eyes would have stopped him, and he might have eased her mind. Clearly she thought he intended to ravish her. But he was in a foul mood, walking naked for too long in the hot sun, so he let her think the worst. She needed to be frightened and to understand who was in power after that escapade in the cove. He gagged her with the torn sleeve, grabbed the hayfork again, and with her squalling under his arm, he carried her outside.

Halfway back to the cottage he pulled her head back and checked the gag. She wiggled and kicked, but was still pinned to his side, and he swatted her for good measure as well as vengeance. But she retaliated by pinching him blue and viciously twisting his skin. “God’s legs, woman,” he muttered and shook off her hand, then he struggled, tossing her this way and that like a sack of turnips until her arms were pinned at her sides and she was tucked safely back under his arm.

The element of surprise was in his favor. He crossed over the rolling hill and was soon outside the cottage, with her still fighting him. In one swift motion he kicked in the cottage door, standing in the open doorway, the woman now clamped to his chest and the hayfork against her pale throat. He was angry as hell and naked as the day he was born—he and his ‘poor wee ballocks.’

“Do not move if you value her life,” he warned the two young men who were frozen in their seats. The dog rose up from the hearth, growling and baring its long teeth. “Hold back the hound.” He pointed the hayfork toward the dog, and the girl cried out behind gag and tried to fight him. He tightened his arm around her.

“Fergus! Down!” One of the men said, and the dog obeyed, but stayed with ears perked and eyes sharp.

“Where is Sir Hume Gordon?”

There was a heartbeat of uncanny silence and the man who had called off the hound darted his gaze to the girl, who was still as a rock.

Lyall waited, before he said in a calm, deadly voice, “You move your hand under the table again and you will be dead and bound for hell before you can think to move again.”

“Our father is dead,” the other one said quickly. “I am Elgin Gordon. He is Alastair, the eldest. You are holding our sister, Glenna.

“I know well who she is. She is the reason I’ve come to the godforsaken ends of the earth. I am Baron Montrose of Rossie, the king’s vassal, here to provide protection and safe passage for her. And she is no more your sister than I am.”

He heard her gasp, but did not look away. The flicker in the elder Gordon’s expression and the slight fall of his shoulders told Lyall all he needed to know. Alastair Gordon knew exactly who she was. “You may cease with your lie,” Lyall told him. “I’ve come by order of the king.”

Glenna was still as a rock.

“What lie? Alastair? Surely Glenna is our sister,” Elgin said, looking back and forth between them.

“Montrose speaks the truth,” Alastair told his brother, then ran a hand through his hair and shook his head dejectedly, looking at Glenna with worry in his eyes. “I beg you let her go, my lord.”

“First, hand me my sword.” Lyall leaned the hayfork against the wall but did not release his hold on it.

Alastair stood and reached for the scabbard.

“Wait!” Elgin grabbed his arm.

“He will not harm her.” Alastair handed Lyall the weapon and turned back to his brother. “God’s eyes, El, give the Baron Montrose his clothes.”

The emphasis Alastair Gordon made on the word baron was obvious to all. Lyall watched Elgin shed the leather jack so quickly it was almost comical.

The younger brother gathered the rest of Lyall's stolen clothing and dropped them at his feet before backing away two steps. “Now you will let her go, my lord,” Elgin said protectively, trying to stand taller. Still, he would only come to Lyall’s shoulder.

Lyall released her and she scrambled away, but did not seek her ‘brothers.’ She backed away from them all, looking unsure and frightened, like a wounded and cornered animal. He chose not to feel anything for her. Any wounds to her mind and heart made by the truth were not his problem. She would have found out she was no Gordon at some point.

He dressed quickly and moved to the table. After a day of walking too many uncomfortable miles across the moors and through the bracken, the sun burning his skin and briars piercing his bare feet, he was in no mood for talk. He was starved, so he downed a half-full mug of ale, refilled it from a ewer, and helped himself to the meat and bread. When his belly was close to full, he turned, watching her as he sopped his last morsel of bread in the ale. She said nothing. Her eyes occasionally followed his motion, though her expression stayed stubbornly blank. Only once did he see her composure crack--she had angrily pushed her brothers away, then turned her back on them when they tried to talk to her.

Those two nitwits had so brainlessly included her in their thievery band, especially horse-thievery, which was punished by hanging. Would that have not made a great and welcoming tale for all and sundry, particularly for the returning king when he once again set foot on Scots’ soil? ‘Greetings, Sire, your eldest daughter was hanged by the neck for stealing horses, among other things.’

Their plunder was on every thick shelf and cranny in the room, stacks, sacks and large chests, all filled with what could only be the results of their thievery, much of what he could see was organized by type of item: the quivers and arrows in one corner, next to assorted daggers and knives, maces and swords, though none of the weapons as fine as his.

Hanging from the walls were copperware and leather-bound clusters of iron torches and candle holders, door and cabinet hinges, door locks, iron baskets and fire tongs, branding rods, pots and pans and kettle stands. Two long brass horns, a lute, drums, mouth organs and a small harp leaned against wall near the interior doors. Leather goods, shoes and boots, bolts of woolen cloth, bags, satchels and small wooden chests with sturdy locks stood in a precise line on wall shelves, beside a whole row of locked spice boxes that looked as though they were plucked from a village fair display. He had caught the scents of cardamom and nutmeg the moment he‘d first stepped into the room. Beneath those spice tins were salt barrels, sacks of peppercorns, and heavy jugs of vinegar, along with burlap sacks bulging with apples, and turnips, onions and other root vegetables.

The back rooms of the stable had been much the same, with neat rows of saddles and bridles, barrels of oil and bags of feed. As a lad he remembered walking across the castle courtyard to the kitchens, where the cook and the kitchen lackeys had, by order of his own mother, neatly arranged all the foodstuffs, wines, ale barrels, and salted meats in regimented lines along the shelves and in the cellars. He suspected Glenna with her woman’s mind knew the exact placement of every single stolen item.

He poured another mug of ale and said, “You should pack your belongings, lass. We leave in the morning.”

"Where?"

"The order is from the king."

"What king?" she laughed.

"William of Scotland."

"Ah...the exiled king who lives in England with his close friend Henry. He is not my king. Has he stepped a foot on Scottish soil in my lifetime? Nay, he has not."

"Glenna," Alastair Gordon said with a warning.

The look she gave him would have crack stone. She faced Lyall. “I have not agreed to go with you.”

“The choice is not yours," Lyall told her. "The king has so ordered it.”

She stepped closer, hands on her hips, her head high. “And why should I obey a king who has not been in the land for years, and who I have never seen or known? This king of yours is nothing but a fable to me.”

“Glenna!” Alastair said.

She spun toward Gordon, walking over to stand but a foot away. “Do not speak to me like the older brother you feigned to be. You lied to me. Every day of my life you have lied to me. You made me believe I was safe and loved and bonded to you by our blood.” Tears ran freely down her face and her voice was shaky.

“I have loved you like a sister, blood bond or no blood bond, and because I love you, I warn you. Even women are hanged when they speak as you have just spoken about the king,” Alastair told her.

“They hang women, too, for horse-thievery,” Lyall cut in harshly. “Anyone who steals merely a walnut can lose a hand, whether the thief be a woman, a man, or a child. The axeman cares not. She might curse you for lying to her, and that is between the two of you, but I expect the king would dole out his own punishment for involving her in a life of thievery. Look at all this. Both of you are idiots to involve her in your larceny. What were you thinking?” He pointed a finger at Alastair. “If you knew the truth, Gordon, then you also knew your father swore to protect her. I assume it was you who sent news of her over the years. Someone has been communicating. There were letters signed by Sir Hume and stamped with his own ring.”

“Alastair has my fath---“ Glenna seemed to choke on her words. “--his father’s ring. And I will speak however I may about the king, for his exiled ears are not even in his own land and haven’t been for too many years to count. What good is a king who runs from his land?”

“You are unskilled in the lessons of politics. The king is no coward, but merely a man caught in the turmoil of power, a destiny brought on him only by his birth name. I do not expect you, woman, to understand the vagaries, the glories or the demons that drive men, kings or traitors,” Lyall said darkly.

“I care naught about the king,” Glenna said with a wave of her hand. “However there is no question, none at all, about who in this room is the traitor.” She glared at Alastair, who hung his head and couldn’t look at her, and for a brief moment Lyall almost felt sorry for him. Alastair Gordon held all the appearances of a man broken by guilt and hurt.

“I will go with you, my lord,” she continued. “Only because I will not stay a full day longer in this house where I do not belong. But know this. I care nothing for the king or his royal proclamations.”

“I would suggest you find a way to care very much what the king wants and proclaims, Glenna Canmore, because he is your father.”

* * *

Glenna lay curled in a ball on her straw mattress, the truth throbbing through her head. Snippets of thoughts, mostly fears, kept her from sleeping. Sir Golden Himself, Baron Montrose, lay in a heap across the door. Light from the fire outlined his still form. Had he chosen to sleep there to keep her from running away? No. There were the wooden shutters she could easily crawl through. And, too, she understood Montrose was not the fool she had called him. He slept so quietly she wondered if he was asleep at all.

From across the room where her brothers lay on their pallets, she could hear their off-pitched snoring, and she cursed Alastair again for his duplicity, and because he could sleep so easily when she could not.

To be angry with him was safer than thinking about the truth--who she actually was, which seemed impossible--and how the knowledge shook her deep into her bones. Her father was the king? Nay, she shook her head and tears spilled down her cheeks. She was frightened, more frightened than she wanted to admit to anyone. She knew nothing of ladies and manors, castles and kings, only the tales Alastair told her as a child, and what did he know? Royal women must have servants and silks, and whole armies to protect them, while she grew up pitching hay and shoveling horse manure…and stealing.

She could ride a horse like the wind, but she did not use a needle or thread and would not know what to do with either. The only gown she owned she had to steal, only to put it on and find it was too big and too long, so she cut the hem with a dagger, and now the gown was shorter on one side than the other and the cloth was fraying badly.

How could her horse skills ever mean even a whit to a king? The king would take one look at her in her peasant’s rags or jagged gown and have her banished, particularly once he saw how poorly skilled she was and that she was so terribly untaught.

What king would tolerate a thief for a daughter? Or he could lock her up in a tower. He was the king. She shuddered at the images that came to her mind: the executioner’s platform, the axeman’s stone. She closed her eyes tightly and her hands tightened into numb fists.

Perhaps he would do even worse than lock her away.

At that thought she lost control and sobbed into her hands, her knees to her chest. It took a will of iron for her to stop shaking. Her breath caught and she felt like she was dying inside. Her destiny was done. She could bring nothing but shame to her father, to his name and to the whole court, when her finest qualities were the ability to pick a pocket and steal a horse.

Her silly tears wouldn’t change tomorrow. Tears wouldn’t bring back yesterday, when her name was Glenna Gordon and she was happy with her brothers. Crying like a ninny accomplished little more than making her eyes burn and her nose run. She wiped her face and sat up, pushing open the window shutters above the bed.

Outside, there was a clear night sky, darkness being so rare in midsummer and so fleeting, just a few hours of starlight. The only sky she knew was this one—great and unending over the one small stretch of land that had always been home to her. The moors and the sea, the horses she loved and cared for, her brothers with whom she had felt safe and loved…

Now she would have to face all the unknowns—of place and people, an unknown journey with a stranger. Even her own identity was a mystery. There was nothing she could hold onto that was true and familiar. She had no idea how to grieve for what she had lost, because the truth was: her life as she knew it was not hers.

* * *

The next morn, Lyall checked to make certain all his belongings were in place, in particular, his money. Though he had left a bag of silver with the Gordons, he wouldn’t put it past those two pilferers to make a switch. He hooked a plump skin of water to his saddle pouch, and turned as Glenna readied to mount a big, spirited bay Elgin had brought up from the paddock. Lyall studied the horse appreciatively. “Tell me now if there is a chance I am going to be chased from here to Kingdom Come by the true owner of that horse of yours.”

“You have nothing to fear, Montrose,” Glenna said haughtily, using the title like a seasoned noble. “I was there when she was foaled, and since I have fed and trained her. No one else. Skye is mine.”

“That is well, then. Our journey will be long and I do not relish outrunning a hangman’s noose,” he said. He was jesting, but she did not respond or even look at him. He laughed softly.

She looked up at him. “What is so amusing?”

“Skye, Glenna? Your mount has a name?” He laughed heartily and then thought of his sister, who as a child would have named all the fleas on his dog.

“Why is naming a horse amusing? What call you that one, on which sits your arse? Horse?” Now she was laughing. “Better yet…arse carrier.”

His eyes narrowed. “He is my horse, a fine animal, but nothing more.”

“Then you should have left me be and let me keep him, if he matters so little to you that you cannot give him a name.”

“There is no need for me to name my horse.”

“Perhaps,” she said sweetly. “Had you given him a name by which to call him, I might not have stolen him so easily…my lord.” She reached the other side of the saddle and slung a small bow and a quiver of arrows from the saddle.

"What is that?" Lyall stared at the weapon.

"My bow and arrows."

"You will have no need of weapons, woman."

She faced him. "How do you know?"

"You believe you can save us from attack with those?" Lyall laughed. A broadsword would cut her down before she had notched an arrow.

"I do not ride without them."

"I do not ride with them."

They exchanged the same look, then Lyall said, "Fine. Give them to me." He held out his hand. "I will not ride with an armed woman. Should we meet with trouble, you might shoot me while you're trying to notch that thing."

"You know nothing--"

"Give them to me." He would argue no more with her, for it was like trying to beat down a drawbridge with his head.

She rolled her eyes and handed them to him. "Here, then, my lord. I wouldn't want you to fear for your life because of an armed woman."

That was when he'd had enough of her mouth. He broke the bow in half and all the arrows, then tossed it aside, ignoring her gasp. "Now there will be no reason to argue any longer."

The look she gave him could have caused a fire. He cared naught but sat there staring back at her until she shook her head and looked away, clearly angry.

A bee buzzed 'round his head and he swatted at it, but it landed on his neck and stung him. He cursed and slapped a hand on it, pulling it and the stinger from his skin. He was scowling down at the dead insect when she said with a half laugh, "No doubt lured by your sweet manner, my lord."

She checked the rolled bundle she had tied to her horse, and her leather satchel bags then ran her hands down the horse’s legs and examined the hooves, before she adjusted the bridle again. This was the third time. She was stalling.

“Come now. We can waste no more time dawdling,” he told her sharply. “You should bid farewell to your brothers. They are waiting.”

“I would if I had brothers.” Glenna adjusted the bridle for the fourth time.

He understood pride, and its fall. Watching her, listening to her words and manner, made him vastly aware there was more of her father’s blood in her than she knew, more between them than merely her great likeness to the man. One thing no one could change was who had sired them. Blood was blood. He knew that all too well.

“Glenna.” There was true pain in Elgin’s voice as he moved closer “I knew nothing of any of this. I beg you, do not hold me to blame.”

Lyall could see by the forced set of her shoulders she was battling her own bitterness. Silence fell over them and she stood still. She closed her eyes briefly, and then spun around. “Oh, El….” She threw her arms around him and sobbed into his neck.

Elgin patted her back gently. “You must forgive poor Alastair. He loves you well, as do I. Know this, Glenna, you will always be my own sister.” He spoke fiercely and with great heart.

Alastair stood back and away, listening, looking awkward, but clearly afraid to come closer lest she reject him. Her words must have cut him deeply. Certainly Lyall had felt the lash of a woman’s tongue before, and knew well how guilt could eat at a man long after the words, and even the woman who had spoken them, had died.

Glenna released her tight hold on Elgin and stepped back. He handed her his wide brimmed hat. “Here. Tuck up your braid and travel safe.”

She wrapped the long, thick braid of black hair around her head and plopped the hat on, grinning up at Elgin Gordon. He tied the strings under her chin and smiled back at her. She looked like a lad and Lyall wondered how many times she had done this; it looked to be a ritual between the two of them. She grabbed Elgin’s hand and kissed it, her expression soft for barely a heartbeat, then she let go and cast a glance at Alastair.

Her chin went up. Everything about her screamed Traitor!

Yet Alastair bravely closed the distance between them. "Here." He held a small package wrapped in plain cloth.

"What is this, " Glenna asked. "I want no parting gifts from you."

"It is not a gift. I had forgotten about it until this morn. This is yours. When father brought you home, you were wrapped in this infant coverlet. He told me your mother made it, and you were to have it someday."

She took the parcel, then turned away to put it in her pack.

“For me also, Glenna, you will forever be my sister." He reached out to her as if to touch her cheek, then caught himself. The two of them stared at each other, looking for answers. Alastair glanced away, as if searching for courage to say the words. When he turned back he said, “I will treasure all those years we had, and never will I forget the way you looked up to me. I will always, in my heart, be your elder brother. I will never forget when you were small and you sat in my lap every night begging me for another tale, another ancient fable. Remember this. I was naught but a green lad back then. Raising you and El alone…that was what made me into a man.”

Her face fell slightly and her dark, almost black eyes grew moist. She straightened and held her head even higher.

“Those stories I told you at night were not true, either, but you thrived with the knowing of them, and I thrived from the telling. I care naught about the lies I had to tell you or what I did. I care only that I hurt you. But know this, too, that you are alive and well and going home now. To protect your destiny was the task my father left me, and I did the best I could for you with so little knowledge of how I was supposed to go about it. I do love you dearly, my sister, and shall miss you every morn and every night until I die.”

Glenna did not look away from him, nor did she give him the burning, bitter glare from the night before. However there was great sadness and disappointment in her and Lyall thought he caught the glimmer of moisture in her dark eyes. She mounted astride the bay, settling into her seat, reins in hand, before she turned to him and said simply, “Goodbye, Alastair.”

From what Lyall had seen that morning, those were the first words she had spoken to Alastair Gordon since she had cried openly the night before and called him a traitor. This time her words were not spoken in anger or with coldness.

She edged her mount over to Lyall’s side. “Fergus! Come!”

The hound trotted over from where he was sitting quietly with her brothers and he circled and plopped down next to her and her horse, waiting. Lyall looked at the dog in horror.

“I am ready, my lord.”

“The hound will stay.”

Her look was brittle.

“We will be riding hard,” he told her sternly. “I won’t have that hound hold us up.”

She laughed with little humor. “Fergus? I assure you he can keep up, my lord.”

The dog sat there, tongue lolling out, looking at him with a human look no dog should wear. He had been but a lad the last time a dog had looked at him like that. What happened long ago had naught to do with now, with her dog, or even with his choices. Somehow he knew Glenna was going to fight him more than he would like. His hands tightened on the reins. He did not want to bend to her will so soon.

“I do not go without him,” she said again, clearly understanding her power quickly.

Yes…she was the daughter of a king.

He did not speak but gave her a sharp nod and took the lead as they rode off together across the grassy knolls, Fergus loping easily alongside her. He rode without looking back, expecting her to learn to stay up with him, but was aware of the sound of her mount’s hooves. She rode alongside him. His mount took the hillside with vigor; they rode higher and farther, until he reached the very top of the rise.

“Montrose!” she called out. “Wait.”

He swore silently. He knew it. Already the dog was trouble. He reined in and turned, expecting to see the dog lagging behind. The dog was sitting next to him, grinning like a jester who had just performed his best trick. For one moment he wondered if the dog could juggle, too.

But Glenna had turned her mount around to face the half-hidden cottage well below, and the dark and distant figures of two young men left standing there.

They had not moved.

She stood in her stirrups and waved vigorously, looking like the child she must have once been. He was captivated, watching her. So he waited, arm resting on the pommel, giving her as much of a farewell as she needed, and wondering if she even knew she was smiling.

He knew the power of a woman’s smile, he had a mother and sister who also understood a woman’s power over a man, and he reminded himself he was in no position to relinquish anything to a woman. He had a single goal. He had a mission to complete. That was all. That was enough.

When she was done, she settled into the saddle and waited expectantly. The dog barked anxiously, ready to run. Lyall studied Glenna for some sign of female weakness, for the suggestion of tears or the tension of her strong pride, the things that would mask what she was feeling. After a long moment she cast a glance at him under the wide flat brim of her hat, her chin up. He had the insane thought that he would hear the king’s deep and commanding voice spill from her lips, so alike did they wear that same dark and imperious look.

“Come now,” she said mockingly. “For a man in such a hurry, Baron, you certainly dawdle for long, wasted moments.”

His own words thrown back at him.

Before he could speak, she turned her horse and took off down the other side, hound loping coltishly at her side.

Lyall stared at her narrow back and laughed aloud, riding after them, heading eastward, aware the journey ahead of him would be far from dull.