Glenna stepped out onto the top deck of the ship and stretched her arms high in the cool morning air, yawning. All around her was the Minch, looking calm and like an unbelievably peaceful firth. The blue water was glistening like new coins in the high sunlight, as if the whole of frightening events of yesterday and the night before had been only a terrible dream.

She flexed her numb fingers. Sleep escaped her more most of the night. When she had finally slept, she felt as if she had been imprisoned in the hold forever, sitting there and hanging onto Montrose, wondering with each diving pitch of the storm when the ship would crack in half and they would all perish into the black depths of the sea.

She took a deep breath and rubbed her arms, which were marked with the thin red pattern of the rush mat used for sleeping pallets. Above her, the sails flapped unevenly with the wind now coming in soft sweet gusts, and she heard the splash of the oar wake, and the rocking, almost songlike rhythm of the oarsman’s chant as the boat moved close to land and parallel to the coast. Against the eastern horizon the mainland was large, its shadowy grey-green hills now sharp enough to see the ragged tops of the trees, while the land’s edges were still thinly shrouded by white morning mist floating just out of reach and ghostlike upon the water.

Montrose stood near the prow of the ship, his booted foot resting on a barrel tied to the ship’s bow and he was holding a halyard with one hand. His hair blew back away in the sea breeze and his eyes were only for the skies and land ahead. He wore his sword belt and a pale blue tunic she thought looked the same color as his eyes. Dark blue woolen hose covered his long legs, and the silver hilt of a dagger showed from the top of his boot. She watched him with hungry eyes, his profile so hawk-like, strong--almost stubbornly so.

Standing there as he was, he looked as if he were defying the laws of nature, daring them to try to make him someone other exactly who he wanted to be. She’d seen his jaw grow tight and ridged when he was angry, and now unshaven, his beard had grown in dark, like his brows, looking like storm shadows on his jaw and neck. Her first impression of him had been so very different from the man she’d seen since.

Who was the golden one who so easily and carelessly dove through the waves in the sea?

The breadth of his shoulders, the thick, lean sinew of his thighs held her captive, led her mind to places where only dreams were made. That he was an impressive man was undeniable, and, were she in the market for one, he might have been a decent choice.

Clinging to him the night before made her feel safe, something she had thought she’d lost. She looked away, disliking the direction of her thoughts. Survival was what she needed to concentrate upon…not standing there ogling him like she would a honeyed comfit. She was wasting time, time she needed to be plotting how to get as far away from the man as possible. She turned swiftly, moving toward the stern, running away from him and her foolhardy thoughts.

However one thought led to another, and a few moments later she was almost brought to her knees by a new revelation. She reached out blindly and sat down hard on a ballast stone, white-knuckled and suddenly feeling pale.

What a fool she was… She had been frightened her father would lock her away or send her into exile? She was the daughter of the king…a pawn for men to use. Surely her father would marry her off to someone. When he saw she was nothing remotely royal, a worthless daughter, he would get rid of her quickly.

But a king would use the match to his best advantage…country and politics had to come first. Just the fact that she was raised in secret was proof enough of her value.

Oh God…she hung her head in her hands and for a moment, she wanted to heave over the side. Were she weak and a coward, she would have flung herself overboard. All the possibilities of her plight raced through her mind. She could be given--would be given--to some man as a prize, a reward for duty or a task well done. Her father could easily give her away in marriage to one of his enemies as a peace offering.

What else was her worth to him? She was little more than a roasted boar on a serving platter with an apple in her mouth. Here, take my daughter.

She could and probably would be sent far, far away, to the places she only heard of through Alastair’s storytelling. To England? To Normandy? Germany? She shuddered. Did not the Germans bury their women alive as punishment?

“You… Lad.”

Her father could send her off to the burning hot deserts of the east, where a husband had the right and duty to chop off his disobedient woman’s head with a scimitar.

“Lad!”

The Norse! Visions filled her head…of men clad from head to toe in thick wolf fur and rough hides, who tied their women to their waists with ropes and dragged them to huts where they forced them into servitude as cooks and bed slaves.

She looked up, feeling terribly despondent.

“Lad!” Montrose shouted.

She faced him.

He was striding toward her, his hands in fists, his long legs eating up the distance between them. Some things did not change. She sighed with a bout of hopelessness. He was her own personal guard, sent by her father, and unbeknownst to all but her, he was leading her to a future she could not chance.

“Are you bloody deaf?” Montrose towered over her, huge fists on his hips. “Lad.”

Oh, I forgot. I’m lad.

A heaviness that was almost too overwhelming swept over her. She could barely face what she believed lay ahead for her. She faced him instead, aware she'd like to forget she was the daughter of a king.

* * *

The Marram wharf at mid-morning was busy. They had come into port later than planned, having to travel northward along the coast after the storm blew the ship far south. Then they were forced to wait for a merchant cog to cast off from the end dock, many of them having sought safe moorage with the storm.

Lyall eased his temperamental mount down the gangplank, his hands firm on the lead, following Glenna and her horse and hound, both of whom happily trotted down from the ship in the blink of an eye. They waited on the edge of the wharf for him to conquer his horse, which was still riled and skittish from the storm. The truth was that for all the black’s spirit, he was never good at crossings, rivers or seas. Standing and waiting below were Glenna and her hound.

Soon, no longer than it took their horses’ hooves to cross the wharf boards, new clouds had begun to form high in the distant sky. Lyall wondered if they were an omen of more rain to come—or recompense for the deviled madness of his actions. He looked away and cursed. Now they would have to ride all that much harder and faster, and if another storm was coming, he would be hard-pressed to arrive as planned.

But as they wound their way on horseback, the crowd grew thicker on the narrow stone road by the wharves. Poor luck would have it that two ships besides theirs, along with several small local fishing boats, had come to dock that morning, so the town was bustling even before the drifts of morning fog had burned off.

A large English trade ship had anchored in the inlet, unable to unload yesterday, was now unloading supplies, and the hawkers’ carts were set up by the docks. Blocking Lyall’s immediate path was a cheese cart tilted sideways and filled to the brim with English cheese; its owner rushed to examine the damaged wheel, so they had little choice but to draw in their mounts and wait for the lumbering dray to turn. Nearby, fishwives sold savory smoked fish hung over their peat fires and fishmongers loaded their carts with ling and herring, haddock and cod from the small fishing boats offloading their morning catches.

Soon the hawking was loud and growing frantic. Lines formed around all the bright stalls fronted by servants from the local manors, who arrived with fat leather purses to pick the best catch for their lords’ supper tables. His empty belly growled like a lion, and he knew Glenna must be even more hungry after puking for most the day before, so he dismounted and bought supplies, some smoked fish and fresh dark bread, turnips, apples and cheese along with a flagon of pressed cider.

He handed Glenna some smoked herring. “Here. Eat something.” He drank deeply then gave her the cider.

She merely stared at his outstretched hand. From the look on her face, it was apparent her foul mood had not changed since the moment she woke.

“Why, my lord,” she said, sarcastically.”How perfectly kind of you to ask so sweetly if I would care to break my fast.”

He bit back the inklings of a smile. He supposed she had a point. “Take the food, lad.” His voice was kinder.

She rolled her eyes and grabbed the smoked fish and cider.

After purring like a kitten against his side until the early hours of the morning, she had awakened in the hold with an attitude seemingly determined to give him trouble. Her seat in the saddle was spine-stiff, shoulders squared and back, her face shaded from her hat, pulled low now, like it could hide that Canmore pride he’d seen more than once. She looked exactly like what she was: the offspring of a king, even turned away from him as she was now. He imagined that were she not as starved as she was, she might have refused the food and called him something else altogether. Turnipbrain or clodpole or some other such female foolishness. Mairi must have called him every name imaginable over the years.

He tore off a piece of fish, and so they were both eating and going nowhere.

The longer they were at a standstill, the more the risk. They needed to ride, and ride soon and quickly.

They waited for the blasted cart, but the longer they were stuck there, the more likely someone might recognize him. On horseback, he was head and shoulders above much of the crowd. To hide in Marram, where some of the nearby nobles knew him was worrisome and one of the major reasons he traveled alone.

Had he sailed with Glenna in the evening as planned, they would have arrived in the evening, Mornings at the docks were hectic and crowded, and there was a stronger chance for him to be seen.

Time moved as if caught in mud. The sun was higher and the approaching clouds began to fill the western skies, then to add coal to the fire, the cursed hound began to frolic, barking and running in circles around Glenna, restless after being stowed below for too long. Again Lyall was forced to calm his horse. To Glenna he said harshly, “Control that hellhound of yours!”

“Fergus!” She tossed some fish at the dog and it sat on his large haunches chomping with its big mouth and looking happy as a lark…unlike its owner, who glanced pointedly back at him, giving him a look that said she wanted the earth to open up and swallow him. She was like a flea in his hose. If her intent was to annoy him, it was working.

Women were his curse and his salvation. They were single beings with the most power over him and his conscience, and they were those who loved him most and who he had no choice but to disappoint.

He thought of Isobel, the beautiful and innocent daughter of Teàrlach de Hay, one of the most powerful and cunning men in the land. He had known he was walking into a snake pit, tying himself by marriage to the de Hay family, but in his rush to have all he desired, he gave little thought to his bride before they wed. Guilt washed over him, followed by a horrific image from the past. Marrying him had driven the fragile Isobel de Hay to her death.

His conscience spoke to him as clearly as if it actually had a voice. The idea that he was repeating his mistakes gnawed at him. Prior to his mission, he had not given much thought to Glenna, other than who she was: the king’s secret daughter—more valuable than gold and his only means to Dunkeldon lands. He had valued her the same way he had valued Isobel.

He studied her for a moment, looking for frailty and seeing none. She was a thief, he had to remember that, and must have been trained to hide, sneak, and cover up any fears. Chances were high innate bravery and spirit were not what he saw in her, but instead schemes and deceit, as refined and honed as those who plotted treasons, kidnappings, and other betrayals.

Many men claimed women could be more deadly than any enemy, although the women in his life had great faith and belief and honest loyalty. He thought then of Mairi and what his sister would think of what he was doing.

He could feel his skin flush. She would chew his ears off, as would his mother. He looked back at Glenna, taking in her features, her stature. If she and Mairi were to have stood side by side, it would be like looking at a moonless night and a sunny day—both impenetrably strong.

She was an interesting mix—thief and royal daughter—no meek woman, simpering and wringing her hands and crying at the slightest dark look. Isobel.... He doubted Glenna Canmore would jump from a tower. More likely that she would man it.

A loud and piercing crack made him turn back to the wharf. Shouts and curses came from the cart seller, now stuck with a broken axle. The cheese cart upended and huge cheese wheels were spilling everywhere, some rolling down the small planked street and others headed for the water.

People were rushing after them, and the chaos was more than Lyall had patience for. He started to dismount and take over, but then there came the loud blast of a trumpet, heralding to all the imminent arrival of a nobleman with his troops. His gaze shot toward the southern end of the road.

In the distance, he saw the dust cloud of approaching horses, men-at-arms-- and then to his dismay, he caught the flicker of a pennant. Swearing, he moved swiftly to hide his shield and turned his horse, sidling up to Glenna. “Turn around. We will go north and around all this madness. Come. Quickly.”

Lyall all but trampled his way to the northern edges of Marram, earning shaking fists and curses from bold villagers and wharvesmen who gave not a fig for the powerful sword at his side.

When they were safely away from the edges of town and well out of sight of the wharves, he reined in, his mount side-stepping, uneasy and nervous and his own heart pounding like hoofbeats in his chest. His nerves were raw.

Ahead lay fields turned fallow after a recent harvest, then hill after rolling hill, some spotted with deep green copses of ancient oaks and rowan, and lacy birch just beginning to turn golden. Yet each hillock was a little higher than the last and led up to rings of surrounding jagged toothed fir forests to the north, from the middle of which stood a huge and majestic crag, bare and gray and looking like a wise old man’s head. It dominated the northern horizon.

The safest and most obscure route was to the southeast, where all that stood before them were rolling green hills for as many leagues and as far as the eye could see…and the storm clouds, gaining size and heavy gray color and beginning to fill the southern skies with the promise of rain.

He nodded at her hound. “Can your dog keep up? The horses are biting at the bit for a good run.”

“Perhaps, my lord, we should put your question to the test,” Glenna said and kicked her horse forward, across the low rolling hills, her dog loping at her side and her sudden laughter carrying back to him on the brisk and waxing wind.