of raiding parties into England mistiming a ride across the sands and hearing what seemed a distant roar.
Men had looked toward it only to see the incoming tide nearly upon them in a six-foot wall of water.
The nearby coast sloped gently to the water as it did near Annan House. The rhythmically undulating water of the turning tide
was brown and silt-ridden.
Comfortably warm in her heavy cloak, lulled by the sounds of the wind in the sail and an occasional rhythmic thumping of oars,
she drowsed.
When she opened her eyes, the sun was halfway to the western horizon and Caerlaverock Castle was coming into view, with the
mouth of the river Nith beyond it. Apparently they had to head right into the wind now to follow the coast.
The sail was down, and the oarsmen were rowing hard.
She recognized the great ruin of Caerlaverock easily, because the previous year she and Fiona had traveled with their father
and Phaeline to Threave, the Lord of Galloway’s great stronghold on an islet in the river Dee. Galloway lay much farther west,
making her wonder just how far the little galley would take her.
She stole a glance at her captor, who stood amidships, eyeing the sky and casting glances coastward, mayhap judging the depth
of the ebbing tide.
He truly was a fine figure of a man, she thought, for an unprincipled villain.
Wondering if he was daft or just much more dangerous than he had seemed at Dunwythie Mains, she wondered, too, what he would
do with her.
His apparent comparison of her abduction to the way his helmsman steered his boat had made little sense, as little as his
suggestion that by abducting her—capturing her, he had said—he could save untold numbers of lives.
Such a claim was absurd. It was also infuriating.
How outraged she had been when he had scooped her up so effortlessly, ignoring her struggles and useless cries, and carried
her to his boat. She was still furious, come to that. But she had concealed her fury just as she had whenever such strong
emotion had stirred for almost as long as she could remember.
Venting her emotions had rarely won anything but punishment and censure for unladylike behavior. So she had learned to control
her outbursts.
By heaven’s grace, she would continue to keep her temper until she could better judge her situation and the man who had stolen
her. By then, she hoped she could devise an argument that would persuade him to take her home.
Whatever else he might do, she would not, under any circumstance, let him provoke her into losing control of herself.
Rob sensed her anger again. It radiated from her in waves even when she did not look at him. But he began to wonder if her
continued silence might be due only to the presence of his men. He hoped that was all it was and that she would express herself
more easily when they reached Trailinghail.
It had occurred to him only after he had captured her that he had terrified her. At the time, he had merely seized his opportunity
without sparing a thought for her feelings. Hardly an excuse, but he had done it and could not undo it now.
Having become certain after talking with Parland Dow that disaster must result if Dunwythie’s recalcitrance spurred Alex to
invade Annandale, Rob had decided to see to the matter himself, not only to prove that he
could
influence Dunwythie but also, and more important, to avoid an outright clan war that could affect any number of clans both
great and small.
Believing that Alex would pursue no violent course during the holy season of Lent, Rob had set himself to work out the details
of his plan with care.
Alex clearly believed that Dunwythie’s stubbornness was ill-willed, that he was simply defying the sheriff’s rightful authority.
But Dunwythie just as clearly believed that
he
was adhering to legal, time-honored tradition.
Lady Kelso had reinforced much of what Alex had said to Rob, primarily with regard to one’s duty to one’s clan but also
Men had looked toward it only to see the incoming tide nearly upon them in a six-foot wall of water.
The nearby coast sloped gently to the water as it did near Annan House. The rhythmically undulating water of the turning tide
was brown and silt-ridden.
Comfortably warm in her heavy cloak, lulled by the sounds of the wind in the sail and an occasional rhythmic thumping of oars,
she drowsed.
When she opened her eyes, the sun was halfway to the western horizon and Caerlaverock Castle was coming into view, with the
mouth of the river Nith beyond it. Apparently they had to head right into the wind now to follow the coast.
The sail was down, and the oarsmen were rowing hard.
She recognized the great ruin of Caerlaverock easily, because the previous year she and Fiona had traveled with their father
and Phaeline to Threave, the Lord of Galloway’s great stronghold on an islet in the river Dee. Galloway lay much farther west,
making her wonder just how far the little galley would take her.
She stole a glance at her captor, who stood amidships, eyeing the sky and casting glances coastward, mayhap judging the depth
of the ebbing tide.
He truly was a fine figure of a man, she thought, for an unprincipled villain.
Wondering if he was daft or just much more dangerous than he had seemed at Dunwythie Mains, she wondered, too, what he would
do with her.
His apparent comparison of her abduction to the way his helmsman steered his boat had made little sense, as little as his
suggestion that by abducting her—capturing her, he had said—he could save untold numbers of lives.
Such a claim was absurd. It was also infuriating.
How outraged she had been when he had scooped her up so effortlessly, ignoring her struggles and useless cries, and carried
her to his boat. She was still furious, come to that. But she had concealed her fury just as she had whenever such strong
emotion had stirred for almost as long as she could remember.
Venting her emotions had rarely won anything but punishment and censure for unladylike behavior. So she had learned to control
her outbursts.
By heaven’s grace, she would continue to keep her temper until she could better judge her situation and the man who had stolen
her. By then, she hoped she could devise an argument that would persuade him to take her home.
Whatever else he might do, she would not, under any circumstance, let him provoke her into losing control of herself.
Rob sensed her anger again. It radiated from her in waves even when she did not look at him. But he began to wonder if her
continued silence might be due only to the presence of his men. He hoped that was all it was and that she would express herself
more easily when they reached Trailinghail.
It had occurred to him only after he had captured her that he had terrified her. At the time, he had merely seized his opportunity
without sparing a thought for her feelings. Hardly an excuse, but he had done it and could not undo it now.
Having become certain after talking with Parland Dow that disaster must result if Dunwythie’s recalcitrance spurred Alex to
invade Annandale, Rob had decided to see to the matter himself, not only to prove that he
could
influence Dunwythie but also, and more important, to avoid an outright clan war that could affect any number of clans both
great and small.
Believing that Alex would pursue no violent course during the holy season of Lent, Rob had set himself to work out the details
of his plan with care.
Alex clearly believed that Dunwythie’s stubbornness was ill-willed, that he was simply defying the sheriff’s rightful authority.
But Dunwythie just as clearly believed that
he
was adhering to legal, time-honored tradition.
Lady Kelso had reinforced much of what Alex had said to Rob, primarily with regard to one’s duty to one’s clan but also
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