could not contain his joy at having such a light punishment. “I will not harm the girl.”
“Good,” the youth replied curtly, then turned toward the door and yelled, “You women, off with you now. You have had your entertainment for this day. Leave these two to get acquainted.” He turned back and said, “Enid, wash him quickly before your father returns. You will have much to explain to that good man.”
“Your own father has truly raised a merciful son, my lord,” Donald Gillie replied.
The youth laughed heartily. “My father has no son.”
Donald Gillie looked after the departing figure, then appealed to Enid for explanation. “What did he mean?”
“’Twas no he.” She laughed at his confusion. “’Twas the Lady Brenna who spared your life.”
B renna swung open the heavy, solid-oak door, letting the midday sun spill into the darkened hall of the manor. The hallway was empty, but voices drifted out through the double doors of the large receiving chamber to the right. Brenna could hear her stepsister Cordella and the cook discussing the fare for the evening meal.
Cordella was the last person Brenna cared to see now—or at any time, for that matter. Especially not now, though, when she was so tender from her fall—damn Willow, anyway—and not at her best.
Accustomed to dashing through the hall on her merry way, Brenna was sorely put out to have to amble along at a snail’s pace. She felt as if every muscle in her lower region ached, and the short bout with the stranger Donald Gillie had not helped any. She had been hard pressed to keep from flinching everytime she moved about in Enid’s cottage, but a strong will had kept the pain from showing on her delicate features.
Ha! The stranger had thought she was a boy. This had done much for her ego. Wasn’t it the impression she wanted to give? For those few minutes she was truly her father’s son, not just the young-hearted boy in this cumbersome woman’s body. Angus would have been as proud as she was herself.
She climbed the few steps at the bottom of the wide stairs, then turned abruptly to climb the remaining ones that led to the maze of halls on the second floor. A stranger to the manor would surely get lost in those halls, for it was as if two separate builders had begun the manor, each on the opposite side, and tried to meet in the middle, without success. Angus’s father had built the house in this fashion because it suited him to confound his guests. Angus was already a young man when the manor was completed, for it had taken a score of years to build such a conglomeration of mazes.
The first floor of the manor was like that of any other such building, but the second floor had nine separate chambers, each one with its own private hallway. Brenna turned right at the first hall and passed the single door that led to her father’s room. He would be there now, in bed, for he had become ill a week past, and had yet to improve. She considered going in to tell him of her sport with the stranger. But perhaps later; she needed a bath first.
Brenna turned at the end of her father’s short hall and entered that of Cordella and her husband. To the left were her own chambers at the front of the house. Hers was a corner room, giving her ample light from two windows in the outer walls. Having seen only seventeen winters, she did not mind the long trek to her chamber except on a day like this one, when every step was an effort.
Brenna felt like screaming in relief when she finally opened her door, pausing only to call for Alane, her servant. She closed the door slowly and hobbled to the bed, taking off the mantle which hid her glorious long hair as she walked. Her long hair. It was the only thing that did not conform to the image she liked to affect. Her father forbade her to cut it, so she kept it hidden. She hated this very obvious symbol of her womanhood.
Before Brenna’s head touched the pillow, Alane rushed into the room from her own
“Good,” the youth replied curtly, then turned toward the door and yelled, “You women, off with you now. You have had your entertainment for this day. Leave these two to get acquainted.” He turned back and said, “Enid, wash him quickly before your father returns. You will have much to explain to that good man.”
“Your own father has truly raised a merciful son, my lord,” Donald Gillie replied.
The youth laughed heartily. “My father has no son.”
Donald Gillie looked after the departing figure, then appealed to Enid for explanation. “What did he mean?”
“’Twas no he.” She laughed at his confusion. “’Twas the Lady Brenna who spared your life.”
B renna swung open the heavy, solid-oak door, letting the midday sun spill into the darkened hall of the manor. The hallway was empty, but voices drifted out through the double doors of the large receiving chamber to the right. Brenna could hear her stepsister Cordella and the cook discussing the fare for the evening meal.
Cordella was the last person Brenna cared to see now—or at any time, for that matter. Especially not now, though, when she was so tender from her fall—damn Willow, anyway—and not at her best.
Accustomed to dashing through the hall on her merry way, Brenna was sorely put out to have to amble along at a snail’s pace. She felt as if every muscle in her lower region ached, and the short bout with the stranger Donald Gillie had not helped any. She had been hard pressed to keep from flinching everytime she moved about in Enid’s cottage, but a strong will had kept the pain from showing on her delicate features.
Ha! The stranger had thought she was a boy. This had done much for her ego. Wasn’t it the impression she wanted to give? For those few minutes she was truly her father’s son, not just the young-hearted boy in this cumbersome woman’s body. Angus would have been as proud as she was herself.
She climbed the few steps at the bottom of the wide stairs, then turned abruptly to climb the remaining ones that led to the maze of halls on the second floor. A stranger to the manor would surely get lost in those halls, for it was as if two separate builders had begun the manor, each on the opposite side, and tried to meet in the middle, without success. Angus’s father had built the house in this fashion because it suited him to confound his guests. Angus was already a young man when the manor was completed, for it had taken a score of years to build such a conglomeration of mazes.
The first floor of the manor was like that of any other such building, but the second floor had nine separate chambers, each one with its own private hallway. Brenna turned right at the first hall and passed the single door that led to her father’s room. He would be there now, in bed, for he had become ill a week past, and had yet to improve. She considered going in to tell him of her sport with the stranger. But perhaps later; she needed a bath first.
Brenna turned at the end of her father’s short hall and entered that of Cordella and her husband. To the left were her own chambers at the front of the house. Hers was a corner room, giving her ample light from two windows in the outer walls. Having seen only seventeen winters, she did not mind the long trek to her chamber except on a day like this one, when every step was an effort.
Brenna felt like screaming in relief when she finally opened her door, pausing only to call for Alane, her servant. She closed the door slowly and hobbled to the bed, taking off the mantle which hid her glorious long hair as she walked. Her long hair. It was the only thing that did not conform to the image she liked to affect. Her father forbade her to cut it, so she kept it hidden. She hated this very obvious symbol of her womanhood.
Before Brenna’s head touched the pillow, Alane rushed into the room from her own
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