Captive of the Border Lord

Create the illusion of the dance. Was this one of the lessons in how to survive at court?

There were things she admired about this man. The patient care he had taken to teach her the dance. The way he had risked the King’s wrath to protect her.

It was only the dance that made her warm. Only the relief that she could do it, that she would not be embarrassed next time, that made her smile. Only the habit of being in tune with his body that made her sway closer …

His arms had taken her before he realised it. Last time his armour and their audience had protected him. And her. This time the cloth between them seemed all too flimsy.

This time they were alone. This time there was no one to see what they did. She was happy and easy with him at last. He had dreamed of those lips, and now they beckoned to him …

When I began to write this, the second in The Brunson Clan trilogy, all I knew of the story was that ‘the sister goes to court’. The next hint only seemed to confuse things. ‘Cinderella …’ whispered my Muse. She also said, ‘Rebecca …’ the perfect first wife of the Daphne du Maurier tale.

But the strongest message I received was an image of dancing in a castle by the sea. It seemed like something out of a fairytale—much too fanciful for the plain-spoken and practical sister of a rough and ready band of Border warriors.

Which was, of course, exactly the point.

About the Author

After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD started writing seriously after a corporate lay-off. Ten years and one more lay-off later, she became an overnight success when she sold her Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist manuscript to Harlequin Mills & Boon. She has since written medieval romances featuring characters born on the wrong side of the royal blanket. Now she’s exploring the turbulent Scottish Borders.

The Chicago Tribune has called her work ‘the perfect balance between history and romance’. She lives and works along Chicago’s lakefront, and juggles writing with a consulting career. She loves to have visitors at www.blythegifford.com, ‘thumbs-up’ at www.facebook.com/BlytheGifford, and ‘tweets’ at www.twitter.com/BlytheGifford

Previous novels by the same author:

 THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN

 THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER

 INNOCENCE UNVEILED

 IN THE MASTER’S BED

 HIS BORDER BRIDE

 RETURN OF THE BORDER WARRIOR*

*The Brunson Clan

Look for Black Rob’s story in The Brunson Clan trilogy coming soon

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Captive of the

Border Lord

Blythe Gifford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication

To all those who have forgotten what they want.

Or are afraid to claim it.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Michelle Prima and Pat White,

who help keep me sane, and to Pam Hopkins,

who continues to believe in me.

Women sing the ballads. The ballads do not sing of women.

—Geordie Brunson

But the women’s voices sang strong and clear. Strong enough to carry the stories down through the ages.

Left on the field by the rest of his clan

Abandoned for dead was the First Brunson man.

Every Brunson knew the Ballad of the First Brunson. Yet the song still held secrets.

Secrets for each Brunson to discover in his—or her—own way.

Chapter One

The Middle March, Scottish Borders— November 1528

Bessie Brunson took a deep breath and prepared to climb a flight of stairs for what seemed like the hundredth time since sunrise.

It was not yet noon.

The steps that faced her now led to the top of the barmkin wall, where her brothers had taken the watch, all the better to keep them from under her feet while she made final preparations for the wedding celebration. But two grown men needed food, so she raised her skirt in one hand, balanced the bag of oat cakes in the other, and started up the stairs.

Thunder rumbled and she looked up at the November sky, startled. Grey, windswept, but …

Not thunder. Hooves.

She hurried the last few steps to reach the wall walk, then stood between her brothers and looked west over the valley that was theirs. ‘Who comes?’

Black Rob shook his head. ‘No one I want to see.’

She squinted against the wind, as the banner’s green and gold became clear. The colours of Lord Thomas Carwell, Warden of the Scottish March.

I’ll hold you responsible, if something happens. Bessie had told him that, right before Willie Storwick escaped. And the warden had never proven he wasn’t.

Not to her satisfaction.

She turned to her brother John. ‘We did not invite him to your wedding.’

‘No,’ Johnnie answered. ‘But he was courteous enough to send a man ahead to announce his coming.’

‘Only because he knew he’d be shot from his horse if he arrived without warning,’ Rob said.

She sighed. Neither one of them had thought to tell her the guest list might swell. ‘Will you let him in?’

On her left, Black Rob, now head of the family, fingered his crossbow. ‘I’d rather shoot him.’

Johnnie, taller, with hair red as her own, shook his head. ‘We’ve done enough to anger the King. Let’s at least see what Carwell has to say.’

Rob scowled and she held her breath, waiting for them to quarrel anew, but finally, he nodded. ‘But we tell him nothing.’

The horses slowed as they approached the gate. Carwell removed his steel bonnet, a gesture of peace, and pushed straight brown hair off his forehead as he looked up at the three Brunsons. ‘We’re here to celebrate a happy occasion.’

‘Cease your blather, Carwell,’ Rob growled. ‘No one invited you.’

‘An oversight. I’m sure you meant to include the King’s representative.’

Beside her, Johnnie clenched a fist. He had come home a King’s man, but stayed home a Brunson. Some day, they would all have to answer for that.

‘Our hospitality does not extend to those who betray us,’ Rob called down.

‘An accusation I’ve denied.’

‘But did not disprove,’ John answered.

‘And still you’ve ridden and fought by my side.’

‘True,’ Rob said. ‘That doesn’t mean we trust you.’

No one knew whose side Carwell was on, except for his own.

Carwell stretched out his left arm, palm up, smile unshaken. ‘I swear by my baptised hand that I come in friendship.’

Now it was Johnnie who yelled, ‘And will you leave the same way?’

Bessie sighed. She could feed twelve more if she cut the beef in smaller chunks, though she wasn’t sure where the men would sleep. She leaned over the wall. ‘Leave your weapons at the gate and cause no trouble and you’re welcome to the feast.’

She turned to go back down the stairs, ignoring Rob’s glare and Johnnie’s raised eyebrows. ‘The meat wasn’t cooking itself while you three dunderheads traded insults. I’ll not have Johnnie’s wedding spoiled by the likes of him.’

Carwell had spoiled things aplenty already.

Carwell forced himself to smile while his men handed over pikes, swords and crossbows and entered the tower’s courtyard.

Disarming was no risk. If a Brunson wanted to kill you, he would be sure you had a sword in your hand when he did.

And Thomas Carwell was a man who always calculated the risks. He might be unpopular, but he was alive. So he’d smile at these people and celebrate this wedding without pointing out that the marriage of John Brunson and Cate Gilnock had put him in a very, very difficult position.

Bessie Brunson stood in the courtyard, the stern set of her chin less than welcoming. ‘Tell them to eat no more than their share.’

Rude words for soft lips, but he let her insult lie unanswered.

I’ll hold you responsible, she had told him. Apparently, she blamed him still.

He blamed himself. For things she would never know.

The smile strained his cheek muscles. ‘We’ll not make ourselves gluttons.’

He had a moment’s sympathy for her. His own castle had room aplenty these days. He could have housed legions of unexpected guests.

But the Brunson tower was built for strength alone. And Bessie Brunson, red-haired and small boned, looked as if she needed its protection.

The light brown eyes that studied him brimmed with suspicion. ‘It was no oversight that you weren’t invited.’

Despite her woman’s delicacy, she was as blunt and stubborn as the rest of her kin. Good way to get yourself killed.

‘But I wanted to celebrate with you,’ he said. ‘To congratulate John and Cate.’

That, and to deliver a message her family would not want to hear.

Her raised eyebrows and crooked frown suggested he had not fooled her. ‘So do that,’ she said, ‘and naught else.’

He tipped his head in thanks, as if she had the right to dictate to him. She’d discover the truth soon enough.

As she glanced toward her brother, a smile finally touched her lips. ‘They deserve a long and happy life together.’

‘Aye,’ he said. Something his marriage had been denied.

Despite, or because of, the extra guests, the celebration that began at midday went long into the night.

Ignoring the ache between her shoulders, Bessie looked over the crowded hall, satisfied. Drink still flowed, singing had begun and, with the addition of Carwell’s men, they had tapped the last barrel of red wine her dead father had taken from the church for safe keeping after the priest fled to Glasgow.

They had cleared space for dancing and the bride and groom skipped down the row together. Though Cate was still more comfortable in breeches than the skirt she wore, she floated beside John, mirroring his movements. The men began singing the new ballad they had composed about her.

Braw Cate, they called her, Cate the Belde …

Cate, laughing, tripped over her skirt and leaned against her smiling husband.

Bessie looked away.

The room was filled with men she had known her entire life—Odd Jock, Fingerless Joe, the Tait brothers—and not one among them could make her smile the way Cate smiled at Johnnie.

‘A good day,’ said Rob, next to her. It was not simply for his dark hair and eyes that her oldest brother was called Black Rob. Yet even he was smiling.

Her gaze drifted back to Thomas Carwell. A half-smile still stamped his face, slapped there like a permanent mask only meant to conceal what was beneath.

She knew something about concealed feelings.

‘Here, Bessie!’ Johnnie called. ‘Take a turn with me.’

She shook her head. ‘Brunsons sing, they don’t dance.’ Words her father had grumbled whenever her mother had tried to pull him to his feet.

Her brother laughed with the easy joy of a man just wed. ‘This Brunson does. Here.’ He reached out a hand. ‘I’ll show you how they dance at court.’

She waved him off, suddenly conscious of Carwell’s eyes on her. That man, too, had the courtliness Johnnie had acquired living beside the King in distant castles in places she had never seen.

And she had no desire to look like a country fool in front of them. ‘Dance with your bride, Johnnie.’

And then, before she knew it, Carwell was beside her, his hand on her waist. ‘I’ll show you.’

He did not wait for her protest, but swung her on to the floor, facing him.

‘It’s called the galliard and there are only five steps. Right, left, right, left, and then …’ He jumped off one foot and landed squarely on two. ‘Now you.’

She stared down at his feet and followed his lead. For just a moment, wearing her best dress, with her hair fresh washed, the ache slid off her shoulders. This must be how it felt to be a lady at court, light on your feet, dancing before the King …

Her eyes met his—his damnable, changeable eyes. He had no doubt danced with ladies like that. Ladies who knew all the steps.

She stumbled and tripped over Carwell’s feet.

Her forehead knocked his chin, her cheeks turned hot and she pulled away, feeling like the lout she was. ‘I do not dance. Let me be.’

She left the floor to lean against the wall and he turned to the other wives and sisters, making each of them giggle and smile in turn as they stumbled through the steps. Had she looked that way when she was beside him?

She bit her lip and turned away. Silly women.

The last honey-flavoured oat cake disappeared into Odd Jock’s maw and she pushed herself away from the wall, scooped up the empty platter and started down the stairs to fetch more. Let the other women enjoy the dance. She would fill the platters and mugs.

Carwell followed her out of the hall and down the stairs. He’d drunk enough to need a piss, no doubt.

‘There’s a garderobe in the corner,’ she called, over her shoulder, pointing. ‘No need to go outside.’

Opening the door a crack, she wished she, too, could stay within the tower’s walls instead of braving the courtyard to reach the kitchen. A cold mist hung in the night air, threatening to dissolve into rain.

Carwell joined her by the door. ‘Do you feel unwell?’

A strange question. She was as healthy as a Galloway nag, her mother had always said. ‘Of course not.’

‘Then perhaps you need some help.’

‘Help?’ How was it that a man, a stranger, noticed what her brothers did not?

She turned to face him, certain she must have misheard, but he was so close that she bumped against him. So close, she caught the scent of leather and the sea.

‘Yes.’ One word, too close to her ear. Close enough that she could have turned her head, touched her lips to his …

And then he was safely, smoothly, a step away, the awkward moment gone so quickly she thought she had imagined it.

An errant wind whistled through the open door and she tightened the plaid around her shoulders. Thomas Carwell, she was certain, never made an offer that wasn’t calculated. She wondered what he meant by this one.

Well, let him spy on the kitchen if he liked. ‘Come.’ She pulled the shawl over her head and darted into the damp darkness without looking back to see if he followed.

It was only a dozen steps across the courtyard, but by the time they stood inside again, the fog had settled on her shoulders and clung to his brown hair. She studied him in the fire’s light, hoping to see a hint of discomfort.

There was none.

His smile seemed as unmovable as a rock. His eyes, on the other hand, changed in every light. Were they brown or green or hazel?

Turning her back on him, Bessie shook off the question. The man’s eyes could be as brown as a Brunson’s and it would not change her opinion of him.

She had left the youngest Tait girl here, with instructions to watch the fire, but the poor girl had fallen asleep, snoring on the grain sack, leaving them a moment alone.

‘You didn’t really want to help me,’ she began, facing him again, ‘Just as you didn’t really come to make merry at John and Cate’s wedding. So before you upset the happiest occasion the Brunsons have enjoyed in months, why don’t you tell me why you are here?’

Carwell kept a smile clamped on his lips. He was learning not to underestimate Bessie Brunson, but it was hard to keep that in mind when he looked at the woman. Red hair tumbled over her shoulders, her brown eyes sparked with suspicion and her lips were full and soft and ready …

He stopped his thoughts. ‘Leave this night for celebration. I’ll speak to your brothers tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? When Rob’s head is double its size because of the wine he’s drunk this night and Johnnie is comfortably abed enjoying his new bride?’

He swallowed a sour retort. ‘They’ll be ready to listen when they hear why I’ve come. It’s a matter for men’s ears.’

She looked to Heaven before she met his eyes again. ‘You’ve no women in your household.’

He blinked. He hadn’t. Not for years. ‘No. Not … now.’

The memory cramped his heart. He would never take a woman for granted again. A twinge, a weary sigh—these could signal the threat of something worse.

He set the thought aside. That was not to be shared with anyone, least of all with this woman. Yet for a moment, he had imagined she would understand.

‘If you had,’ she said, ‘you would know that we do not need to be protected from the truth.’

Looking at this woman, he doubted that her family had protected her from anything at all. ‘Then you’ll know it when they do. And it will be tomorrow.’ The King had no more patience than that.

Despite his offer of help, she asked for nothing as she moved around the room, effortlessly scooping up oat cakes and putting another batch near the hearth. When she finished her sweep through the kitchen, she shook the girl awake and told her to watch that the fire did not burn the kitchen down.

Finally, she joined him at the door.

‘You wanted to help.’ She set down her cakes, filled two flagons with ale from the barrel, and shoved them at him, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘Carry these.’

Silent, he followed her into the cold, proud that he had refrained from pouring her precious ale into the dirt. The woman was as stubborn as the rest of her kin. Maybe more so.

But as he watched the sway of her walk, he remembered the way she had leaned towards him in the dance, following his lead through the unfamiliar steps. For those few moments, there had been nothing but music and movement and the two of them.

Well, her hatred would be back in force tomorrow.

Just as soon as she discovered he was here to take her brother hostage.

Chapter Two

The celebration continued long after they had ushered Johnnie and Cate to the marriage bed. Bessie shooed the rest away from the door, enticing them back to the hall with fresh ale in order to give the newlyweds privacy. Back in the hall, dance turned to song. Odd Jock was trying to teach Cate’s hound to sing.

The beast sang as well as Jock, to her ear.

Carwell’s men mingled without incident. Even Rob was chatting amiably as she made one more trip through the courtyard to the kitchen.

Carwell saw her go, but this time he did not follow.

The fog had become a soaking rain and she leaned against the kitchen door, weary, before making a final dash across the courtyard to the tower. The Tait sisters and the servant girl would help her clean up tomorrow, but she had yet to accommodate all of Carwell’s men. Six could sleep in the hall. The other five would have to share the large room on the top storey, but where would the warden sleep?

Rob was sleeping with the men so Johnnie and Cate could have the master’s room. That left only one bed.

Hers.

Pushing away from the door, she eyed the sack of oats where the Tait girl had dozed. It would make a good enough mattress, she supposed.

Rob’s voice and the familiar strains of the Brunson Ballad pulled her back. When he spoke, her brother was brief and gruff, but when he sang, his voice soared.

Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars,

Strong as the wind that sweeps Carter’s

Bar.

Sure-footed and stubborn, ne ’er danton

nor dun

That’s what they say of the band Brunson

Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man

Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man.

Inside the hall, the laughter had quieted. The rest were drifting off to bed. She leaned over to whisper in Carwell’s ear, ‘I’ve a place for you to sleep, if you’ll follow me.’

She spied a trace of weariness in his eyes as he rose and scolded herself, silently, regretting her tart tongue. He was two days’ ride from home and a guest in her house. She must give him no reason to complain of Brunson hospitality.

Opening the door to her room, she shivered. Thinking first of the guests, she had neglected to see to the fire. ‘It is a simple room,’ she said, kneeling to rekindle the flames. He was no doubt accustomed to tapestries and candles and pluckers of lutes. Well, Brunsons prided themselves on their prowess, not their possessions. ‘But I hope it will be satisfactory.’

‘This is your room,’ he said, still standing at the door.

‘Yes.’ She stood, dusting off her hands.

‘I won’t force you to give up your bed.’

‘Well, you’ll not be sharing it with me.’ Her eyes clashed with his.

‘I was not insulting you with that suggestion. Don’t insult me by suggesting I was.’

The words were sharp. Sharper than any she’d ever heard him say. So, it seemed the man did have a temper. And she had just the tongue to provoke it.

She looked down at the floor. That would have to serve as an apology. ‘Take the bed. You are a guest in my house.’

‘An uninvited one. I’ll join my men in the hall.’ He stepped into the corridor and smiled at her, as if to gloss over his previous words. ‘Rest well.’

She pulled down the bedsheets, surprised to see her hand shaking.

And outside the door, she heard what might have been a smothered curse.

When Bessie roused the newlyweds from bed the next morning to join Carwell’s meeting, their drowsy smiles hurt her heart. She hoped they had passed a wonderful night.

The rest of the day promised to be unpleasant.

They gathered with Rob and Carwell in the private area behind the public reception hall. In the centre of the room, a glowing brazier generated feeble protection against the cold.

Carwell looked as if he had slept no better than she.

‘King James,’ he began, ‘was forced to break off the siege against the Earl of Angus.’ Until only months ago, the earl, stepfather to the King, had also been the regent. Now he was the King’s worst enemy. ‘The King blames this defeat on the fact that the Brunson men he called for never arrived.’

She exchanged a quick glance with her brother John. The Brunson men had been doing more important things.

‘In addition,’ Carwell continued, ‘it has come to the ears of the King that Scarred Willie Storwick has disappeared. And may be dead.’

Johnnie and Cate exchanged uneasy glances. Bessie frowned, but bit her tongue. No doubt the King knew because Carwell himself had sent word.

‘No loss to either side of the border,’ Rob said, finally, ‘even if he was English. Would have been hanged long before if you had brought him to justice as you should.’

She expected an argument, or at least an explanation, but Carwell remained silent, his gaze steady. Heavy-lidded eyes gave him a calm look, but they also hid his expression. ‘The King, I am sure, would understand if someone, a Brunson, perhaps, had killed the man in self-defence.’

John shrugged.

Rob shook his head. ‘An attack is the best defense.’

Shush, Rob. But she held her tongue. His words were true enough, but not what the King, or Carwell, wanted to hear.

The warden did not hesitate. ‘Did you attack him?’

She held her breath. Her brother had near said as much.