‘Why don’t you marry a husband who’ll keep you from roaming the Borders alone?’

Flour still clung to her apron, and he couldn’t help but think she looked ridiculous instead of haughty.

‘I will,’ she said finally. ‘Soon. Someone worthy. Special.’

Special. She said the word as if to insult him. ‘Who is special enough for you?’ The words curdled on his tongue. Why even ask? He didn’t care. Not really.

‘No one you would know. No one the least bit like you.’ She turned away, as if she could choose to end the conversation.

Suddenly he wanted to know who would possess this infuriating woman. ‘He interests me if he will ride to rescue you.’

She looked back at him, eyes wide. He was not skilled with women, but this one was hiding something.

‘Then you will have to wonder at it, won’t you?’

And he did wonder. She was more than of an age to marry, and more than passable to look on. Why was she not yet wed?

And as he looked at her he was also wondering why he had ever thought taking Stella Storwick was a good idea.

About the Author

After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD started writing seriously after a corporate layoff. Ten years and one layoff 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 and www.pinterest.com/BlytheGifford, ‘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*

CAPTIVE OF THE BORDER LORD*

*The Brunson Clan

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

AUTHOR NOTE

Black Rob Brunson, oldest son and head of the family, brooded silently at me as I wrote the first two books about The Brunson Clan. I began his story with trepidation, not sure I knew what was behind his scowl.

At least I had spent two books with him. Of Stella, I knew no more than Rob did. She was an enemy. And a temptation.

But, ah, the joy of discovery! Is that not the best part of falling in love?

Taken by the Border Rebel
Blythe Gifford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To all those who face the tyranny of expectations.

Robin, in thanks for many kindnesses

and the occasional kick in the pants.

And in memory of Marley,

a bloodhound much loved by his family,

who helped me understand the character of sleuth-dog Belde.

Left on the field by the rest of his clan

Abandoned for dead was the first Brunson man

Left for dead and found alive

A brown-eyed Viking from the sea

He lived to found a dynasty.

Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars,

Strong as the wind that sweeps Carter’s Bar

Sure-footed and stubborn, ne’re danton nor dun’

That’s what they say of the band Brunson

Every Brunson leader since the first knew his beginnings.

Knew that the blood that coursed through his veins was shared with the First Brunson, a man so strong he refused to die.

That was the strength this clan demanded.

Each head man has to find his own within.

Sometimes it was not what he expected …

Chapter One

The Middle March—April 1529

When Black Rob Brunson took his first waking breath that morning, he inhaled air free of the stink of cinders for the first time since the Storwicks had torched the tower’s buildings scarce two months before.

Yet his waking thought was the same that morning as it had been the one before and the one before and the one before that. They would pay. Every last one of them.

Oh, he had taken retribution quickly. Their roofs had felt flame. Their head man now languished under the eyes of a Scottish guard.

But it wasn’t enough. Not for all they had done.

The ashes had faded with the snow. The kitchen roof had new thatch, but with his second breath, he knew the truth. His nose would never be free of the stench.

Nor would theirs. He’d make sure of that.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and glanced over his shoulder, still half-expecting his dead father’s ghost to lurk behind him.

Nothing there.

Rob was alone in the head man’s chamber. He was the head man now, as he’d been raised to be for twenty-six summers.

He stretched, scratched an itch on his back and reached for his boots.

Snow and frost had lingered, but this morning, he felt a softness in the air. Spring. Lambing time. Time for him to be a shepherd as well as a warrior, riding the valley to be sure the flock was well tended.

Last year, he had ridden beside his father.

Up and dressed, he foraged the kitchen, searching for a leftover bannock to stuff in his bag. His sister used to do that for him, for all of them. Cooked the food, washed and cleaned, kept everything in order until a few months ago, when she deserted them for that untrustworthy husband of hers.

Soon, they’d be harrying him to find a wife. Some woman who would fuss at him for riding out alone. Danger was not gone with the snow, but he would be back before dark and no one would dare a daylight raid on a sunny spring day.

Besides, he preferred the solitude. Alone, he’d have at least a few moments when no one was looking at him, waiting for his word to be the final one.

He walked through the gate and surveyed the ponies grazing outside the walls, glad to leave the tower behind. He whistled and Felloun trotted over, ready to ride. In truth, Rob felt more at home on the horse than anywhere else. The ground beneath the pony’s hooves, the land itself was home to him. He was part of it—hills, moss, rocks and soil. Kin to the earth, he sometimes thought, and not to men at all.

But that was the way of all Brunsons, since the First. A Brunson was of the land. Of this land.

The other half of him, the half some men found in mates, that half was in these hills. None would force them asunder.

He reached the closest family before the sun was high. Bleating sheep milled about and a well-trained dog tidied the edges of the flock, responding to his master’s whistle.

Rob nodded to the man. ‘All well?’ Not to suggest Fingerless Joe needed help. Simply to be here if he did.

‘Aye.’

A new lamb, wobbly on his legs, stayed close to its mother.

Rob swallowed. ‘The little one. Strong enough to move to high land come June?’

The man shrugged. ‘He will or he won’t.’

Rob looked away, towards hills that blurred before his eyes. It was the way of things. Weakness meant death. For man or beast.

He looked back at Joe, clear-eyed again. ‘Any sign of Storwicks?’

Another shake of the head.

‘Next week, then.’ Rob pushed a knee into his horse’s side and the beast turned, obedient.

No sign of them that Fingerless Joe might see.

Rob would look for himself.

By midday, Rob was high above the valley where a hoof-worn track wound across the hills and over the border, one he knew well.

As did the Storwicks.

He rode across the border and back, looking for fresh horse droppings.

The path was clear, so he returned to his side of the hill, dismounted, stretched out on the ground and gazed down on the valley that was his. Clear, this day. Clear as he’d seldom seen. He could see all the way to the tower, thrusting up strong from the greening grass.

Tempting to a Storwick, aye, but there was no weakness there. Not now.

Something shifted. The wind. A scent. A sound. He stiffened, alert, and turned his head.

Above him and to his left, sat a woman, silent and stiff, eyes fixed on him warily as if he were a Storwick.

He fashed himself for not looking carefully before leaving his horse. What if he’d been surprised by the enemy?

Neither spoke, looking.

Dark hair tumbled across her shoulders, but he would not call her beautiful. At least, not from this angle. Eyes and lips fought for control of her face. Her nose was too strong. Her chin too sharp. She looked vaguely familiar, but he had seen every far-flung Brunson at one time or another. Still, he could not summon which branch of the family was hers.

‘You’re far from home,’ he began, still trying to place her. The Tait cousin lived nearest, but he had no daughters.

She drew herself up into a crouch, like a wary animal ready to run. ‘Nay so far.’

He raised and lowered his shoulders, sorry he had frightened her. He motioned his head uphill, towards the border. ‘Storwicks are no more than five miles away.’

Not taking her eyes from his, she stood slowly and took a step back, as if nearness to the enemy had just occurred to her. The blush on her cheek paled. ‘Have I crossed the border then?’

‘Nay.’ He rose to his feet, uncomfortable that she stood while he was stretched out on the grass. What was the strangeness in her accent? ‘It’s just over there.’

Her eyes widened. She turned to look over her shoulder. Then ran.

That was when he recognised her.

Stella Storwick didn’t look back, praying for her feet to run faster.

But the Brunson kept coming, strong as a charging ram, trampling the grass behind her. Then he was in front of her, cutting off her escape as if she were no more than an unruly ewe.

She dodged. Left. Right. Thinking she could confuse him.

He was a broad man. She could be quicker. More steps, her skirt and the grass holding her back. If she crossed the border, she would be safe …

But next she knew, he grabbed her arm, whirled her around and both of them tumbled to the ground. She on her back, pressed to earth, he straddling her legs.

She lifted a clawed hand to scratch his eyes, but he caught her wrists and held her arms tight against the dirt without effort. Even when she shut her eyes against him, he surrounded her, warm and smelling of leather.

‘You’re Storwick.’ He did not ask a question.

She opened her eyes. His were brown. And murderous.

‘And you’re Brunson.’ Close now, she knew him, the man she had seen near half a year ago at Truce Day. Fool she was, not to have recognised him immediately.

Not just a Brunson. The Brunson.

A flash of heat crackled through her body. Hatred, no doubt.

He was one of the Black Brunsons. Broad of shoulder and brow, dark of hair and eye. Yes, he had the brown eyes that marked all his cursed clan.

‘You’ll not take me.’ She braced herself, stiff armed and legged, as if that would stop him. ‘I won’t let you.’

He froze, then turned to spit in the dirt in contempt. ‘Brunsons don’t treat women so.’ Disgust now, in his eyes. ‘It’s your kind who do that.’

One villainous kin of hers who had done that.

She knew the truth of the whispers about him, though the man had never dared touch her.

No one dared that.

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’ A lie, but one she hoped would keep him off guard. She tugged against his hold. An iron manacle would have given way more easily.

He released her hands with a look that warned her to keep them quiet. ‘You’ve heard wrong.’

She pushed herself up on her elbows. ‘Then let me go if you don’t mean to take me.’

He sat back on his heels and crossed his arms, his very silence ominous.

She held her breath to stop her speech. He had not guessed which Storwick she was. Or that she had come to the hills to spy on his precious tower.

‘How far behind are the others?’ He stood, pulling her to her feet, keeping his hand on her wrist while he gazed towards the English side of the border.

‘No others.’ Foolish admission. She had told no one her plan when she left this morning. Perhaps that had been unwise.

He turned back, sweeping her with a glance head to toe. One that said she might be daft, but he wasn’t. ‘You wander the hills alone with no horse?’

She shrugged to hide the shaking. ‘Sun doesn’t often come like this. I wandered too far.’ And had hoped to wander further. A horse would draw attention. ‘Let me go. I’m of no use to you.’

‘Oh, you’re of use to me. You’re going to serve as a hostage for the good behaviour of the rest of your people. If they ride to rescue Hobbes Storwick, you’ll be the one to pay.’

She blanched. Thank God. At least her father was alive.

They had not even been sure of that.

In violation of the Border Laws, the Brunsons had torched her home and captured her father, too ill to travel to the most recent Truce Day gathering.

But never too ill to defend his home.

Since then, there had been no word. None of them would have put it past the Brunsons to have killed him outright, but if he was alive, who held him?

That was why she had come to the hills today. To discover if her father was alive, where and what it might take to rescue him.

At his words, he’d seen a flash of fear disrupt the pride in her eyes. As if she really thought he was no better a man than her own vile kin.

Scarred Willie Storwick had shown no mercy to Johnnie’s Cate. This woman deserved no better.

But Rob Brunson was not a Storwick.

He sighed and eased his grip on her arm. The road to the south was clear and quiet, but he wondered whether to trust his ears and eyes. He’d been so lovesick at the sight of his land, he had not even noticed her before he dismounted.

His father would have never made such a mistake.

Against her skin, his palm heated, but he could not let her go or she would run again, bringing the others if they were not already on the way.

‘You’re a Storwick, that I know.’ He remembered, too late, why she looked familiar. He had seen her on Truce Day, last autumn, and spared one glance too many for her swaying hips. ‘Which one?’

She lifted that pointed chin in his direction, then pursed her lips before she answered. ‘One of the Red Storwicks.’

A Red Storwick without red hair, but she had the green eyes, huge and heavy-lidded. ‘You’re looking at Black Rob Brunson,’ he said.

She nodded, as if the news were old. ‘I know. Head of your clan.’

She could say so, but after eight months, those words still did not come easily to his tongue. ‘What do they call you?’

‘Stella.’ No hesitation this time.

‘What kind of name is that?’ It was no name he had ever heard. Not like Mary or Agnes or Elizabeth.

One she was proud of, judging by the way she held her head. ‘It’s Latin.’

‘Latin! Only churchmen know that.’

‘My mother does.’

Disbelief must have shown clear on his face.

‘Well, she knows a word or two.’

Proud of that, too. This woman seemed proud of everything. ‘So what does it mean, your name?’

‘Star.’

A chill rippled down his back. Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars. Thus began the Ballad of the Brunsons.

Those stars had no connection to this woman. None.

‘Well, Stella Storwick, you’ll have no need for Latin in Brunson Tower.’ He pointed to the pony. ‘Up there. Now.’

Stella kept her head down as they rode through the Brunson gate, hoping he would not see how closely she studied the family stronghold. Would they hold her father on the top floor? Or in the tower’s dark bowels? She searched every slit in the stone wall, hoping to see his face.

Black Rob rode behind her, his arms reaching around her, tight as shackles, to hold the reins. After he dismounted, he helped her down, a greater kindness than she had expected. Men appeared. A few women. A young, round-faced boy stared at the head man as if he were a hero.

Someone led the horse away and Rob told them who she was in few words while she looked around. The Brunsons had made more progress on rebuilding since their last raid than the Storwicks had.

Of course, they’d had more time.

He pushed her ahead of him towards the tower.

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘To the well room with the ale barrels,’ he growled. ‘And the spiders.’

Her heart beat faster. No, please not there. She swallowed.

He studied her silence. ‘Afeared?’

Stella stood straighter. ‘No Storwick ever feared a Brunson.’

‘The canny ones did.’ No touch of sympathy warmed the cold words.

‘Is that where you hold Hobbes Storwick?’ If so, she would force herself, despite the fear.

He narrowed his eyes and stared at her until she felt certain he knew who she was and why she asked. ‘No,’ he said, finally.

Did that mean they did not hold him in that room? Or was her father not here at all? She wrestled her disappointment.

Inside, thick walls blocked the sun. Cool, damp air, smelling of ale, surrounded her. And she heard the echo of water, deep in a well …

Once safely ten steps beyond the sound, she breathed again. She was to be spared that, at least. For now. With the reprieve, she could think again and realised she had been walking since daybreak.

At the tower’s next level, she paused. ‘I need …’ She faced implacable disgust in his eyes. He would not care that she needed a garderobe and a moment of her own. It was not something she wished to speak of to any man.

Remember who you are, Stella.

She lifted her head and fixed her stare on Black Rob. ‘I need time for women’s things.’

Puzzlement, then understanding unseated the disgust in his eyes. A flush stained his strong cheekbones. Still gripping her arm, he pushed her to the other corner of the floor until they stood before the door of the little room. The man who had been full of bluster shifted from one foot to the other.

A young girl walked out of the hall and he dropped Stella’s arm to grab hers. ‘You. Stand before the door. Call me when she’s done.’

He stepped back. ‘And don’t think about jumping out.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘How daft do I look?’

‘Daft enough to wander alone on the wrong side of the border.’

She closed the door on him and listened to his retreating steps, grateful for a moment alone to gather her strength. She had planned to get close to the tower, close enough to see or hear something about her father that would force her squabbling cousins to act. Instead, she was within the walls and a prisoner.

If she told Rob Brunson who she was, once he knew she was Hobbes Storwick’s daughter, the man would no doubt take her directly to her father and then …

She sighed. No. Her first instinct had been the right one. The less they knew of who she was, the safer she would be.

But since she was inside the tower, she could discover where her father was being held. She would see him soon. It couldn’t be that hard. Search the floors, speak with a servant …

But what if her father was not here. Then what?

Waiting for the women to return, Rob sat in the Hall, looking out over the valley, and argued with himself. He had felt her flinch when he mentioned the cellar, yet a Storwick man deserved no better than the laich level. Nor a Storwick woman, either, but he couldn’t shake that memory of her expression, a strange mix, as if she were frightened, but too proud to admit it.

Never show weakness, son. Especially not to a Storwick.

No doubt this woman’s father had said near the same.

The Tait girl brought Stella into the Hall and he looked at her eyes, deeply, for the first time. Green, they were, and shadowed with strong brows that gave her a slightly disapproving look.

Well, she’d have no reason to disapprove of her treatment by the Brunsons. At least not until she earned worse. She was, after all, a woman and he was not a cruel man, though his enemies had been known to disagree.

‘We’ve an empty room,’ he said, as he led her to the next level. ‘It will be yours for now. But the minute you try to escape, it will be down to the cellar with you.’

He opened the door and she stepped in, turning to survey the room. ‘A bit barren, but it will do.’

‘Barren?’ He was still unused to the luxury of the curtained bed he’d been sleeping in these last months. This room had a broad bed, fireplace, and stool. What more did a body need? ‘It was good enough for my sister. Unless you’d prefer the cellar.’

He thought she flinched again, but just as quickly, her calm returned. ‘No. This will do.’

‘Do?’ The word a judgement. ‘You should be grateful I’m letting you set foot in my sister’s room.’

A pout seemed to threaten her lower lip. ‘It’s just … it’s not what I’m accustomed to.’

‘Are you accustomed to one of your English king’s castles, then?’

Her eyes widened, neither fear nor insult in her gaze. ‘I’m not accustomed to the Scots side of the border at all.’

‘Easy to tell. You don’t even know where it is.’

‘I do now,’ she snapped, taking his eyes square.

Was that warning or temptation in her green gaze? No matter, he met it, refusing to waver. ‘Next time, stay on your own side.’ He turned his back and reached for the door, but she called to him before he could close it.

‘I would. If only the Brunsons would do the same.’

He pulled the door closed. Hard.

Chapter Two

As the door slammed behind him, Stella realised that her heart had somehow galloped up to her throat. Closing her eyes, she put a hand to her chest, trying to slow its beating and move it back to its proper place.

Aye. This man, this savage Brunson, was all they had ever said of the clan. And more.

God saved you, her mother always said. You are special in His eyes and He will let no harm come to you.

She opened her eyes to look around the room again, wondering whether God’s reach extended to this godless side of the border.

Capture had not been her plan when she left home this morning. Truth of it, she had no plan, but she could take no more of the endless bickering between Humphrey and Oswyn. Her father was ill and in Brunson hands. She had to do something.

Beneath her hand, her heart settled into a steadier rhythm.

She’d been spared the cellar, which meant his intention was to ransom her. In the interim, as custom decreed, she would be treated as a guest.

Yet they had asked no ransom for her father, as would have been expected. Did that mean he was already dead?

Something hit her door, too close to the floor for a knock.

She jumped and her heart thumped in answer.

The sound came again, on the floor this time, in an irregular rhythm. She opened the heavy wooden door and looked out.

The blond, round-faced boy she had seen in the courtyard ran up and down the hall, kicking a ball. When he saw her, he let the ball roll away.

‘Gudday,’ she said, noticing no one else was in the hall. No guard, then. Perhaps God’s will did extend so far north.

‘Gudein, lady.’ The boy mangled the words, as well as the time of day.

Still, she smiled. Children always made her smile. ‘What do they call you, lad?’

‘Wat,’ he said, his smile widening to meet hers. ‘I be Wat.’

She looked again, more carefully. A simpleton, by the sound of him, perhaps eight or ten. And one who knew the Brunson buildings better than she.

‘And I’m Stella.’ Swallowing her guilt, she knelt down, as if taking the boy into her confidence, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Wat, can you show me the tower? I’m sure I would get lost by myself.’

This might be her only chance to search for her father. And surely even Rob Brunson couldn’t fault a brainless boy for helping her.

Wat threw an uncertain look over his shoulder, as if hoping for reinforcements.

She squeezed his shoulder, driven by her own urgency. ‘I bet you know the best hiding places. Would you show me?’

Silent, he nodded, took her hand and led her up the stairs.

The warm, sunny day must have lured everyone outside, for they seemed to have the tower to themselves. And by the time she had seen everything from the stone flag roof to the entresol stacked with foodstuffs, she knew there could only be one place left.

Is that where you keep Hobbes Storwick?

No, he had said. But with a pause. A moment’s hesitation before a lie?

She looked down the stairs. Somewhere down there, the well’s open maw waited.

‘Wat,’ she said, gripping his hand so that he could not wander into harm’s way. ‘Show me the well room.’

Late in the afternoon, Rob returned home for the second time that day. After he had left the Storwick woman at the tower, he and his men had ridden hard and far, searching for signs that the Storwicks were riding. He found none. In fact, the family had been strangely quiet since their leader had been taken.

Why?

He had expected an attempt at rescue, or at least retaliation. Instead, only the whine of the wind swept over the border from the English side.

And instead of thinking about the potential threat, he was thinking of her.

Only because he must decide how to notify the Storwicks that she had been captured, not because he was remembering the heat of her, trapped between his legs and the ground.

He forced his thoughts to the simple things. Stabling Felloun instead of leaving him to graze. Removing the horse’s saddle and blanket. Fetching his feed. Patting his withers as thanks for another day of service.

With the horse cared for, he pushed open the iron yett that protected the sole door to the tower. Inside, the sound of unfamiliar footsteps echoed from the lower level.

Drawing his dagger, he bent his knees and followed the sound.

‘Show me.’ A woman’s whisper.

Hers.

He stepped more softly.

Back to him, clutching Wat by the hand, she stood peering into the well room. The iron grate had swung open, but she did not step inside. Instead, she leaned in, looking to the corners, as if the threshold itself were a cliff.

He straightened and released a breath, without sheathing his dagger. Well, now he knew he would have to waste a man to guard her door. ‘Did you change your mind, then?’

She jumped, gasping, and grabbed the boy close with both hands.

What was she looking for?

He stepped closer, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling. In the cramped space, his shadow loomed over them. Small, high window holes let in scant late daylight.

‘Don’t hurt the boy.’ Yet she clutched his head to her skirt, tight enough to smother the lad.

‘Hurt him?’ No more than he would hurt a dumb animal. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘A Brunson.’

What she thought an insult, he found a compliment. Yet he needed no halfwit, open-mouthed boy under foot right now. ‘Wat. Find your mother.’

The lad smiled at Stella Storwick and then ran up the stairs.

Rob moved closer, close enough that it seemed he must take her arm and turn her to look again into the small, dark room. In the centre, a covered well waited patiently for time of siege. Most days, they drew their water from the stream outside the walls.

‘So do you favour this instead of the “barren” room upstairs?’ The anger in his voice was for himself, but she would not know that.

Shoulders hunched, she shook her head without taking her eyes from the well. Even her silence angered him, making him speak as roughly as she expected. ‘Speak to me,’ he ordered. ‘Do you?’

At that, she stood straight and tall again. ‘No.’

One pride-filled word. But had he seen fear, too?

He pushed her ahead of him up the stairs. ‘Then stay where I put you.’ Her hair swung to one side, exposing the pale skin at the curve of her neck and releasing a scent faint as bluebells. ‘Next time, I’ll let you stay in the cellar.’

She threw a look over her shoulders, but it was too dark to read her eyes.

They walked the stairs in silence. Already, he regretted the impulse that had made him grab her and bring her home this morning. Once she had crossed into Brunson land, he had no choice, but then he had taken pity on her. Spared her the cell and put her in a room fit for honoured guests, a weakness he would not show again.

He pushed the heavy wooden door open. ‘Inside.’

She searched his eyes, then, not answering.

Uneasy under her gaze, he motioned her in. ‘Go on, now.’

‘Do you hold Hobbes Storwick here?’

Looking for the man. That’s what she had been doing. ‘I told you he was not down there. Did you not believe me?’

‘Does he still live?’

He opened his mouth to reassure her and thought better of it. The truth would be good enough.

‘He did when I saw him last.’ Few enough of his family had asked whether the man lived or died. ‘Now? I can’t say.’

Disappointment swept through her, sharp as a Cheviot wind, as Rob Brunson closed the door behind him.

He’s not here. He may not even be alive.

The man is a Brunson, hope argued. Would he keep the truth to himself?

She and the boy had searched the tower from roof to ground. She might have missed a corner or two, but not one large enough to house a prisoner. Still, there were outbuildings.

A window beckoned and she looked down at the courtyard. The kitchen hugged one wall, the public hall the other. Unless there was a separate room carved out of the hall, neither would hold a prisoner. She had only glimpsed the courtyard on the opposite side of the tower, but it seemed even smaller. She remembered only a small stable and a few huts for storage.

Would Black Rob Brunson be so cruel as to house a sick man in a hut?

Aye. She had no doubt of that. But then he would know whether her father lived or died. And while Black Rob Brunson was many things, she did not think him a lying man.

No. Her father was not here. She would have heard something. Even felt something.

Then where, Stella asked herself, as gloaming settled over the valley, had they taken Hobbes Storwick?

Cold, tasteless soup had appeared at her door that evening, swill not fit for hogs, so by late morning the next day, anger and hunger played tug of war.

Hunger was winning.

The rumble in her stomach made it hard to think, but if her father was not here, then she could do little but wait to be ransomed. But before she left, she would gather some information to take with her.

Everyone knew that the Brunsons could muster more men than any family on either side of the border. Two hundred horse seemed to appear in an instant. More than that when needed. But it was never clear how many of the men were in residence and how far the rest must travel.

Now that she had searched the place, she was sure there were fewer within the tower than they had thought. What else could she learn?

Stella had scant acquaintance with weapons and fortifications. Still, if she roamed the tower and studied carefully, she could describe the details to men who would understand them.

She went back to the courtyard window, this time assessing defences, not places to hold prisoners. In the months since the last raid, the Brunsons had rebuilt most of their outbuildings. And when she had entered the tower, she noted new stone bordering an opening above the door. A gun hole?

Everyone knew no Scot would touch a gun since the second King James was killed by his own cannon, but Rob Brunson did not seem the sort of man to fear a hagbut, if he chose to fire one.

If the Brunsons had guns in large numbers, the Storwicks needed to know it. And if she could bring the news, well, this might be the thing she had been saved to do, all those years ago.

Stay where I put you. Well, Rob Brunson was going to be angry with her again.

Outside the door, she heard the thump of Wat’s ball again and smiled. Was there a guard at the door? If so, she hoped he was more malleable than Rob. At home, she had no trouble handling such men. It took no more than a raised brow or a turn of the head and they would step aside, or run to fetch what she wanted. Things might not be so easy here.

But when she opened the door, Wat himself extended a straight arm and a flat palm to block her from crossing the threshold. ‘Gudein,’ he said.

Evening or morn, if Wat was her only guard, this would be easier than she thought. She took a step forwards, but his arm did not waver. ‘May I pass, please?’ Surely he only played a child’s game.

He shook his head. ‘Laird says you stay.’

But Rob Brunson was not in sight. Wat could not stop her, but he might raise a cry if she crossed him. ‘The laird meant that this room was to be mine. Not that I could never leave it.’

God would forgive her the lie. It was for a good purpose.

Wat shook his head, fast enough to make himself dizzy. She sighed. Logic seemed wasted on this poor soul, more so than on most children. ‘It will be all right,’ she said, laying a tender hand on his shoulder and kneeling so her eyes could be level with his. Taking his chin in her fingers, she forced him to look at her. ‘You will see. I’ll tell him you conveyed his wishes.’

And that was when she saw the mug and the plaid on the floor. So, Rob Brunson no longer trusted her to stay in her room.

‘Guard coming.’ He pumped his arm, waving his flat palm at her as if she were an unruly hound. ‘Stay.’

Her gaze swept the corridor. She listened for feet on the stairs. She did not have much time. What could she say so that the boy would allow her to leave? ‘But I’m hungry. Can you show me where I could find something to eat?’

‘Food later.’

She wrestled with her temper. It was not the lad’s fault, but talking to this poor simpleton was little better than talking to a stone.

A clatter from the floor above. The real guard on his way, no doubt.

A whisper, then, as if taking the boy into her confidence. ‘Black Rob Brunson is your laird, is he not?’

Finally, a wide smile. ‘Aye.’

‘And you want to be sure he knows everything he needs to know, don’t you?’

A nod, with no suspicion now.

She must hurry if she was to send the boy off for the head man before the real guard returned. Wandering the stronghold alone no longer seemed to be an option.

She whispered, urgent and quick, ‘Then tell him that I want to speak to him. Now.’

Creases in his forehead showed how hard the task might be.

‘Tell him,’ she said, ‘that I command him to come to this room. Now go.’

She pushed Wat towards the stairs. He scampered away as footsteps approached from above. Quickly, she retreated to the room, closing the door behind her, hoping the boy had not seen her fingers shake.

‘She said what?’

Rob realised when Wat cringed that he had yelled loud enough to make the child think the anger was for him. For Sim Tait, yes, who couldn’t hold his piss long enough to stand guard for an afternoon, but not for this unfortunate bowbart.

His outburst seemed to have stolen the boy’s speech.

‘It’s all right, Wat.’ He put both hands on the boy’s shoulders. He could barely understand the child, who seemed to chew each word before he could spit it out. He might have misunderstood. ‘Tell me again what she said.’

Wat’s eyes searched the ceiling as if the words he struggled to find might be in the rafters. ‘Storwick command you to come. Now!’

Imperious words, if they were truly hers.

‘Hungry!’ Wat yelled.

Rob sighed and shook his head, unable to tell whether Wat or his prisoner was the hungry one.

Truth told, he was new to all this. Until less than a year ago, he had ridden at his father’s side, but when Rob took over the role he had prepared for all his life, he had not been prepared for a woman prisoner. Particularly not this one.

You can have no weakness, son.

What kind of woman was she? He mulled it over again as he climbed the spiralling stone stairs.

Storwick commands. Not in his house.

He quickened his steps and with a withering glance at Sim Tait, pounded on the door, not waiting for permission before he opened it.

She stood before him with a smile and a lifted chin. ‘Enter.’

One word. Arrogant as if he had interrupted something and she was graciously giving him permission to do so.

Command you to come. Had she been so bold? Only if she were accustomed to command.

He grabbed her arm and shook it, wishing he could shake her certainty. ‘You’re not a Red Storwick. You’re of Hobbes Storwick’s family.’

The high and mighty lift to her chin did not waver, but fear crept into her eyes again. ‘What makes you think so?’

‘You rode with him the day Scarred Willie escaped.’ It came back clearly now. In the midst of a standoff between Brunson and Storwick, she had dismounted to wander the market booths and shop for ribbons. Disobedient, daft and damn distracting. ‘And you’ve done nothing but ask of him since you got here. What kin are you? Tell me.’

‘You’re hurting me.’

He dropped her arm as if it were on fire.

Silent, she pursed her lips and clasped one hand to the other elbow, as if to keep it away from the spot he had touched.

Force was what he knew best. Not a good weapon to use against a woman. He shrugged. ‘Not surprising you deny him.’ He looked away. ‘That you’re ashamed to admit it.’

‘Where is he?’ Now she reached for him, fingers teasing his arm. ‘Please tell me.’

His lips parted to answer her.

Don’t be a weak fool, son.

He’d be damned if he was going to tell her more. They had kept his whereabouts secret for good reason. If the Storwicks knew Carwell had their leader locked tight in his moated castle, a raid would be sure to follow. He pulled his arm away. She was some kin. What difference did it matter which? ‘You sent the boy for me. Why?’

‘He didn’t tell you?’

‘A fool’s words. Meaningless.’

She looked at him as if wondering whether to say the truth. ‘I am hungry.’

Hungry. So the boy had meant her.

‘Do you mean,’ she continued, ‘for me to starve?’

He wanted to lock her in the room so he would see as little of her as possible, but that meant sending the Tait girl up with food, as if the woman were an honoured guest, entitled to be waited on and to eat a private supper.

But he’d not be accused of cruelty.

The smell of the midday soup, about to be served, crept into the room. Better to keep watch on her. ‘We’ll be taking food now. Come if you are hungry.’

He jerked his head towards the door and she glided ahead of him, lifting her skirts and floating down the stairs, leaving him to follow as a lackey to a queen.

Her hips and her hair swayed in opposite directions, and once again, he glimpsed the nape of her neck. As quickly, it was hidden behind a curtain of curls, black as his own. What would it taste like, her skin on his lips …?

His foot hit the floor at the end of the stair, jarring him from the vision. He pointed ahead. ‘Here.’ As if she could not see the hall before them with her own eyes.

She paused at the door, looking over the room, full of wary men.

‘Do you expect them to bow?’ He pulled on her arm, more roughly than he had intended. ‘Come. Sit.’

The Tait girl set the fare before them. Soup and bread and cheese.

Next to him, Stella took a sip and crinkled her nose in judgement.

‘We don’t eat banquets here,’ he warned. His father ate plain food, though not quite this plain. ‘I don’t care much for comfort.’

Now she was the one who scoffed. ‘That’s evident. Is there no salt or spice?’

Truth to tell, he thought the soup had lacked since Bessie left, but he did not know how to fix it. ‘Could you do better?’

‘Depends on the state of your larder.’

His stomach churned. He had more important things to do than count eggs. ‘I’ll let you find out. You be the cook tomorrow.’

He had no doubt she would find the larder wanting.

Stella took another sip. The Storwick men would be roaring if they had to choke down this swill, but she knew nothing of how to fix better.

God spared your life, her mother always said. He did not intend for you to spend it cooking.

The problem was, no one seemed to know exactly how He did intend for her to spend it.

‘How many men need feeding?’ She glanced down, as if the number were unimportant, gripping the bowl of soup so her fingers would not shake.

He shrugged. ‘Twenty.’

No more than at home. At least in the tower. ‘And the others?’

‘Ye needn’t worry about more. There’ll be no feasting.’

She nodded, hoping she masked a smile. Twenty men. And now she’d be allowed to leave her room to roam the buildings. ‘How many girls will be helping me?’

She had seen the man hold back words before, but this time, his jaw sagged. More speechless than silent.

He swallowed. ‘How many what?’

Storwick Tower was only a little grander than the Brunsons’, but somewhere her mother supervised women who toiled to produce food and drink and clean laundry. Stella had never been one of them.

‘Girls.’ She waved a hand. ‘To help me.’ Perhaps all they needed was firm direction. If she just told them what she wanted, they would produce it. A fat hen, perhaps. Or a fresh caught fish.

‘The Tait girl does it all.’

Now she was the one near dumb. ‘One woman does it all?’

‘She does now.’

‘Now?’

‘Now that Bessie is gone.’

The missing sister. Probably fled this ill-tempered man and this drudge-filled life. ‘Where did Bessie go?’

A frown creased his brow. ‘You ask too many questions.’

She turned away from his inspection and forced herself to take another sip. One girl to feed all these men. Well, if one girl did it, it could not be that difficult. Anything would be better than being locked in a room and having nothing to eat but saltless soup.

‘I agree. I’ll do it,’ she said, as if he had given her a choice.

But she certainly wasn’t doing it for Black Rob. She just did not want to starve before she assessed his defences and went home.

Chapter Three

After the meal, Rob stomped down the stairs, frustration in every step. Unable to spend another minute with the Storwick woman, he told Sim Tait to take her back to her room.

And this time, to make sure she didn’t leave it.

He wanted to see the woman no more.

With each glance, she found him wanting. With each word, she judged his failures. And he had neither time nor care for the opinion of a Storwick. Anger, that was all he felt for her. Nothing more. If there was something more, he didn’t know what it might be and didn’t want to.

His steps slowed as he left the tower and headed to the stables. He would be glad when Johnnie came home. Before his brother had left, their conversations had been strained again. They had quarrelled about something—the King or the warden or raising of cattle. Better that Johnnie and his Cate would have their own place soon.

But it was lonesome, being a head man. Never showing weakness, even when you weren’t sure whether you had done the right thing.

Not that he would tell his brother that. But it would be nice to have him back here tomorrow. They could go out and race to mount the ponies, as they used to when they were boys.

Johnnie always won.

Normally, the horses grazed around the tower, but Stella Storwick’s appearance had made him cautious and he had brought them within the walls. When he entered the stable, he was surprised to see Widow Gregor’s Wat brushing Felloun and muttering something incomprehensible over and over.

He smiled when he saw Rob. ‘Gudein, my laird,’ he said.

‘It’s past midday, not eve, Wat.’ A waste of breath to correct him. The boy was a simple fool. Who knew how long he had been standing there, rocking back and forth, and brushing the same spot on the horse’s withers?

‘Careful, lad.’ He moved the boy aside. ‘You’ll rub the beast raw.’

‘Can I ride beside?’

‘No, Wat.’ He wanted no companion right now. Particularly not this babbling boy. ‘Go find your mother.’

The lad was the youngest of eight and his mother had few moments to spare for a fool.

Wat gathered his things, then paused at the stable door. ‘She’s pretty, the lady.’

Rob frowned. ‘What lady?’ Pretending he didn’t know.

‘The new lady.’

‘Is she now? I hadn’t noticed.’

Wat nodded, sagely, as if this were wisdom he could impart. ‘Aye.’

The lad’s comment seemed an accusation. Rob had noticed. And tried not to.

‘She’s a Storwick, Wat. That means she’s as ugly as a dragon inside.’

The boy frowned. ‘The way you’re as stubborn as a tup?’

He raised his brows. Most men would not be brave enough to insult him to his face, but this boy could not be responsible for what he said, no more than if a dog had been given leave to speak. Wat barely knew the words, let alone their meanings.

Or did he?

‘Aye, lad.’ The boy watched him with worshipful eyes, but didn’t know enough of fear to guard his tongue. Refreshing. ‘Very much like that.’

Wat tilted his head, as if he were trying to understand. ‘Well,’ he said, finally, ‘she’s a pretty dragon, then.’

He chuckled as Wat left.

A pretty dragon, aye. One whose beauty disguised something deadly.

The Brunson larder, she discovered the next morning, was, indeed, wanting.

The Tait girl was already moving among the pots, toting a sack of flour, measuring it out to start baking bread. When Stella walked in, she looked up, her gaze sullen. ‘Why are you here?’

‘To see if we can put some decent food on the table.’

A belligerent pout took over the girl’s face. ‘Nothing wrong with the food.’

‘Except that it’s barely edible.’

‘You think it’s so bad?’ The girl set the sack down and crossed her arms. ‘Cook it yourself, then.’

Stella bit her lip and swallowed. If the girl left her alone here, they would all starve. ‘I thought you might need help.’

‘From a Storwick?’ The girl waved her hands in the air. ‘Like you helped with this?’

She looked around the rebuilt kitchen, suddenly noticing the charred floor and the misshapen, half-melted pots. Her people had done this with their torches.

Well, it was no worse than the damage from the flaming brands the Brunsons had lobbed into her home, but bringing a blood feud into the kitchen would not fill her stomach. ‘I’m surprised they make you do all this alone.’

The girl’s shoulders suddenly sagged, weary. ‘I make better ale than bread.’

Another blot on Rob Brunson’s shield. This was a woman half-grown, no longer a girl, but not old enough to shoulder all this. Had he no better thought than to make this lass responsible for the whole household?

Not a thought to be shared. ‘And the head man? He has no wife?’ She had seen no sign he was married, but her breath seemed to pause, waiting for the answer.

The girl shook her head. ‘He’s not one for women.’

Stella was not surprised. Women would not have much time for that growling beast, either.

‘And are there no Brunson women to help?’

‘The mother is dead these two years. The head man’s sister moved off to marry that Carwell.’ She sniffed, as if she liked the Scottish Warden little better than Stella herself did. ‘Johnnie and his bride are building their own tower.’ She shook her head and leaned forwards. ‘And Johnnie’s Cate isn’t much for cooking.’

Well, there was nothing for it. She’d have to do with what she’d been given. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Beggy.’

‘Well, Beggy, I’ll tell you a secret. I’m not much for cooking either.’ A child saved by God’s hand was, in her family’s opinion, destined for more important things than brewing and broiling. She gave the girl’s stiff shoulders a squeeze and stood. ‘But you and I are going to see if we can make something fit to eat.’

‘In that?’ The girl looked at her, eyes wide. ‘That’s fine as a feast gown.’

She looked down and sighed. Her wool skirt was stained already. And she knew little more of washing than cooking. ‘Is there an apron?’

Beggy pointed. ‘One that needs washing.’

Better than none at all. She tied it on and turned back her sleeves. ‘Now, where’s the salt?’

‘Burnt.’ She rummaged on a shelf and held up a small sack. ‘This is all that’s left.’

When she was taken, she had worried about what the Brunsons might do to her. She had never thought that the blows her family had struck against the Brunsons would now fall on her as well.

More lightly, of course. What was a shortage of salt, after all?

‘Well, we’ll add spices then.’

The girl looked at her, blankly. ‘We ran out before Candlemass.’

‘Lamb?’

‘A little. Too soon for most.’

‘Something from the garden?’

Beggy shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

Stella looked around the kitchen. ‘Is there nothing left?’

‘Carrots. But the laird won’t eat them.’

‘He won’t? Well, then, I guess he’ll go hungry.’

See how he liked it.

Johnnie and Cate arrived near midday. While Cate went to feed her slobbering beast of a hound, Rob and John retreated to the laird’s private meeting room and Rob told him about the Storwick woman.

When the tale was done, John lifted his brows, doubtful. ‘The King has already named us outlaws. And now we hold an English woman?’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t go well.’

Could Johnnie never just accept his leadership? Rob had wanted agreement, not arguments. He had argued enough with himself already.

‘You, of all people, should understand.’ Because of Cate, Johnnie had more reason to hate the Storwicks than any of them.

But Willie Storwick was dead now, and much of Johnnie’s anger had died with him. ‘Carwell has stretched the law by holding Storwick without trial. When they discover you’ve got the woman, they’ll ride again.’

‘Let them come.’

Johnnie shook his head. ‘You’ve barely finished rebuilding from the last raid.’

‘Rebuilt stronger.’ He had higher walls. And doubled the watchers in the hills. They would not be surprised again.

‘That won’t protect us against King James.’

‘King James! King Henry! This side of the border or the other, I care nothing for a man I’ve never seen.’

Now he saw the worry in Johnnie’s eyes. ‘I’ve seen him. Bessie barely escaped from him.’

He shook off the guilt. Bessie had insisted she be the Brunson to plead their case to the King. For all the good it did them. Or the King. ‘He has no sway with me.’

‘Maybe not, but he’s put a price on our heads.’

His brother had come home from court, yes. But he still did not fully understand life here and what a leader must do to protect the family. To survive. Rob did.

‘And much has come of that, as you see.’ He spat in disgust. ‘Who’s to fear him? He’s barely more than a bairn. Doesn’t dare come himself.’

‘He will, Rob. I know him. He will.’ John grabbed his arm and shook it. ‘He burned a man at the stake in St Andrew’s.’

Rob couldn’t stop the shiver. A man should die on his pony, fighting. Not burned. Not hanged.

And not in his bed, as his father had.

‘Can you not just agree with me for once?’

His brother sat back, and crossed his arms, as if knowing further argument would be futile. ‘What are you going to do with her, then?’

‘Hold her here. And if they try to take Hobbes Storwick from Carwell …’ He left the threat unsaid. Couldn’t bring himself to say he’d kill a woman.

Storwicks wouldn’t know that, though. They’d done worse.

Johnnie looked at him, sharply. ‘Take Storwick? From a moated castle? Impossible.’

‘I’d expect you to try. If I were the one held.’

Silence. Then a sigh. ‘Aye. I would.’

Rob nodded, relieved. It was their own kind of truce.

‘Do they know yet that you have her?’

‘It’s been a day. Two. They know she’s gone.’ A missing daughter. They’d worry, not knowing whether she had fallen into a ravine, drowned in the river … He steeled his heart.

She was safe and better treated than she’d a right to be, but he was surprised to have seen no signs of a search.

‘Well, you can’t send a message to Bewcastle.’

He sighed. ‘Carwell must do it.’

His stubborn sister had been betrothed to the Scottish Warden at the King’s command. Then she had defied her brother to marry the man.

Thomas Carwell had managed to dance on the edge of the Border Laws he was paid to enforce and still not infuriate King James. At least, not until he ignored the King’s order that he bring the Brunsons to Edinburgh for hanging.

But still, the King had not removed the man from his office. Not yet, anyway.

‘He’s still the Scottish Warden. He can send an official message through the English Warden.’

‘Who’s no friend of any of us since we violated the new treaty. He’s not going to like it.’

‘Neither do I.’ You never knew with Carwell. Reiver one day. English collaborator the next. Agent of the King the day after that. ‘What’s to keep him from tattling to the King about it?’

‘Bessie.’

He sighed. For all that she was a woman, his sister was steadier than most lasses. He certainly missed having her about the tower. He was not a man who craved comfort, but without her, there had been no one to keep the kettle full and stuff fresh feathers into the mattress.

He wondered what the Storwick woman was doing in the kitchen. Probably scheming to poison him.

‘Well, I’ve saddled myself with the woman. And if they don’t know I hold her, it’s for naught. Would you go to Carwell Castle to tell him?’

‘You’ll not go?’

He shook his head. He had not spoken to the man since the Storwick raid. Nor to his sister Bessie. He was not ready to start now. ‘Not the time to leave the tower undefended.’

Johnnie eyed him for a moment. ‘We could take the girl with us. Give her to Carwell for keeping. She’ll be surrounded by a moat and out of your hands.’

‘And held beside her father. Together, the two of them would make an irresistible target.’ Based on Stella’s questions, they did not know where Hobbes Storwick was held. That could not last for ever. ‘If I hold her here, she protects our tower and makes them think before they ride to Carwell Castle.’

To protect the tower. No other reason he was keeping the woman. In truth, he’d as soon be rid of her and her haughty air.

Johnnie rose. ‘We’ll leave tomorrow. Cate will be happy to see Bessie again.’ He paused, waiting.

Rob averted his eyes.

‘I’ll tell her,’ his brother said, finally, ‘that you asked of her.’

‘Tell her I asked for her recipe for lamb stew.’

Family was all. Protecting it, not loving it.

Love made you weak.

The thought of Bessie’s stew reminded him that the Storwick woman was in the kitchen and he crossed the courtyard to see how she fared. Drizzle had dissolved yesterday’s sun, along with his good mood, and he began to doubt that today’s meal would be any more edible than yesterday’s.

At the kitchen door, he stopped.

The room—pots, hearth and floor—was white as if a snowstorm had hit.

And in the midst of it, the Storwick woman clutched an empty sack of flour.

Both women turned to him.

‘Take her away,’ Beggy shrieked, when she saw him. ‘I’d rather cook alone.’

Stella blinked. Rapidly.

Mercy. He had no patience for crying females.

He stepped into the room, sending a puff of flour over his boot. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘First, she let the stew burn. Now, she’s spilled half our flour!’ Beggy’s voice danced on the edge of a scream. ‘Get her out of here.’

He took Stella’s arm, but she looked back at Beggy. ‘I should help you clean …’

‘No! Don’t help,’ the girl said. ‘Or there’ll be nothing left to eat.’

He pulled Stella out of the kitchen and into the courtyard. ‘Did you plan to starve us all?’

‘I do not cook at home.’

He stared. All women cooked. Didn’t they? ‘You were the one who complained of the food!’ Criticising the lack of foolish luxuries, of no importance to anyone except to her. ‘And you don’t even cook?’

‘I didn’t think it would be so hard.’

‘For most women, it isn’t.’

‘Then why don’t you marry a woman who can cook?’

Her words hit as hard as horse’s hooves on rock. ‘And why don’t you marry a husband who’ll keep you from roaming the Borders alone?’

She licked her lips, crossed her arms, lifted her chin, all as if to fill the space where there should have been words. But flour still clung to her sleeves and her apron and her shoes and he couldn’t help but think she looked ridiculous instead of haughty.

‘I will,’ she said, finally. ‘Soon. Someone worthy. Special.’

Special. She said the word as if to insult him. ‘Who is special enough for you?’ The words curdled on his tongue. Why even ask? He didn’t care. Not really.

‘No one you would know. No one the least bit like you.’ She turned away, as if she could choose to end the conversation. ‘And no one who would interest you.’

Suddenly he wanted to know who would possess this infuriating woman. ‘He interests me if he will ride to rescue you. Or if he won’t ride as long as I keep you.’

She looked back at him, eyes wide, as if both ideas were new to her. He was not skilled with women, but this one was hiding something.

‘Then you will have to wonder at it, won’t you?’

And he did wonder. She was more than of an age to marry and more than passable to look on. Why was she not yet wed?

And as he looked at her, trailing white dust from her apron, he was also wondering why he had ever thought taking Stella Storwick was a good idea.

Stella kept her fists tight and her chin high, but her smile stiffened.

He would have to wonder because there was no one. Not yet.

There would be. Some day. It was hard to find the person good enough to join with a child saved by God.

‘Well,’ he said, a touch of pride in his voice, ‘the woman who marries a head man must be special, too.’

Relieved at the shift from her imaginary husband to his imaginary wife, she rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘The woman who marries you will have to have very special patience.’

‘The man who marries you will have to be a saint.’

A saint. Yes. That’s exactly the kind of man her parents were looking for.

Her stomach growled, loud enough that Rob looked down. ‘Next time, eat what’s put before you.’

‘Next time, put something before me I can eat.’ And dinner would be worse, now that she had singed the stew.

‘Brunsons don’t whine about food.’ He took her arm and pushed her ahead of him. ‘I should not have let you out at all.’

She looked towards the gate. He must not lock her in the tower again.

‘There ought to be salmon now,’ she said, dragging her feet. Liddel Water was just beyond the gate. Air without walls, a chance to explore, even to escape …

He had retreated to silence and did not glance at her.

She tried again. ‘Are you not a fishing man, then?’

Now he looked insulted.

‘Ah, I can see that you are not. Because you are such a fighting man.’ Maybe she could goad him into it. ‘Well, the man who leads the Storwicks provides for their bellies as well as for their protection.’

‘We have cattle and sheep to fill our bellies.’

She raised her brows. Her belly, certainly, had not been filled. ‘Do you not like fish?’

He paused, as if he were trying to remember the taste. ‘I like it well enough.’

‘Then why don’t you serve it?’

‘Not enough salmon to fish.’

‘I ate a plateful, only last week. There’s plenty of salmon.’

‘Plenty for Storwicks because your kind has blocked the cursed stream and the salmon can’t get up this far.’

The thought gave her pause. She had known, of course, that her family had built traps that allowed them to feast on fish, but she had never thought about what that would mean for the families who lived upstream.

‘Well, we’ll have to catch the few there are, won’t we?’

‘Do ye know any more of fishing than of cooking?’

What she knew about fishing wouldn’t fill a leather thimble. But it could not be so hard. Neither was cooking. If the Tait girl had not made her nervous, if there had been unburnt salt … ‘I know enough.’

He leaned away so he could meet her eyes. ‘Do you, now? Do you know how to build a garth?’

‘A what?’

‘A garth. A weir, I think you call it.’

‘Ah, yes.’ She knew the word. It was some kind of construction of sticks that the fish could swim into, but not out of. And she had never touched one in her life.

‘Or perhaps the Storwicks spear the fish by torchlight and slaughter them for sport. That would suit your style.’

Had they? Perhaps. They did not tell her all. ‘What we don’t eat isn’t wasted. There’s plenty who will pay for good fish.’

‘Is that how you pay for those clothes, then?’

She looked down. ‘Clothes?’ She looked down at her dress, now covered with flour outside the apron’s reach. She might have brushed away the flour dust, but now the mist was turning it into white mud.

‘You’ve got sleeves big enough to drag across the table and you’re wearing a gold cross fine enough for some king’s spawn.’

Without thinking, she touched the cross at her neck. The women of Brunson Tower wore coarse wool, laced vests and tight sleeves, as did most of the women in her home. But her parents had always made sure she had something better. ‘A gift. From my parents.’

‘Stolen, no doubt.’

‘You say that because that’s what fills your house.’

They faced each other with stubborn frowns, but there was no answer either could give. Reivers on both sides of the border lived that way.

‘There’s no disgrace in that,’ he said, finally. ‘The disgrace is in what else some men do.’

She knew the man he meant. Cousin Willie had been a disgrace to them all. Her father had even disowned him, but somehow the man had become a symbol, a pawn that the English king and warden had blown all out of proportion, leading to raids and treaties and kidnappings, all because of a man hated by his own kin.

Had the Brunsons killed him? Probably.

Was the world better off with him dead? No doubt. But she would not admit that to Rob Brunson.

She drew herself up to her princess height. ‘If you are unable, or unwilling, to provide good fresh fish for your table, then say so and I’ll go hungry. Don’t mock my clothes or insult my family instead.’

Shock. Anger. A clenched fist and jaw and a face as grim as the bare hills in winter. Would his anger be enough for him to let her out of the tower?

‘Ye want fish. We’ll get fish. But you’ll be the one to do it. And I warn you, you and your clothes will be wet and bedraggled before we’re through.’

And she couldn’t hold back a smile. Because she was sure his would be the same.

Chapter Four

Cate told Rob she couldn’t bear to set eyes on a Storwick, so Rob kept Stella in her room until Johnnie and Cate rode west the next morning.

Now, he was left alone with her and with the promise he’d made. He could not force her into the stream wearing a flour-covered dress, so he persuaded a few of the women to loan her skirt, shirt and vest. Stella emerged from the room looking at once like all the other women he knew and nothing like them at all.

Breasts he had barely noticed beneath her own gown now seemed proudly outlined above the Widow Gregor’s second-best vest. Beggy Tait’s skirt was too short for her, which meant a glimpse of bare ankle. Even the sharp angles of her face seemed softened when she wore ordinary clothes.

But her expression was not.

And still, hanging around her neck was that golden cross, studded with some green stone and with a fleck of flour stuck in the delicate wire. Something finer than he or his father had seen in a lifetime. Her family must have lifted it off the very queen.

But why did she wear it? If Storwick had sold it, his clan could have feasted until the end of days.

Apparently oblivious to the glory around her neck, Stella held out folded fabric, dusted with white. ‘I will leave this with the laundress.’

Well, new clothes had taken no edge off her sense of privilege. His anger was exhausted. Now, he was simply baffled. She was no dullard, yet still she surveyed the tower as if she owned it instead of he. ‘Do you not yet understand that you are the prisoner here?’

‘And do you not understand that I am …?’ She let go the rest of the words and her arms, holding the dress, drooped.

‘What?’

She shook her head, for once, holding back words.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t. Just who are you to think yourself entitled to treatment I wouldn’t give the King himself?’

Chastened eyes met his. ‘I am a hostage for the good behaviour of the rest of my clan.’

He didn’t believe she meant a bit of it.

She turned back to the room. ‘I’ll leave the dress on the bed.’

‘Do you know anything more of washing than cooking?’

She looked up, then let her eyes drop as she shook her head.

He sighed. If they didn’t clean her dress, she’d have to be garbed in borrowed clothes the others could ill afford to lend. ‘Bring it. Widow Gregor does some washing.’

They stopped at the Gregor hut and the Widow’s eyes went wide, as if the green dress were as precious as the necklace. ‘I’ll do my best, but I don’t know, I’ve never …’

Beside him, Stella waved her hand, as if the dress were of no importance. As if she had hundreds more like it at home.

Wat trailed after them as they left, watching Stella with the same worshipful gaze that used to follow Rob.

Truth was, the boy’s adoration had never been comfortable for him. It held expectations Rob wasn’t sure any man could meet. But he had grown accustomed to it. And it made no sense for the boy to waste his admiration on Stella Storwick.

Wat looked at Rob and smiled. ‘She’s a very pretty dragon.’

Eyes wide, Stella glanced up at Rob, making no apparent effort to hide a smile before she turned to the lad. ‘Why, thank you, Wat.’

‘Go back, boy,’ Rob snarled.

She took the boy’s hand and pulled him closer. ‘The fault is not his.’

That, he knew. He’d like to make it hers, but that would be a lie. ‘We don’t need him with us.’

Her hand touched Wat’s shoulder. ‘He’ll do no harm.’

‘Nor any good, either.’ The boy had few uses. Simple tasks, sometimes, he could do.

‘Of course he can,’ she said, looking at the boy as if he were more than a halfwit. ‘Can’t you, Wat?’

Wat nodded.

‘He’ll agree with anything you say,’ Rob said. Or he used to. Before this woman arrived and the boy developed his own opinions about dragons.

‘But you told me,’ she began, words and eyes sending a warning, ‘that he would be good help with whatever we needed.’ She hugged the boy closer, as if he were a shield, and the child turned his worshipful gaze back to Rob.

He shook his head. The woman might not be able to cook or wash, but she could manoeuvre this boy as skilfully as he deployed men in battle. And, in the process, she gave him no choice but to be cruel or to allow the lad to come.

He crouched before the boy. ‘So you want to fish, do you?’

Wat nodded.

‘Then come along.’ Under the boy’s watchful eyes, he would have to throttle his words. And his temper. Which was, of course, exactly what the woman had intended.

But she was looking at Wat and tugging his hand to draw his attention back to her. ‘You must stay close to me and not go too far into the water. I must bring you safely back to your mother.’

But Wat, excited, wiggled like a pup and tugged at Stella’s hand, trying to hurry her towards the stream.

‘Go, then,’ Stella said. Wat took off running. ‘But don’t go in the water!’

Suddenly alone with her again, Rob missed the boy’s protection. ‘Well, he’s with us. What would you have him do?’

‘He can carry the fish.’

Rob threw Stella a warning look. ‘If we ever catch one.’

Despite her warning, Wat did not wait at the water’s edge, but ran in, stomping and splashing and throwing water in the air.

Stella ran, but Rob was faster. He scooped the wet, wriggling boy from the water and stood him back on the bank. ‘Did you think to scare the fish out of the water? If there was a fish there before, he’s swum for his life now.’

Wat cringed and Rob realised how harsh he must have sounded.

Stella knelt before the boy and hugged him. ‘I told you not to go in yet.’

Wat looked from one to the other and shrugged off her arms, as if bracing for a blow. ‘My fault.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Rob agreed sharply.

Her arms took the boy again and now she was the shield between them. ‘Do not blame him. He’s a …’ She paused, as if not wanting the boy to hear her insult.

‘He’s a fool.’

‘He’s a child, not a man.’

‘On this side of the border, he is a man. Or should be.’ Poor weak creature. Like the baby lamb, destined for an early death.

But her fierce expression brooked no argument.

He put a hand on Wat’s shoulder, gently enough that Stella eased her grip and the boy looked up, hopeful. ‘Go find us small sticks and twigs, Wat, as many as you can, and bring them back here.’

Reprieved, Wat scrambled down the bank towards the bushes.

‘And stay away from the stream,’ Stella called after him. ‘What will we do with the sticks when he brings them?’

‘You know no more of catching fish than you do of the kitchen, do you?’ If she was representative of the rest of her clan, it was no wonder they came raiding. Otherwise, they would starve.

‘Do you?’ She admitted nothing.

He thought for a moment of marching her into Liddel Water to catch the fish alone. She’d be up to those bare ankles in water first. Then, her borrowed skirts would be soaked, clinging to the curve of her hips. And if she were drenched in water the way she had been in flour …

He forced his mind back to the fish. ‘Actually, I do.’

She cast a doubtful gaze at the stream, then looked back at him. ‘What do I do first?’

He waved his hands. ‘Just build a little dam and a place for them to swim in.’

‘You’ve not done this before either, have you?’

‘I watched my mother do it.’ Watched as she set the sticks in place and relished the luxury of the catch.

‘When was that?’

Years. It had been years. ‘A while ago.’

‘Then how do you know how to do it?’

How? He never asked that question. The how of things was passed down in the blood, embedded in the bones. Once the sticks were in his hands, he would remember. ‘So you insisted we come out here and build a weir and you know nothing of fishing?’

‘I thought you knew.’

‘Well, in my family, it’s the women who do it.’

Shock stole her speech.

He had never wondered at it before. His father had taught him of war and sheep and cattle. The rest was left to the women.

‘Well,’ she said, finally, ‘if you at least had a picture of it, that would help.’

‘What do you want?’ he retorted. ‘A book of lessons?’

‘Yes.’

Now he was the one who stared. ‘Could you read it?’

She coloured. ‘Maybe.’

‘Liar.’ He was learning her. Without the boy to protect, she had returned to protecting herself.

‘I could read a few words.’

‘The same two your mother knows?’ Just looking at her raised his temper. ‘You don’t cook, you don’t wash, you can’t fish …’ He waved his hands, fighting the temptation to put them on her shoulders and shake her. ‘What are you good for, lass?’

Pink embarrassment crept from her cheeks to the roots of her hair. He had upset her, which was no less than he had intended, but he had not expected to feel guilty for it.

But before she could answer, Wat ran out of the bushes, trailing sticks. He stopped in front of Rob and thrust the pile of twigs and sticks into his arms. ‘Here!’

Then he stepped back and looked from one to the other, his face transformed by a proud, happy smile.

Stella crouched before him. ‘That’s good, Wat. You did a good job. Can you get us some more?’

He nodded and ran off again.

‘Children,’ she said, gazing up at Rob with a soft smile. ‘I’m good with the children.’

Stella watched Rob’s scowl turn to frustration. He flung Wat’s precious twigs to the ground.

‘Then go marry someone special and have some.’

She rose, resisting a sharp answer, and tilted her head to study him. No man—indeed, no one at all—had ever treated her this way. Everyone at home spoke to her carefully, as if afraid to upset or anger her.

As if afraid to evoke any emotion from her at all.

But his words were like a spear in her empty womb.

‘When you let me go home, I will,’ she said, wishing that words could make it so.

Rob’s strong, stubborn gaze turned tender. Aye. Somewhere behind the black brow and the angry words, there lurked a touch of softness. Maybe some day, he’d find a woman who could release it.

‘Truce, then.’ Two words, but in those, she heard the lilt of a song.

She smiled and nodded towards the water. ‘Truce, while we see if between the two of us, we can figure out how to catch some fish.’

They waded into the water and Rob selected a place in the stream to build the dam. She explained to Wat what they needed and he ran back and forth, tireless, heaping twigs upon twigs.

Determined to prove her worth for something, she gritted her teeth, as silent as Rob, and bent to the tedious trial and error of lacing and stacking the sticks so they would not be washed away. At the end of the afternoon, wet, tired, and bedraggled, they had a makeshift weir, ready to trap a passing salmon or two or three.

Wading out of the stream, she sank down on the bank, heedless of the grass and mud beneath her. Rob did the same. Wat, quick to copy, sat between them, looking from one to the other.

‘You did well, boy,’ Rob said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

Wat smiled, bright as the sun.

Then, with a satisfied sigh, Rob stripped off his shirt.

She tried not to stare, but drops of water ran down the curve of his shoulders and traced the muscles of his arms and she remembered the feel of him, holding her to the earth, of that one moment she had no choice but surrender …

She cleared her throat and turned her eyes to Wat. ‘Yes, you did.’

‘So did you.’ The rumble of Rob’s voice cascaded through her.

‘Can I tell my mother?’ Wat said. ‘Can I tell her what I did?’

Stella looked to Rob. ‘Aye. Go on.’

‘She’ll be pleased,’ Stella called out, hoping it was true. ‘I worry about him,’ she said, after the boy was out of earshot. ‘His mother doesn’t seem to have any time for him and it would be so easy for …’

For something to happen.

Rob looked at her, silent.

She lifted her chin. ‘Someone should watch him.’ She did not want to ask permission. Did not want to say please.

‘What? Why?’

So he does not fall into the well.

‘Is he not a child of God who deserves to be cared for?’

‘He’s a halfwit who will never survive without help.’

‘Then you admit he needs help!’

A hint of disgust edged his eyes. ‘The boy must learn to survive on his own. I did.’

No. This man would not have sympathy for the weak. Strong, bold. He would not understand what it was to doubt.

‘But what if he can’t?’

‘Then he will be better off. If he can’t survive childhood, he’ll not survive a life on the Borders.’

Maybe he was right. Maybe this child would be better off dead.

Maybe she should have died in that well, too.

‘Besides,’ Rob continued, ‘no one has time to follow a child around all day.’

‘I do.’

He studied her face, his still as black as his name, and she thought he would deny her.

‘Go,’ he said, finally. ‘Ask his mother, then. I care not.’

Something, a pull of gratitude, rushed through her, threatening tears. Afraid to look at him, she stared at the sun-dappled water splashing over the little dam of sticks they had created, wishing, violently, that just once, the man would see the world without certainty. ‘Together,’ she whispered. ‘We did that together.’

In just a few hours of peace, Storwick and Brunson had built a weir. What could they build in a year of truce?

She closed her eyes, then opened them and forced herself to look at Rob again, careful to keep her eyes on his face. ‘Now all we need is some fish,’ she said.

‘Oh, soon enough, we’ll have fish aplenty,’ Rob answered. ‘I did not spend the day getting wet and tired to catch a passing carp.’

She studied his face. Sharp cheekbones slanted towards an angled nose, overshadowed with brooding brows and a high forehead. Did he ever smile? ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because by then, the Storwicks’ garth is going to be nothing more than sticks floating on Liddel Water.’

Words harsh as a slap jolted her to remember. Black Rob Brunson was no ally, no helpmate. Even a moment of peace was an illusion. Between their two families, there could be no truce.

Not now. Not ever.

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