Blythe Gifford - Taken by the Border Rebel

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?’