Blythe Gifford - Taken by the Border Rebel

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.’