Blythe Gifford - Captive of the Border Lord

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.

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.