Return of the Border Warrior

by Blythe Gifford

  And to earn his place at the king’s side, but that would not sway them.

  ‘And do you also come to stop the sun from rising of a morning?’ The curve at the corner of her mouth was a poor substitute for a smile.

  If a man had said it, John might have answered with a fist to his gab. ‘The king wants—’

  ‘The king doesn’t rule here.’ Rob’s words were low and hard, his expression the one that had earned him the nickname Black. ‘We do.’

  I do, he might have said, for his brother would be the one to say where the Brunsons would ride.

  Yesterday, the decision would have been his father’s.

  ‘Surely your loyalty does not rest with the English king?’

  ‘My family holds my loyalty,’ his brother said. ‘Who holds yours?’

  He and his family had parted ways years before. Nothing had made that more clear than returning to them. ‘We all owe loyalty to the throne. Scotland must be one country or it will be no country at all.’

  ‘I owe nothing to your bairn king,’ Cate said, heading for the door. ‘Go back and tell him to leave us be.’

  No one followed her.

  John looked back at Rob, waiting for a decision, but his brother seemed frozen with grief. The son most like his father, Rob had been prepared all his life to lead the family, but uncertainty lay beneath the stubborn set of his jaw.

  Borderers had long held themselves above the king of either country.

  No, now was not the moment to force a sorrowing son to choose between his father’s promise and the king’s command.

  But if Cate released Rob from his father’s promise, then the choice would be easier. John would have to wrestle only with his brother’s stubbornness instead of with a dead man’s ghost. No, in order for the Brunson men to ride east to meet the king, Cate Gilnock must drop her demands and step aside.

  So John would persuade her to do exactly that.

  And quickly. The king was expecting John to deliver Brunson men before the first frost.

  * * *

  Brew was served and the sharing of stories began, stories of Geordie the Red at his best. And his worst.

  Refusing to share in laughter and tears he did not feel, John left Rob and the rest in the hall and went in search of a place to stow his gear and his armour.

  Avoiding the floor where his father’s body lay, he made his way to the open sleeping room on the upper level. He had travelled alone, without even a squire, for speed and secrecy, so he wrestled his armour off by himself.

  He would certainly not beg his brother for help.

  Instead, he pondered the problem of Cate Gilnock.

  For the few days of the wake and burial, he would leave Rob to mourn and turn his charm on the woman. By the time his father was in the ground, he’d have her ready to release Rob from whatever promise she’d been given.

  She looked and sounded like no woman he had ever met, yet underneath, he had no doubt that she was the same as all the rest. With the right handling, she’d be persuaded to peace.

  Reason would be useless, of course. Near as useless as, he feared, it would be against his brother. But there were other ways.

  His family might confound him, but women did not. He knew how to flatter and cajole them, how to overcome their feigned resistance, and how to coax a smile or a kiss. He and the king had shared their fill of women and John had even taught the younger man a thing or two, though in truth, the king needed little teaching in this realm.

  He headed down the stairs to find her, a smile returning to his face. No doubt Cate Gilnock had never been wooed by a man before, acting as she did. All she needed was a honeyed word and a winning smile and she’d soon be releasing Rob from the daft-headed promise his father had made.

  And Brunson men would be riding to join their king.

  * * *

  Cate forced herself to walk down the tower’s steps when she left him, though everything in her screamed to run. She only ran towards things now, never away.

  Fear only encouraged them.

  But this one, with his smooth tongue and his knightly armour, this one scared her as none had in years. Not because she thought he would hurt her body. She’d let no man do that ever again.

  And if one did, she would not let herself feel it.

  No, it was because of the judgement she saw in his eyes, criticising the rough armour she had forged around her life, carefully as bits of iron hidden between the quilted layers of her jack-of-plaites vest.

  If he knew the truth, it would be worse.

  She escaped to the stables, where her sleuth dog had been banished until the burial. Usually, Belde was ever at her side, holding her fear at bay, but a dog in the house with the dead could be killed if he got too close to the body.

  She would let herself be killed first.

  Tail wagging, Belde sniffed her from the toes up, his usual greeting. It took longer this time, because he caught an unfamiliar scent.

  ‘That’s a new Brunson you smell,’ she muttered, scratching behind his ears. A Brunson who threatened the fragile barrier that protected her. ‘Bite him when you see him.’

  Intent to understand the new scent, the dog didn’t lift his head. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his reddish fur. There would be no tears, but this creature would be the only one allowed to see her sorrow.

  The men accepted her silently. Braw Cate, they called her, and if she was not exactly a comrade in arms, none of them saw her as a woman. That part of her had died and she would let no one resurrect it.

  Especially a blue-eyed Brunson.

  She lifted her head and settled a firm expression on her face.

  Sorrow would be left on the dog’s coat.

  * * *

  John found her in the soft, grey light of the afternoon doing something he’d never seen a woman do: waving a sword at her fading shadow in a corner of the courtyard.

  He watched her from the doorway, more baffled than ever. She was slim and strong. Bone and sinew bent to her will. This was not, he could tell, the first time she had lifted a blade, but the sword, more than half her height, was one a man needed two hands to wield.

  What kind of woman tried the same?

  Quietly, he unsheathed his dagger and crept around the edge of the yard. It was no match for her sword, but confronted with a weapon in a man’s hand, she’d no doubt gasp and blush and step aside.

  She heard him before he got within a sword’s length and whirled to meet him. He lifted his weapon and crossed it with hers.

  ‘Surrender?’ he said with a smile.

  Instead, she knocked his dagger aside. ‘Never.’

  Then, lips set, eyes narrowed, she pointed the sword at his chest, as if to make a touch.

  Or something even more deadly.

  He tightened his grip on the dagger and took a step back, wishing he still wore his armour. On his guard, he countered her, exhilaration warring with annoyance as they circled each other. He had learned to fight in this very yard, learned because it was a matter of life and death, but his style had been polished beside the king, who had picked up an adult sword at thirteen.

  Partnering with King James, guided by the same master, he had developed swift elegance that allowed his opponent to increase his skills without either fighter being hurt.

  Even disadvantaged by his weapon, he should be able to toy with this woman until she lowered her blade.

  Yet she knew none of those rules. She swung her sword with the bluntness of a warrior astride a hobbler pony, fending off an enemy brandishing a pike. Her sword’s thrust carried urgency, even passion, that somehow stirred his blood.

  Even his loins.

  He jumped just in time to escape a touch. Now was not the time for distractions. He had expected a playful joust. Instead, he faced a warrior.

  He swung high, but she held up her sword, turned sideways, to block his stroke. A clever move, but lifting the two-handed sword had strained her strength and whe
n she lowered it, her arms shook.

  Seizing on her weakness, he attacked and they crossed blades again. Prepared now, he leveraged his strength against her sword. Though she kept her grip, he pushed the blade away, coming close enough to feel her chest rise and fall, nearly touching his.

  Close enough that his mind wandered, careless of the blades, thinking that under her tunic and vest, she had breasts. Now he could see her face, the angles of it, sharp and cleanly sculpted as her sword. Yet thick lashes edged her brown eyes, disguising some of the hatred there.

  ‘Surrender now?’

  Panting, she shook her head. Yet her lips parted, tempting him to take them. She was, after all, a woman. A kiss would be mightier than a sword.

  He pushed her sword arm down, pulled her to him and took her lips.

  She yielded for a breath, no more.

  But it was long enough for him to lose his thoughts, to forget she held a sword and remember only that she was a woman, breasts soft against his chest, smelling of heather...

  In a flash, she turned stiff as a sword and leaned away, though her lips did not leave his, so he thought she only teased.

  When he felt the point of a dirk at his throat, he knew she did not.

  ‘Let me go,’ she said, her lips still close enough that they moved over his, ‘or you’ll be bleeding and I’ll leave you to it, I swear.’

  He eased his arms from her back and she pushed him away, wiped her mouth and spat into the dirt.

  He touched the scratch she’d left on his neck, grateful she had not drawn blood.

  Her eyes, which he had thought to turn soft with pleasure, narrowed, hard with fury.

  ‘It’s a Brunson you’re facing,’ he said, trying a smile. ‘Not a Storwick.’

  She raised both sword and dirk, the larger wobbling in her grip. ‘It’s a man I’m facing who thinks what I want is of no consequence if it interferes with his privileges and pleasures.’

  Had he imagined the echo of the bedchamber in her voice? No more.

  He raised his eyebrows, opened his arms and made a slight bow. ‘A thousand pardons.’ Words as insincere as the feelings behind them.

  She frowned. ‘You are a stranger here, so you know no better. And because you are a Brunson, I’ll let you keep your head, but I’ll warn you just once. You will not do that again. Ever.’

  She lowered her sword, slowly.

  You are a stranger. She was the Brunson, besting him with a sword, displacing him at the family table. His temper rose. ‘And what if I do?’

  The blade rose, this time, not pointed at his throat, but between his legs. ‘If you do, you won’t have to worry about bedding a woman ever again.’

  He swallowed, gingerly, his body on fire. Only because she had challenged him. Nothing more. No man could desire such a woman.

  ‘Then have no worries on that score, Catie Gilnock,’ he said, flush with anger. ‘When next I bed a woman, it most certainly will not be you.’

  * * *

  Cate watched him go, struggling to keep her sword upright. Only when he was safely inside the tower did she lower her blade and raise her fingers to her lips.

  He had dared to kiss her. And for just a moment, she had felt what other women must.

  What she had thought never to feel.

  After the raid, after her father died, after...the rest, she had been mercifully numb. Months were a blur. Some days, the only sensation she felt was Belde’s nose, nudging aside tears she didn’t remember shedding.

  Then the numbness faded, and the fear came.

  Bit by bit, day by day, she fought it. Piece by piece, she built a wall to hold it back.

  Now, no one questioned why she was not like other women. But Johnnie Brunson did. His careless smile was a cruel reminder of doubts she had smothered and regrets she had suppressed. When he looked at her, they haunted her anew. Who she had been. Who she could never be. All the things she wanted to forget, the questions she did not want to ask, wanted no one to ask.

  The questions she would never answer.

  She carried her sword back to the armoury and polished the blade, reluctant to rejoin the wake and see him again.

  Surely she would not have to fight Johnnie Brunson for long. He’d soon learn that no outlander could dictate to a Borderer who or how he could fight. This land, these people, were beyond the whims of a king.

  But fight she would, and keep fighting until Scarred Willie Storwick lay cold beneath the ground. Not, as most thought, because of what he had done to her father.

  Because of what he had done to her.

  Chapter Two

  John watched Cate return to the hall and join her men near the hearth without so much as a glance his way.

  The wake was in full swing and John was surrounded by strangers. Rob had gone upstairs to sit with the body, which was never allowed to be left alone before burial. Soon enough, John would have to face his father’s corpse, knowing the sightless eyes would never see the king’s badge of thistle that John had so proudly pinned to his chest.

  It seemed to impress no one here on the Borders. Not even the Gilnock wench.

  In truth, he had not planned to kiss her, but when she refused to surrender, when her eyes clashed with his as strongly as her blade, he found himself...roused. Even then, he had expected little more than the taste of cold steel. But her lips, thin and sharp as her tongue, warmed, drew him in...

  And then rejected him.

  She might not have meant it as a challenge, but that was his body’s translation.

  Women did not refuse Johnnie Brunson.

  He watched her, surrounded by her men, wondering what kind of a woman she was. Flaxen hair framed a face hard, sharp and spare as the rest of her. At least, that’s what he had thought until he was close enough to feel her breasts against his chest and see the sweep of her thick lashes.

  He forced his thoughts away from rumpled sheets and throaty laughs. She did not seem to offer stories of her own, but she laughed at the others and encouraged them to tell their own tales.

  In that, at least, she seemed a woman. She was likely as changeable as any he had known. All he must do was figure out how to change her.

  Beside John at the table, the men who had ridden with Red Geordie were swapping stories of Storwick cattle stolen and recovered and stolen again and making promises of the cattle they would steal in Geordie’s memory.

  John did not waste breath to argue. Black Rob would decide when, where and if they raided again, but John must not force that choice too soon.

  When next John turned to look for Cate, she had gone.

  ‘Would you sit a watch with him?’ His sister’s voice, soft, came over his shoulder.

  He turned to see her, and Rob, faces scored with grief, behind him.

  ‘It should be kin beside him,’ Rob began, as if John were kin no more.

  ‘Rob, please.’ Bessie’s voice was weak and weary.

  He met his brother’s eyes, clashing as they had, even as boys. ‘I am as much his son as you are,’ he said. At least, that was what he had told himself whenever he had doubts. ‘I will take my turn.’

  He rose. No other choice. He must face his farewell.

  Alone, he climbed the stairs and paused at the open door to the room where his father lay. The candle that would burn throughout the night flickered on the chest by the hearth.

  And at the foot of the bed, Cate Gilnock sat, head bowed, as if she were kin with the right to sit with him.

  Anger pushed him into the room to claim his place. His brother, his sister, even the men who rode beside Geordie the Red were closer to him than John was. That, he had accepted.

  But not this woman, this interloper.

  ‘I sit with him alone,’ he said, voice cold.

  She jumped up and reached for her dagger, stopping only when she recognised him. ‘If you cannot respect his word, you should not sit with him at all.’

  Her words twisted inside him, sharp as a blade. ‘Alone,’ he said, no
t trusting himself to say more.

  Wordless, she lowered her blade and stepped outside.

  His father lay in the curtained bed where he had died, arms at his side, wrapped in white linen. John could hardly imagine his gentle, doe-eyed sister having prepared the body for burial, but here he lay, even in death, his face as fierce as in John’s memories.

  He took a step forwards. He should pay his respects. He should pray for his father’s soul as Cate no doubt had done. Or perhaps he should be fearful that the man’s spirit, vengeful, might still haunt the room. He should feel...something.

  Instead, he felt as if he stood in an empty room.

  Hard to even picture this body as his father, straight, strong and spare of speech with no time for his youngest boy except brief minutes to drill him in the wielding of the staff and sword. He had not been the son favoured with the old man’s care and training. John had been the one pushed from the nest and sent to the king, his loss mourned no more than that of a cow or a sheep.

  And in ten years, never a word sent except notice of his mother’s death, as if John had ceased to exist once he had left Brunson land.

  Well, he was back and his father, in truth, was dead as he had been to John for the last ten years.

  Taking a step closer to the bed, he was swept with a wave of grief that weakened his knees. Staggering, he gripped the corner post of the bed to stay upright. He thought Rob was the one who needed to grieve, Rob the one who needed time to adjust to his father’s loss before he shouldered the demands of the head of the family.

  Now, John faced the truth. He was the one for whom it was too soon. Too soon to accept that his father was gone. Too soon to release the glimmer of hope he’d felt as he rode across the hills, proudly wearing his armour. Hope that he might make peace with the man at last.

  Too late for that now.

  Peace, if peace were possible, would have to be made with his brother.

  The air stirred behind him. The room was empty no more.

  ‘When did you last see him?’ Cate’s voice.

  He did not turn, but spoke the memory. ‘I was twelve. He sent me to Edinburgh, with just enough men to assure I’d arrive safely. We rode as far as the burn, crossed the water, I turned back to wave...’