Return of the Border Warrior

by Blythe Gifford

  ‘Hell House it is,’ Rob muttered.

  Carwell raised his brows. The man was listening, at least. ‘Anything on those lands after sundown belongs to all.’

  John looked at Rob, then back at Carwell. ‘He says the English Warden gave him leave to build.’

  ‘It was not his to give.’

  ‘You said he was as trustworthy as you.’

  ‘I must have lied.’

  John faced him, studying the unreadable expression, trying to determine whether Carwell could be trusted at all. The king had named him, yes, but had the king ever looked the man in the eye? ‘I don’t trust either one of you—’

  ‘John,’ Rob interrupted, ‘he’s the warden. Hear him out.’

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ he yelled, but not the words he wanted to scream. Do you know what Storwick did to Cate? ‘After he betrayed us?’

  ‘I did not,’ Carwell said. ‘I swear it.’

  John turned away in disgust.

  Behind him, Rob spoke up, sharp, but calm. ‘Prove it.’

  Carwell rose, putting his tankard on the table. Just by standing, he had taken control of the conversation. ‘We make the rules work to our advantage.’

  John stared. How to judge the man rightly? Older than Rob, but not by much. Courtly manners that hid both emotion and thought. He showed nothing a man could get a grip on. ‘Willie and his band don’t care for rules. They tie them in a pretty bow and throw them on the dung heap.’

  Carwell smiled in that way that hid a secret, an expression as dangerous as Rob’s scowl. ‘Then we’ll set the heap ablaze, won’t we? The land is common by day, but his tower is there after dark. By law, anything left there after dark can be seized.’

  John looked at Rob. They looked at Carwell. And Rob nodded.

  ‘We’ll need at least a hundred men to take it,’ John said, finally willing to sit. ‘Three would be better.’

  ‘The Brunsons will bring half,’ Rob said.

  John looked at Carwell. ‘You must raise the rest.’

  It was a challenge. Carwell had already sent many of his men to the king. There would be few left to guard his own keep.

  After a moment, he nodded. Then, arms crossed, he studied John. ‘And the Brunson men the king waits for?’

  Days had slid into weeks. He had postponed the decision, thinking to satisfy Cate and then the king. Now, the men would be late.

  If they rode at all.

  John looked at Rob and shook his head. ‘We ride for Storwick first.’

  Carwell raised his brows. ‘What’s changed?’

  ‘Changed?’ He knew the man’s meaning, but Cate’s shame was not his to share.

  ‘What happened to the man who served king before kin?’

  He tried to remember. Tried to summon up the arrogant, careless man who had ridden into the valley wearing a badge of thistle, expecting that alone would entitle him to respect.

  ‘Gone. Vanished. Disappeared into the Border mist.’

  Cate. Cate had changed him.

  A smile flickered between Carwell and Rob. ‘Welcome home, Johnnie Brunson,’ Rob said.

  Then Carwell frowned, silent. John did not press him. They could well be on opposite sides after this battle, when Carwell must again enforce the king’s will.

  The warden pulled a map from his bag and unfolded the parchment on the table showing the shaded no man’s land near the river. ‘Now show me where Storwick’s built his Hell Hole.’

  * * *

  It took weeks to prepare their invasion. October slid into November. Leaves slid off the trees. When there was not work that kept them apart, Cate and John were side by side.

  Each day, Cate trusted him more. She had shared her secret and he revealed it to no one. But now that he knew the truth, her pain was not halved, but doubled, for she saw it ever reflected back at her when she met his eyes.

  They did not speak of it. And they did not share a bed again.

  But on the night before the men were to leave, she lingered in the tower’s hall as darkness fell, sheltered in the meagre privacy of the alcove near the west-facing window.

  He sat beside her, his body shielding hers from prying eyes, his hand resting on hers. The hard stone seat released the warmth of the day slowly.

  ‘Tomorrow it will all be over,’ he said.

  She nodded, fervently hoping it would be and that she would be free.

  He started again. ‘I do not want to go without...’

  There was the pain again. She did not have to ask what he meant. ‘Aye.’ She squeezed his hand. She must try once more. Even if she could not join with him, she had to touch him, to hold him, her touch a talisman to keep him safe. ‘But where?’

  Men who would ride tomorrow over-spilled the tower. Between Carwell’s men and the Brunsons, they could crush whatever band Storwick had collected around him.

  Belde had been banished outside after he growled at too many strangers and even the room she shared with Bessie was full of wives and daughters who had come to prepare food for what had become near an army.

  ‘Rob sleeps with his men tonight. If he sleeps at all.’

  She looked at him, eyes wide. ‘The master’s chamber is empty?’ Curtained bed. Roaring fire. Chest and chair. What luxury the tower could boast was in that room.

  And the last time they had been in it together, his father had lain dead in the bed.

  Aye, they would both face ghosts in that room. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ No hesitation in his voice, or in his eyes.

  No one watched them climb the darkened stairs. No one saw them open the door to find a wasteful, crackling fire warming an empty room.

  ‘Bessie,’ she whispered, taking in the fire, the freshly made bed and small plate of oat cakes and tankards of ale. ‘Bessie has been here.’

  He hugged her from behind, then turned her to face him. ‘There will be no one in this room tonight but me and thee. No one.’

  That was what she wanted. To banish the ghosts. To bury the nightmares.

  She reached for his cheek, loving the feel of it against her palm. ‘No one but John and Cate.’

  ‘Let us be slow. Just let me make you happy.’

  There are ways for men and women to be happy. Perhaps it was true, for those blessed with good fortune and luck. She wanted to believe it. ‘What must I do?’

  ‘You must do nothing.’ He picked her up and laid her on the bed.

  She stiffened against the softness of the feather mattress, then forced her fisted fingers apart.

  He put a hand on either cheek and she clung to his eyes, as if they could save her. As long as I know it’s Johnnie, I’ll feel safe.

  ‘I will tell you everything I’m going to do, so you won’t be afraid. And if anything feels wrong, just hold up your hand and I’ll stop. And if there’s anything you want, just tell me.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said, not sure she did.

  But the fire and the bed sheltered by blue fabric made it easier. Outside, there was hard ground and soft heather and nothing to keep a raider away. Inside, protected by the walls, her memories were of John.

  He lifted her left hand and kissed each finger, then turned it over to press his lips to her palm.

  She studied each movement.

  ‘I would recommend closing your eyes.’ He smiled, still, soft, reassuring.

  She shook her head. Last time, she had closed her eyes. ‘I like to look at you.’

  He threaded his fingers through her hair. ‘I like to look at you, too.’ His hand reached the end of tresses too short to touch her shoulders and he tugged, as if he might help them grow.

  She had cut her hair up to her ears and, until recently, had forced Bessie to keep it short. Never again would a man grab her braid so she could not escape.

  ‘I can let it grow,’ she said, wondering how it would feel. ‘If you like.’

  He shook his head. ‘I will not force you to do anything because of what I like.’ He did not speak of her
hair.

  ‘Do what you want. I will like it.’ A lie she wanted to believe.

  ‘You may like me without liking it all, but I will be gentle. I promise.’

  She nodded, but still, her body braced itself. He trailed his fingers down her cheek, slowly, then to her neck and throat. They bumped against her shirt. ‘Help me.’

  Kind of him to give her control. Did he know how much she needed it?

  Without her shirt, the cool night air slipped over her. His warm fingers followed, stirring her skin like swirling water. He took his time, letting her adjust, running his fingers over her shoulders, then down the valley between her breasts, then up her sides to her shoulders again and down her arms until they reached her fingers and tangled there. Everywhere he touched was warm. And when he withdrew his touch, she chilled.

  Too slow. She did not want to wait. His touch must erase the past. ‘You needn’t dally.’

  ‘Ah, Catie, my love, the dallying is where the joy is.’

  My love. Said as easily as he had, no doubt, said it to other women.

  ‘But I...’ What? She both wanted it to be over and never to end.

  ‘We went too fast the last time. Just lie back.’

  So she stretched out on the bed, trying to feel nothing but his touch, be nowhere but in this room, and with no one but Johnnie Brunson.

  His lazy fingers played over her skin until it shimmered, as if ready to dissolve. But beneath, her body still warred with her, muscles tight, ready to fight. Ready to run.

  He started to slide her woollen hose off her hips. She froze again and gripped his wrists. ‘No.’ Thinking he would ignore her.

  Instead, he let go.

  Now she did close her eyes, squeezing them tight against the tears. Down there. Down there was where that man had been. Last time, it was the feel of wool breeches on her bare skin, the feel of a man fumbling for himself just before—

  She opened her eyes to see his smile gone. ‘It’s too soon,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll wait. Until you’re ready.’

  Her body relaxed at his words, as if given a reprieve from death. But death might come to either of them tomorrow.

  And even if death came to Willie Storwick, would that be enough? What if his death did not free her?

  She could see herself, years from now, still locked in the prison her mind had made. Years after Johnnie Blunkit had gone back to his king and his court and she was left alone with everything below her waist still in Willie’s grip.

  ‘No!’ She laced her fingers in his, refusing to let him go, afraid this chance would be gone. ‘I am ready.’ She met his eyes.

  John took her hand, playing with her fingers and studying her eyes. ‘Show me,’ he said finally. ‘Show me what you want, what you are ready for.’

  ‘So you’ll do only as I say?’ She felt herself ease at the thought.

  ‘Until you no longer know what to ask for.’

  She could share a smile with him, then, grateful to think there were parts to come beyond her experience.

  ‘And still, if there is anything, anything I do that you do not want, you need only say “nay”.’

  A word had stopped him before. She could trust it would do so again.

  He had touched her arms, her throat, her ribs and waist, but her breasts ached for the same.

  She looked down. ‘Here.’

  He smiled. ‘Where?’

  She pointed to the valley between her breasts.

  He stroked the place she pointed to, not the place she wanted, but his fingers spread to either side and she moaned, turning to thrust her nipples under his fingers.

  ‘Here?’ She could hear the smile in his voice.

  She opened her eyes, trying to catch her breath. ‘I did not think you were a man who would need instruction on a woman’s body.’

  He laughed, then, and she joined him. Laughter. Who would think laughter and loving could be joined?

  ‘Ah, but you are no ordinary woman, my love.’

  My. Such a large word.

  His fingers slid across first one breast, then the other. Then his lips followed. Warm, wet, exciting. This must be what they meant when they said ‘love making’. It was so different from...

  From things she did not want to remember.

  The skin below her waist burned, impatient. She must know. She must know if she could ever be a woman again. She pushed him away and pulled her hose down, wanting to feel his skin on hers. Something escaped his throat. Not a word. Something between a gasp and a groan.

  She faced him, seeing joy and pain mixed on

  his face.

  ‘What...’ Then he coughed, as if the word could not find its way up his throat. ‘What do you want?’

  Waiting. Waiting for her to say. ‘I want your clothes gone.’

  He stood, shedding the tunic. His chest, broad, strong, dusted with hair, made her smile. There, she had nested, snuggled and safe.

  And so much more.

  He reached to strip the rest, but suddenly she was not ready.

  ‘Stop.’

  He did, instantly.

  She swallowed, licked her lips. It had been easier the first time, before she knew what might happen, both for good and ill. ‘I want to feel your skin on mine.’

  He sat on the bed and held her gently, as if she were a chalice. ‘Like this?’

  She nodded. This, this closeness, surely this could wipe the memories away. Yet her stiff body refused to yield to the promise. It fought him still, along with the comfort and pleasure he offered.

  His lips met her forehead.

  ‘Cate, listen to me. I will not take you tonight. Do you hear? Do you understand?’

  She nodded, shakily, unsure whether she was relieved or sad.

  ‘In order to do that, I need to keep my tarse in my braies, but I’ll be sure you don’t feel either of those things. Do you understand?’

  She knew neither what he promised, nor how he had known why her body had rebelled, but trusting him, she nodded.

  His words rumbled, close to her ear. ‘What I am going to do is show you something of how it can be. How it can be wonderful. Will you let me do that?’

  ‘Yes.’ A word, only. But the right one.

  His lips, warm, trailed down her neck and his fingers drifted lower. She let herself lie back, eyes open, as his lips and fingers played over her skin, at once lulling and exciting.

  His kisses floated to the curve of her belly, reached the spot between her legs she had protected for so long. Some mix of fingers and tongue, she could not sort it out, focused on a nub of feeling she’d barely realised existed. A place no one had ever touched.

  The rest of the world fell away, leaving only his lips meeting that secret place.

  Everything within her rushed towards that spot, as fast as the Liddel Water towards the sea, and she thought she would die rather than stop it.

  Then, as if a rock stood at the confluence of two rivers, the feeling, like the rushing water, hit it and broke into uncountable drops, sparkling in the sun, only to fall back to join the larger river.

  The one river that was two joined together.

  He held her for as long as she shook. Then she felt him move up and touch his lips to her forehead. That was not enough. That could hardly contain what had just happened.

  She searched for his lips, met them with hers and let her kiss say what words could not.

  The kiss ended only when his lips curved into a smile. ‘And that, my love, is how it can be between a man and a woman.’

  Not a man, she thought. Not any man. That’s how it could be with this man.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cate held him tightly for those few hours after the crescent moon rose, wishing neither of them had to leave each other or the bed. Once they left this room, nothing would be certain.

  Not even their return.

  Light touched the sky and she forced herself to stir. Belde must be fed. The horses prepared to ride when night fell.

  She
sighed and threw back the covers, searching for her clothes. ‘I will pack food for us,’ she said, wanting to speak of ordinary things. As if this were a day no more important than any other.

  He sat up, crossing his legs, leaning his arms on his knees. ‘Not this time. I won’t let you go this time.’

  A different kind of fear fluttered within her. ‘But I must! I must face him. I must see him dead or I’ll never—’

  Never be able to love you as I want to.

  He shook his head, wearing an expression that would have been at home on Black Rob’s. ‘No. I’ll listen to no argument.’

  ‘But now you know. You know why I must face him myself.’ Her fear had a name. Eyes, nose, ears. And she must prove that she would not do what she had the first time. What she had done in Kershopefoote. Freeze.

  ‘You have faced him already.’

  ‘It’s different now.’

  ‘Why?’

  Because of you.

  But she could not say that. Could not tell him she had hope she had not had before last night, hope she couldn’t even breathe to the man who had given it to her. ‘Why will you not let me see it to the end?’

  ‘Because if you come, I’ll worry that you’re going to ride across a field like a target for their practice! Talk of it no more.’

  ‘I can’t stay here wondering, not knowing whether you—’

  ‘I’ll tie you down in the caif with the barrels if I must, but you will not ride with us.’

  He would not be swayed. He had become a Brunson in truth and stubborn as any of them.

  She straightened her shoulders against sharp disappointment. ‘Then bring me his body. I must see him.’ For she would not believe the man dead unless she witnessed it herself.

  ‘Will that be enough for you, then? To see him dead?’

  He paused and she lifted her chin. She would not let Johnnie cajole her from this. With Willie dead, she could put the past behind her.

  But that left the future yawning, empty and uncertain.

  ‘Yes. It will be enough. It will be the end.’

  ‘Aye, then. I’ll bring him.’ Hands on her shoulders, he kissed her forehead. ‘If there’s a piece of him left when I’m done.’