Captive of the Border Lord

by Blythe Gifford

  Tonight. Tonight, she said again. I am here, with all the fine ladies at the court of the King, dancing with a man who stood before the Archbishop and promised he would be my husband. This night of joy might not come again.

  Perhaps it was the wine that gave her permission. Good French claret, such as she had never tasted on the Borders. It dulled her brain. Dulled her tongue. Helped her breathe easily, even though she knew nothing of what would happen when the sun rose. Helped her be easy with just tonight.

  And when the poem of Sir Lindsay’s ‘Dreme’ passed from Remembrance into Hell, with all the court still captive of the King and the grand celebration, Thomas squeezed her hand and they slipped out of the door of the Great Hall, not speaking until the door of their room had closed behind them.

  Lips met. Bodies pressed. Neither spoke. No questions. Not now. Now, she only trusted that his body did not lie.

  * * *

  When, strangely, he lay her on her back and ducked his head between her legs, she let him, not knowing what would come.

  A touch. His tongue. Tantalising. Confusing. Feelings that did not belong to the woman she thought she was. The woman who had been strong and solid writhed in pleasure, her body dancing to music only the two of them heard.

  Music they had created.

  And then she broke into a thousand pieces.

  He did not let her go. He held her, his face near hers again, as if his hands could hold the pieces together close enough and long enough for her to arrange herself into the woman he had made her.

  Then he joined with her again.

  And she took him deep within her. Embracing everything he was with everything she was, thinking surely, now she knew this man. And knew he would never harm her.

  * * *

  He dozed, briefly, not letting her out of his arms. Then muffled music from the Great Hall wandered across the inner close and up to their window.

  He opened his eyes, then leaned on his elbow, to look down at her. Her smile was soft and her gaze as foggy as his own.

  He cleared his throat. Speaking was going to be a challenge. ‘The King will go to Edinburgh tomorrow.’

  She closed her eyes and tightened her arms. ‘It is not tomorrow yet.’

  ‘I know I promised to return you safely to your brothers.’ And with her reputation intact. Well, he had kept her reputation intact, if not her maidenhood.

  Her smile faltered. She nodded. ‘Would the King allow it?’

  ‘The King cares only that the Brunsons keep the peace, not how I achieve that.’

  She shook her head, her wry smile matching his. ‘The King does not know my brothers.’

  ‘Aye.’ But he did. The betrothal had only bought time, not peace. ‘But I cannot take you back to Liddesdale yet.’

  She nodded, strangely silent.

  ‘The Truce Day, the treaty...’ He, who had always only smooth words, was stumbling over these. ‘I must return to Carwell Castle first to make arrangements with the English Warden. After, I will find a way to break this betrothal.’

  She sat up, a pillow behind her back, for the moment her head higher than his. ‘Since we are not to be wed, there is no need for me to go with you. Just take me home to Brunson tower on your way.’

  ‘And let Black Rob shoot me?’ His smile was forced.

  ‘If we don’t tell him, he would not know...’ Her words trailed away.

  It was the first time she had ever suggested a lie.

  And though it sounded easy, he was not tempted. ‘Impossible.’ There was another reason he could not let her go yet. One that would be harder to raise. ‘I’ll be taking the more direct route, north and east. We won’t go near Brunson land.’

  She blinked, her eyes a little wider than usual. ‘After we arrive then, you can release a few men to accompany me home until we can...resolve what is next.’

  The woman who had bared her body and her soul had retreated and he faced again the one who hid her secrets in silence. But she could not fool him the same way now. He had glimpsed her true face.

  ‘It is not so simple.’ He did not question his own reluctance to let her go. ‘I must also convince the King of your family’s compliance and persuade your brothers to lay down their arms. The treaty terms have made it all more difficult.’

  ‘And what will I do at Carwell Castle, while you are dealing with these...difficult matters?’ Calm as if she were discussing a trade of cattle. Dispassionate as if they were fully clothed at midday instead of naked and sated. Once again, he faced the damnable stubbornness she’d shown during their first days.

  A woman who was asking the questions he should have thought to answer before he chose this course. Because before he could break the betrothal and return her to her brothers, he must be sure. ‘You will stay,’ he said, calmly as he could muster, ‘and do anything you like until I am certain you do not carry my child.’

  Her face could not have gone more rigid if he had slapped her. Well, she was the one used to plain speaking. She should face the right of it.

  ‘Could we at least send word?’ she said, finally. ‘So my brothers know I am safe?’

  ‘Shall we also tell them you are betrothed to me and may be carrying my child?’

  She looked down, then, and shook her head.

  ‘How long?’ he asked, when she did not speak. ‘How long will it be until you...know?’

  Her cheeks flamed now. ‘Weeks. Three. Four. I am not always... Each time can be different.’

  Now his cheeks must match hers. These were not things they should have to speak of. ‘We’ll leave tomorrow. Be ready.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Can you at least say ’aye’’?’

  She tilted her head, as if confused that he would ask. ‘Aye.’

  ‘“Aye”, you can say it or “aye”, you’ll be ready?’ He could feel his temper, and his voice, rising.

  ‘“Aye”, I can say it. I already told you I’d be ready.’ As tight-lipped as any Borderer he’d known.

  ‘Goodnight, then.’ He turned on his side, back to her, their final night of illusion ripped asunder by reality. Still, he wondered whether he could keep his hands to himself for the few hours before dawn.

  She did not move at first, but finally she snuggled under the covers and turned away, careful that her back did not meet his.

  He turned his mind to what he must do, hoping that would chase desire away. The treaty. The Brunsons. The King. Once he was back where he belonged, where he was accustomed to being alone, then it would be easier to wean himself away from her.

  And just when he thought she must be asleep, he heard a wistful voice behind him. ‘I have never seen the sea.’

  And in that whisper, he heard all the dangers of this course, for her, as well as for him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning, Bessie folded Long Mary’s dresses carefully and while Thomas saw to the horses and men, she ran up to return them to their rightful owner.

  The King, too, was leaving that day, though the Dowager Queen was not. Stowte Mary and Wee Mary were a-flutter, helping with last-minute details.

  Bessie laid the dresses on the bed. ‘I brought these back for Long Mary, with my thanks.’ Her fingers lingered on the fabric. Rich black. Vivid blue. She would not wear their like again.

  ‘Keep them,’ Wee Mary said. ‘She doesn’t need them now.’

  ‘But later, after the babe comes...’ She could barely think of babes now.

  How long will it be until you...know?

  ‘She’s gone,’ Stowte Mary said, on her way out of the door. ‘Sent to wed a laird from Perth.’

  Gone. As quickly as the woman who had just left the room. Long Mary, who had shared the King’s bed, who would bear his child, sent to wed another man as though she were nothing more than a brood mare.

  ‘She’s lucky, I hear,’ Wee Mary said. ‘He’s not as old as some could be.’

  Bessie picked up the dresses and hugged them close. It was not only her clothes
that were ill suited to Stirling. Had Long Mary, too, thought she knew the man who shared her bed? Had she, too, been trusting?

  No. It was only Border rustics who were so naïve.

  You’ll owe me, Wee Mary had said. And yet here she was, about to leave court without even the coin Johnnie had given her. Coin she had squandered on a gift for a man she only thought she knew.

  ‘Here.’ She thrust the clothes at the shorter woman. ‘You take them.’ Little enough, Bessie realised, for all Mary had done. ‘I know I owe you, but this is all I have.’

  Wee Mary shook her head. ‘You keep them. You gave me more than you know.’ Her lips curled into a happy smile. ‘Johnnie may be a husband, but Oliver Sinclair remains an unmarried man.’

  Bessie bit her tongue. All women, it seemed, were blind to the faults of men.

  A good reminder. In this cliff-top palace, she had eaten and drunk and dressed and danced as if she, too, could live as the royals did. Now it was time to come back to earth, open her eyes and face the truth about Thomas Carwell.

  And the truth was, she knew nothing of him at all.

  The terms are not what I would have wished, he had said. But up until that final day, he had seemed content. As soon as they had arrived at court, negotiations had resumed. She still suspected that was because of something Carwell had done. Yet he said the outcome had disappointed him.

  Had he lied?

  Had he arranged a treaty that would allow the English to cross the border, acting outraged when it was signed?

  Wee Mary reached out to hug her. ‘Be happy.’

  Happy? She had thought too much of her own pleasure.

  What will I do at Carwell Castle? Now she knew. She would do what she had promised her brothers when she left home: discover the truth about Thomas Carwell and his deceptions.

  That was the reason she agreed to go at all. The only reason.

  She was not good at lying. Even to herself.

  * * *

  When they left Stirling later that day, geese were flying and the sky was the grayish-white of well-washed linen.

  The men Carwell had sent to the King for the siege of Angus’s castle returned with them, so they were near a hundred strong on the journey. Too many to feed easily, no friendly stopping places that might shelter an army on the empty northern route.

  No warm bed together for two people who had been forced into a betrothal to appease the King.

  So they rode hard and on the fourth day they thundered down into the river valley that was Carwell land. As they rode south, the land flattened until, late in the day, she lost sight of the hills and was surrounded by marshland, a landscape even more strange than Stirling, where at least the horizon still held hills.

  It had snowed overnight, snow covering even this flat land, and then the road bent, and Carwell Castle rose, dark shape against a soft, pink-sunset sky.

  Stirling had awed her, but this castle, surrounded by a moat, touched her in a different way. Round towers, where home was square. Surrounded by flat lands instead of hills. And instead of the wind, the sound of waves. At least, that’s what she thought it must be. She had never heard the sea.

  They entered the courtyard, all the men on horseback, yet things were handled briskly and efficiently. A steward sorted out horses and armour. A servant appeared with a bowl to wash away the dust and a tankard to wash away the thirst.

  No women, he had said. And she saw few, all servants. The steward’s wife. Cooks. Maids. And in all the activity, no one noticed her at first.

  Then, Thomas approached and helped her down from the pony. She saw the uncertain looks then. The men who had ridden back from Stirling with them stayed silent, but the steward, the servants from the castle, stepped back, trying to hide stares, as confused about her status as she was.

  She would not give them time to wonder. ‘I am Elizabeth Brunson. I am to be Thomas Carwell’s bride.’

  His arm tightened on hers. A sharp look, then he turned back, master of his castle once more. ‘It would please the King to see us wed. Please give her all your respect.’ He turned back. ‘And the chamber at the end of the western wall. At the opposite end from mine.’

  And so he had put her in her place. Far from his.

  She inclined her head, as if his decision was the one she had asked for.

  The crowd around them broke into applause and smiles, as if a new lady, and an heir, already stood before them. Carwell, silent, walked away, leaving her to the smiles of the steward’s wife.

  She deflected the woman’s questions, pleading fatigue.

  It would be better this way, she thought, as they guided her to the northern tower. She would be spared the temptation of his bed. The servants, it was clear, wanted an heir.

  Thomas, it was clearer, did not. At least, not by her.

  She would be here only long enough to prove she did not carry one. And it would be easier to search for evidence of the guilt of the man if he could not watch her every move.

  She would find him guilty. For the escape of Willie Storwick, for the terrible treaty terms, for something, anything at all.

  And when she did, then, perhaps, she would stop loving him.

  * * *

  Thomas had expected to find peace once he was home again. It was not to be.

  She was here.

  He gave her a room distant from his. Tried to keep her out of sight so he could keep his resistance strong. On the journey from Stirling, the logistics of organising a hundred men had kept him busy, but now she had walked in and announced that she was to be his bride. Under the same roof, she haunted him just as surely as Annabell’s ghost ever had.

  Worse, the household was agog with anticipation. A lady. An heir. His men had seen the betrothal. They would recount the ceremony in vivid detail, no doubt. Once he found a way to unravel it, and make peace with the Brunsons, he would have to return to a disappointed household.

  Maybe it was time to formally name his cousin as heir. Then, perhaps, they would stop hoping he would change his mind and sire another child.

  He had not wanted to bring Bessie here, but he could not go to the Brunsons with the news that he had married their sister and given the English leave to invade unpunished.

  All without ever catching Angus.

  Not until he could be sure whether she was with child.

  He prided himself on his ability to look ahead, to leave an escape, to step lightly so he would never be trapped. Yet he had behaved like the veriest squire, run by his lust instead of his brain.

  That was at an end.

  Here, at least, within these walls, he could keep Bessie safe. Carwell Castle feared no siege, it was said. The sea, the marsh, the moat all protected it. No one could enter unless he allowed it.

  But he had allowed her in.

  Still, the castle was large. No need, here, to share a bed. No need to even see her. No need to emerge from his own office and chambers to face memories old or new.

  Now, he could return to life the way it had been. Alone. The way he wanted it.

  * * *

  Bessie had accused him once of hiding in his lonely castle by the sea. She discovered it was all of that

  and more.

  No family surrounded her. No brood of Marys snored in the same room when darkness fell. Carwell Castle was big enough to sleep men and servants where she could not hear them and still give her a room where she slept alone.

  Sleep did not come easily. Her bed was too wide. Blankets not warm as his chest against her back. At home, the wind swept over the hills unceasingly, but it did, once in a while, pause. The sea never did.

  Finally, the muffled, regular beating of the waves lulled her into dreams.

  But they were dreams of Thomas. His lips, his arms, his...

  Waking brought no more relief than sleep. But the sound of the waves, yes. That steady rhythm brought her a comfort she had never expected.

  He had brought her to his castle by the sea, but not as a wife. Here, where his
beloved wife had died, he seemed more distant than ever. As if the woman, or her ghost, haunted the halls. He had thought his wife weak, yet she was stronger in death than Bessie in life.

  Now Bessie must be stronger than she had ever been.

  How many days until she would know whether she carried a babe? Three weeks?

  There was more than one thing to be put right in the interim.

  When dawn broke, she threw off the blankets. It was time to be Bessie Brunson again.

  * * *

  Bessie found Thomas in the private room behind the public space where tenants would come to pay rents or present disputes. His chamber had more light than the one at home and his table, covered with records and ledgers, was more cluttered than Rob’s.

  He looked up when she knocked. She did not wait for permission to enter.

  ‘You have no woman to run the household. I will review the kitchen and the laundries, look for improvements...’ She pursed her lips, suddenly realising the statement might insult him. ‘With your permission,’ she added, belatedly.

  His nod was curt. ‘I’ll tell the Steward to attend to your suggestions.’ He met her gaze. ‘Except in here.’

  She tried on a smooth smile, as her gaze fell to his desk. Perhaps, as so many men did, he only wanted a corner of his own.

  The desk was piled high where her father’s had been empty. Was this all the business of a Warden that she must not disturb? Or was evidence of his guilt buried beneath one of the piles?

  She tilted her head, being sure she did not nod. A nod would be binding. ‘I would make myself useful while I am here.’ Since he no longer found her so in bed. Why had she ever thought he would? Why had she ever tried to be someone other than the Brunson she was born?

  Then she truly looked into his eyes.

  No mistaking what she saw there. She had seen that hunger night after night.

  She fisted her fingers, struggling against the memories. She had been at fault to start them on this path. She had thrown her arms around him, kissed him. What man would not take what a woman freely offered?

  What every woman has and every man wants.