Captive of the Border Lord

by Blythe Gifford

  The sand was at her knees now. And the tide was creeping closer.

  * * *

  At the end of the marsh, where the sand met the land, he stopped, looking frantically both ways in the fading light.

  ‘Elizabeth! Bessie!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.

  All he heard was the waves.

  The beach took a sharp turn on the right, around a rock. He knew on the other side it was broad again. To the left, it stretched out long and wide. Easier walking.

  But in the darkness, what would normally have been a clear vista faded at the edges. Yet he did not see her.

  ‘Bessie! Are you there?’

  Could she even hear him above the waves? Or could she respond?

  He looked behind him. His men would follow, but not soon enough. He must make a choice.

  He looked again to the right. And ran that way.

  Chapter Twenty

  Bessie watched the water creep steadily up the beach. Halfway already. Soon, the frigid foam that had chilled her toes would reach her here.

  What will happen then? she thought, idly. Will I drown?

  She shook her head, trying to listen, trying to think, but her mind had slowed, as if it were hardening like ice, no longer able to work.

  What had Hew said, those times she had half-

  listened? Float, roll, wiggle. How could she do that?

  Her arms were numb from holding the staff away from the sand, but it had been the only thing she could do, the only thing she could hold on to. For if the staff, her third leg, became mired, there would be no hope.

  Could it help her float?

  Well, she was running out of time. Unless she tried it, she would not know if her idea was daft.

  She laid the walking stick across the sand like a slender bridge, then tried to stretch her back on the length of it, her legs, to the side, still trapped.

  To her surprise, she stopped sinking.

  Relief triggered a sob.

  You’re not done yet, Bessie girl.

  Full of hope, she pulled on her right leg, but the effort only seemed to strengthen the grip of the sand, clamping tightly as a manacle.

  She stopped, her moment of peace shattered. The stick was holding her up. She was sinking no further.

  But the tide had not stopped.

  * * *

  I’ll hold you responsible.

  The words rolled through his head, louder than the waves.

  He ran, keeping to the edge of the beach closest to the marsh, knowing the quicksands would not be found here. Still, he was not as careful as he usually was, testing each place before he lay his foot.

  There was no time.

  As he rounded the rock, he emerged into the wind and the waves, no longer in the protected cove. The sun had set, leaving only a pink afterglow, but it was not quite full dark.

  And the tide was rising.

  ‘Elizabeth!’

  Here...

  Did he even hear the word?

  He let his eyes roam the beach and walked towards the sound.

  And then, something took shape, lying on the sand like a bundle of rags.

  And he began to run.

  * * *

  Had she heard her name?

  Cold, fatigue, fear had stolen part of her sense as well as her senses. She was not certain, but she tried. Tried to answer. And was not sure she had.

  Then, in a dream, she felt his hands on her forehead. Felt him holding her hand. She let her eyes flutter open.

  And smiled.

  She swallowed. And tried to make her lips work.

  I love you.

  Did the words come out? Well, at least she had told him before she died.

  * * *

  ‘Bessie!’

  He squeezed her hand. Shaking, disoriented, she’d been out in the cold too long, her hair spreading over the sand around her like red seaweed. He needed her to wake. He could not just pull her out. Tugging against the sands only gave them power. She would have to roll.

  ‘Bessie. I need you to be strong.’

  Her eyes opened again and she looked at him, as if realising she was not dreaming.

  ‘Thomas?’ Now the smile was genuine, though her eyes still did not seem to see him. ‘Brunson women are strong.’

  He shook his head and stifled a sad laugh. ‘Aye. And stubborn, too.’ He threw his cloak over her, then cast an eye toward the tide. ‘I’m going to get you out.’ Ten, twelve more waves, perhaps, before they were engulfed. Then, the sand could become even more unstable. They might both be sucked in before the men turned around to search this end of the beach.

  But she had been clever enough to float instead of thrashing around. Now he must be equally canny. He assessed the sand. He would have to move closer in order to help her, but without letting himself be sucked in as well.

  ‘Now, we’re going to rotate your leg. Don’t pull. Just move it around, as if you’re stirring a pot.’

  She tried, but the struggle and the cold had sapped her strength. His cloak alone would not be enough to restore her stamina. And even her mind had slipped away from him.

  Then he saw it all again. Annabell. Small and delicate. Eyes that never seemed to recognise...anything. Not her husband. Not the castle that was her home. Not the sands that sucked her, and the babe, to their deaths.

  He had not been able to save her, and now he was losing Bessie.

  No. Not this one.

  He reached for her leg, moving it when she could not. In the fading light it was difficult to see, but after several times, the sand moved away and didn’t come back so quickly. He could pull her leg out, just a little further out.

  And then do it all again as the waves crept closer.

  He glanced at them. Saw her do the same, then grit her teeth, not with fear, but determination. ‘One step at a time,’ she muttered, through a clenched jaw.

  And he had never loved her more than at that moment.

  He met her eyes and he could see it now. Something had come back. Her strength. Her confidence. No, Bessie Brunson was not one to give in. Not to him or to the sands.

  She was different. Could he be different, too?

  The next wave came closer than he expected and water trickled into the pool of quicksand. She sat up and jerked her foot, but instead of releasing it, she was trapped again.

  She tried to stir again, quickly.

  ‘Lie back! Now gently and slowly. Once more.’

  She nodded and breathed, but did not look at him or answer. Merely gripped his hand and tried again.

  And then her right leg was free.

  * * *

  All the air seemed to leave her lungs in relief, but the tide would not wait for a celebration. He balanced her leg carefully on the staff, then gripped her hand again.

  It was the only part of her body that was not made of ice. ‘Now,’ she said, as calmly as she could, ‘the other one.’ As if it were merely a complicated series of galliard leaps she must master.

  But she had learned the speed and rhythm that worked. And when her shaking muscles would not move her leg, he moved it for her. She closed her eyes so she could not see the water. So that she did not rush or hurry or panic and put him in jeopardy, too.

  Her left leg emerged slowly, to the ankle. ‘My boot. It’s—’

  ‘Leave it.’

  She wiggled her foot, managing to slip it out of the shoe and escape the little hole in the muddy sand before it caught her again.

  ‘When it is free,’ he said, still holding her, ‘roll quickly away from me. The sand on that side is firm.’

  The sand started to collapse towards her foot. He reached for it. But she was quicker. She pulled her

  foot back.

  And he lost his balance.

  The hand that had reached for her plunged into the sand up to his shoulder.

  He looked up to see she had rolled away and lay safely on solid sand. ‘Go! Leave!’

  The wind whipped her hair in all directions, ne
ar tangling it in knots as it whipped around them both. She looked at him and back towards the castle. ‘Hew? The others?’

  ‘Yes. Go. Get help.’ Help that would not arrive in time. Cursing his fate. Cursing his foolishness. The man who had made his life avoiding missteps had met his fate.

  But instead of leaving, she worked her way cautiously to the other side of the sinking sand. Lying flat as the water came closer, as if perhaps she could hold back the sea.

  ‘You know what works,’ she said. ‘Do it.’

  He did not waste breath arguing, but he had no leverage to move his arm. If he tried to lean on his other hand, he risked plunging that one into the muck as well.

  She saw the plight as well as he did and grabbed his shoulder.

  Weak as she had been, she managed to move his arm like a spoon stirring thick soup. The arm was, fortunately, easier than a leg. Less of his weight was on it. He was not sinking so deeply.

  But the tide was not waiting. It rushed in, starting to fill the pit, stealing the ground they had gained.

  ‘Let me go and get out of here!’ he yelled. ‘I didn’t save you so you could stay here and die.’

  ‘And I didn’t live to let you die. Now move!’

  And she rotated his arm once, twice, three more times and pulled it free, just as the last wave came in and covered the pit entirely.

  * * *

  Thomas gripped her tightly with one arm and they rolled into the incoming waves, choked at first by gulps of cold salt water. Then he managed to stand and pull her to her feet and they staggered back toward the castle, holding each other up, his left arm dangling helpless by his side, her legs weak.

  Hew and the others had turned back and surrounded them before they reached the marsh walk. One of the men carried Bessie when he could not.

  ‘My chambers,’ he said, ignoring glances from Hew and Bessie.

  So they were bathed in warm water, bundled in the same bed, covered with blankets and left with the warmth of a roaring fire.

  * * *

  They must have slept, for it was full dark and the castle quiet when he opened his eyes and heard her breathing softly beside him.

  The rest of the night, he watched her, but he did not sleep again.

  Outside, the waves that had near killed her still rolled in and off his land. And the memories did the same. Of the last time he had found a woman on the beach, trapped in the sands. When it was too late.

  He should never have brought Bessie here.

  The man who had always stepped carefully and considered every angle had finally been caught. Trapped. In a position in which no option was right and every choice meant disaster.

  He had ridden home, thinking, hoping, that they could make a life together. Dreaming of feasts and dancing and children filling the halls. Dreams he had never dared after Annabell.

  Faced with the choice, he had chosen her family instead of his revenge. So for all the conflict, even for his past betrayal, maybe, maybe there was still a way...

  But yesterday had proved he had no right to her. He could not protect her, no more than he had protected his first wife.

  And if he could not protect her, he did not deserve her.

  Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, he must take her home.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bessie awoke beside him, naked and safe and sure all was right with the world. He had returned to save her. Brought her back to his bed where an embroidered thistle graced his pillow.

  Life was warm and sweet.

  She turned to him and smiled. He was sitting up, carefully moving the arm that had been stuck in the sand. Most probably it ached as much as her legs.

  She pushed herself up to sit beside him, looking for his smile, not seeing it. Well, she must begin first, with the confession, before they could move on. ‘There is no child.’

  Naked relief spread over his face, more blatant than she would have hoped. He swung out of bed, beyond the reach of her hand, but where she could still admire the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his legs.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Things have become more difficult.’

  Were there secrets behind his eyes, still? ‘How?’

  ‘Your brothers crossed the border into England and raided Storwick land. The English Warden is furious. They will be tried on the first Truce Day under the new treaty.’

  ‘With you as Scottish Warden.’ The thought was as disorienting as her ordeal on the beach. She had feared for months that Carwell was secretly at odds with her brothers. There was no secret now. As Warden, he would be required to enforce the laws. And she had no doubt her brothers had broken them. It would not be the first time. They must expect to pay the fine.

  Her duty now was to her husband. No. Beyond duty.

  ‘We will ride as soon as you are well enough.’

  She wiggled her toes, wanting to say she was perfectly well, but the truth was, every muscle ached. ‘Ride where? Is the Truce Day at Kershopefoote again?’

  ‘I am taking you home.’

  ‘Home? Where do you mean?’

  ‘Back to your family. As I told you I would before we left Stirling. As you wanted.’

  ‘Did you not hear me say I love you?’ Or had she only dreamed those words?

  He flushed. ‘If you said so, you were in a frenzy.’

  She swung her legs over the side, wanting to face him on her two feet, but had to cling to the bed to stay upright. ‘This is my home. I am your wife. I want to stay with you.’

  Too bold. Too blunt. Too late for any other words.

  Surely that pain in his face, that was love, wasn’t it?

  But was it for her?

  Now. She must know now. ‘You were willing to die for me. Are you willing to live with me?’

  She watched the changes in his eyes, hoping, wondering.

  ‘Don’t you understand? I won’t lose you, too.’ His voice shimmered with a pain she’d never heard from him before.

  Too. As he had lost the elusive wife who haunted them both like a ghost.

  She opened her mouth to argue. I am stronger than she. But before she could say the words, she knew they were meaningless. As if she were trying to stand here and promise she would never die. She had almost died last night.

  No wonder he had kept himself alone. That way, there would be no one else to lose.

  Hadn’t she done the same by locking herself into her life at the tower? Safe. Unchanging. Familiar. But ever since the tower had disappeared behind her in the fog, there had been nothing sure and nothing safe and only one uncertain, awkward step at a time.

  She was ready to take the next step now. Was he?

  ‘It’s not just me you’ve been protecting.’ Sensitive to her every chill. Trying to keep her away from every danger. ‘You’re protecting yourself.’

  He clamped his jaw shut, refusing, or unable, to answer. ‘I cannot lose someone again. Ever.’

  Trying to stop the sea. To stop death. ‘So I must lose you so that you don’t lose me?’ She tried to smile.

  So did he.

  Neither of them succeeded.

  She reached out her hand across the bed that stood between them. ‘Tell me about her, this woman who is strong enough to tear us apart.’

  * * *

  Her question stripped him bare. He turned his back, shutting her out. Shutting out the expression of pity. The one that assumed he had loved the woman instead of feeling relief at her death.

  What could he say of Annabell he had not said already? ‘She was...delicate. She was with child. And she died.’

  It was not his wife he had hidden the truth about. It was himself.

  ‘You told me that before. You let me think she died in childbirth.’

  He turned to face her again. ‘Who...?’ He had left her alone here. Anyone could have told her...anything.

  ‘It was not only her body that was delicate, was it?’ She took a step, staggering, keeping her hands on the mattress to keep herself upright.


  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She did not know how to bleach the linen or provide for the troops or brew the ale. She danced and played the lute, but she did not shoulder the burdens that a wife should. She did not face life at all.’

  With each word, each step, she edged closer to the truth. No, Annabell had done none of those things. Annabell had lived in a world of her own imagining.

  A world in which she had no husband.

  Bessie reached him now. Put her hand on his arm and clung to him so she could stand, nothing separating them but skin. ‘She died on the beach. In the quicksands.’ Then her grip tightened and she shook him, forcing his eyes to hers. ‘But I did not. I did not!’

  And then he was holding her close and kissing her and she was kissing him and he knew that this woman was strong enough. Strong enough, even, to save him.

  He hoped he would be strong enough to love her.

  * * *

  That quickly they were naked in bed again, she above him, her skin speaking to his, her hair covering his chest. Love’s dance was awkward in the dim winter sun. Her pains. His. Arms, legs, noses bumping.

  She did not care. Awkwardness added to urgency. She would not let go.

  And then, with a moan, he rolled over, turned her onto her back and took her. She spread wider, tipped her hips so he could plunge deeper. Something swirled within her, fast as when she was a child, spinning around, arms wide, looking up at the sky, until she could stand no longer and fell to the ground.

  This time, the dizzy joy led her up. Spiralling, turning, higher and higher until she exploded amongst the stars.

  And finally, fell not to earth, but to his arms.

  And to the sound of the sea.

  * * *

  He woke anew to realise that Bessie never cringed at their joining, or cried out except in joy.

  And he let her joy muddle his mind. Allowed himself to listen as she sat beside him in bed and talked, happily, of what they might say to Rob and Johnnie Brunson. Allowed her belief to transport him to a world in which he had neither past nor present that could interfere with their happiness.