‘It’s all right, Wat.’ He put both hands on the boy’s shoulders. He could barely understand the child, who seemed to chew each word before he could spit it out. He might have misunderstood. ‘Tell me again what she said.’
Wat’s eyes searched the ceiling as if the words he struggled to find might be in the rafters. ‘Storwick command you to come. Now!’
Imperious words, if they were truly hers.
‘Hungry!’ Wat yelled.
Rob sighed and shook his head, unable to tell whether Wat or his prisoner was the hungry one.
Truth told, he was new to all this. Until less than a year ago, he had ridden at his father’s side, but when Rob took over the role he had prepared for all his life, he had not been prepared for a woman prisoner. Particularly not this one.
You can have no weakness, son.
What kind of woman was she? He mulled it over again as he climbed the spiralling stone stairs.
Storwick commands. Not in his house.
He quickened his steps and with a withering glance at Sim Tait, pounded on the door, not waiting for permission before he opened it.
She stood before him with a smile and a lifted chin. ‘Enter.’
One word. Arrogant as if he had interrupted something and she was graciously giving him permission to do so.
Command you to come. Had she been so bold? Only if she were accustomed to command.
He grabbed her arm and shook it, wishing he could shake her certainty. ‘You’re not a Red Storwick. You’re of Hobbes Storwick’s family.’
The high and mighty lift to her chin did not waver, but fear crept into her eyes again. ‘What makes you think so?’
‘You rode with him the day Scarred Willie escaped.’ It came back clearly now. In the midst of a standoff between Brunson and Storwick, she had dismounted to wander the market booths and shop for ribbons. Disobedient, daft and damn distracting. ‘And you’ve done nothing but ask of him since you got here. What kin are you? Tell me.’
‘You’re hurting me.’
He dropped her arm as if it were on fire.
Silent, she pursed her lips and clasped one hand to the other elbow, as if to keep it away from the spot he had touched.
Force was what he knew best. Not a good weapon to use against a woman. He shrugged. ‘Not surprising you deny him.’ He looked away. ‘That you’re ashamed to admit it.’
‘Where is he?’ Now she reached for him, fingers teasing his arm. ‘Please tell me.’
His lips parted to answer her.
Don’t be a weak fool, son.
He’d be damned if he was going to tell her more. They had kept his whereabouts secret for good reason. If the Storwicks knew Carwell had their leader locked tight in his moated castle, a raid would be sure to follow. He pulled his arm away. She was some kin. What difference did it matter which? ‘You sent the boy for me. Why?’
‘He didn’t tell you?’
‘A fool’s words. Meaningless.’
She looked at him as if wondering whether to say the truth. ‘I am hungry.’
Hungry. So the boy had meant her.
‘Do you mean,’ she continued, ‘for me to starve?’
He wanted to lock her in the room so he would see as little of her as possible, but that meant sending the Tait girl up with food, as if the woman were an honoured guest, entitled to be waited on and to eat a private supper.
But he’d not be accused of cruelty.
The smell of the midday soup, about to be served, crept into the room. Better to keep watch on her. ‘We’ll be taking food now. Come if you are hungry.’
He jerked his head towards the door and she glided ahead of him, lifting her skirts and floating down the stairs, leaving him to follow as a lackey to a queen.
Her hips and her hair swayed in opposite directions, and once again, he glimpsed the nape of her neck. As quickly, it was hidden behind a curtain of curls, black as his own. What would it taste like, her skin on his lips …?
His foot hit the floor at the end of the stair, jarring him from the vision. He pointed ahead. ‘Here.’ As if she could not see the hall before them with her own eyes.
She paused at the door, looking over the room, full of wary men.
‘Do you expect them to bow?’ He pulled on her arm, more roughly than he had intended. ‘Come. Sit.’
The Tait girl set the fare before them. Soup and bread and cheese.
Next to him, Stella took a sip and crinkled her nose in judgement.
‘We don’t eat banquets here,’ he warned. His father ate plain food, though not quite this plain. ‘I don’t care much for comfort.’
Now she was the one who scoffed. ‘That’s evident. Is there no salt or spice?’
Truth to tell, he thought the soup had lacked since Bessie left, but he did not know how to fix it. ‘Could you do better?’
‘Depends on the state of your larder.’
His stomach churned. He had more important things to do than count eggs. ‘I’ll let you find out. You be the cook tomorrow.’
He had no doubt she would find the larder wanting.
Stella took another sip. The Storwick men would be roaring if they had to choke down this swill, but she knew nothing of how to fix better.
God spared your life, her mother always said. He did not intend for you to spend it cooking.
The problem was, no one seemed to know exactly how He did intend for her to spend it.
‘How many men need feeding?’ She glanced down, as if the number were unimportant, gripping the bowl of soup so her fingers would not shake.
He shrugged. ‘Twenty.’
No more than at home. At least in the tower. ‘And the others?’
‘Ye needn’t worry about more. There’ll be no feasting.’
She nodded, hoping she masked a smile. Twenty men. And now she’d be allowed to leave her room to roam the buildings. ‘How many girls will be helping me?’
She had seen the man hold back words before, but this time, his jaw sagged. More speechless than silent.
He swallowed. ‘How many what?’
Storwick Tower was only a little grander than the Brunsons’, but somewhere her mother supervised women who toiled to produce food and drink and clean laundry. Stella had never been one of them.
‘Girls.’ She waved a hand. ‘To help me.’ Perhaps all they needed was firm direction. If she just told them what she wanted, they would produce it. A fat hen, perhaps. Or a fresh caught fish.
‘The Tait girl does it all.’
Now she was the one near dumb. ‘One woman does it all?’
‘She does now.’
‘Now?’
‘Now that Bessie is gone.’
The missing sister. Probably fled this ill-tempered man and this drudge-filled life. ‘Where did Bessie go?’
A frown creased his brow. ‘You ask too many questions.’
She turned away from his inspection and forced herself to take another sip. One girl to feed all these men. Well, if one girl did it, it could not be that difficult. Anything would be better than being locked in a room and having nothing to eat but saltless soup.
‘I agree. I’ll do it,’ she said, as if he had given her a choice.
But she certainly wasn’t doing it for Black Rob. She just did not want to starve before she assessed his defences and went home.
Chapter Three
After the meal, Rob stomped down the stairs, frustration in every step. Unable to spend another minute with the Storwick woman, he told Sim Tait to take her back to her room.
And this time, to make sure she didn’t leave it.
He wanted to see the woman no more.
With each glance, she found him wanting. With each word, she judged his failures. And he had neither time nor care for the opinion of a Storwick. Anger, that was all he felt for her. Nothing more. If there was something more, he didn’t know what it might be and didn’t want to.
His steps slowed as he left the tower and headed to the stables. He would be glad
when Johnnie came home. Before his brother had left, their conversations had been strained again. They had quarrelled about something—the King or the warden or raising of cattle. Better that Johnnie and his Cate would have their own place soon.
But it was lonesome, being a head man. Never showing weakness, even when you weren’t sure whether you had done the right thing.
Not that he would tell his brother that. But it would be nice to have him back here tomorrow. They could go out and race to mount the ponies, as they used to when they were boys.
Johnnie always won.
Normally, the horses grazed around the tower, but Stella Storwick’s appearance had made him cautious and he had brought them within the walls. When he entered the stable, he was surprised to see Widow Gregor’s Wat brushing Felloun and muttering something incomprehensible over and over.
He smiled when he saw Rob. ‘Gudein, my laird,’ he said.
‘It’s past midday, not eve, Wat.’ A waste of breath to correct him. The boy was a simple fool. Who knew how long he had been standing there, rocking back and forth, and brushing the same spot on the horse’s withers?
‘Careful, lad.’ He moved the boy aside. ‘You’ll rub the beast raw.’
‘Can I ride beside?’
‘No, Wat.’ He wanted no companion right now. Particularly not this babbling boy. ‘Go find your mother.’
The lad was the youngest of eight and his mother had few moments to spare for a fool.
Wat gathered his things, then paused at the stable door. ‘She’s pretty, the lady.’
Rob frowned. ‘What lady?’ Pretending he didn’t know.
‘The new lady.’
‘Is she now? I hadn’t noticed.’
Wat nodded, sagely, as if this were wisdom he could impart. ‘Aye.’
The lad’s comment seemed an accusation. Rob had noticed. And tried not to.
‘She’s a Storwick, Wat. That means she’s as ugly as a dragon inside.’
The boy frowned. ‘The way you’re as stubborn as a tup?’
He raised his brows. Most men would not be brave enough to insult him to his face, but this boy could not be responsible for what he said, no more than if a dog had been given leave to speak. Wat barely knew the words, let alone their meanings.
Or did he?
‘Aye, lad.’ The boy watched him with worshipful eyes, but didn’t know enough of fear to guard his tongue. Refreshing. ‘Very much like that.’
Wat tilted his head, as if he were trying to understand. ‘Well,’ he said, finally, ‘she’s a pretty dragon, then.’
He chuckled as Wat left.
A pretty dragon, aye. One whose beauty disguised something deadly.
The Brunson larder, she discovered the next morning, was, indeed, wanting.
The Tait girl was already moving among the pots, toting a sack of flour, measuring it out to start baking bread. When Stella walked in, she looked up, her gaze sullen. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To see if we can put some decent food on the table.’
A belligerent pout took over the girl’s face. ‘Nothing wrong with the food.’
‘Except that it’s barely edible.’
‘You think it’s so bad?’ The girl set the sack down and crossed her arms. ‘Cook it yourself, then.’
Stella bit her lip and swallowed. If the girl left her alone here, they would all starve. ‘I thought you might need help.’
‘From a Storwick?’ The girl waved her hands in the air. ‘Like you helped with this?’
She looked around the rebuilt kitchen, suddenly noticing the charred floor and the misshapen, half-melted pots. Her people had done this with their torches.
Well, it was no worse than the damage from the flaming brands the Brunsons had lobbed into her home, but bringing a blood feud into the kitchen would not fill her stomach. ‘I’m surprised they make you do all this alone.’
The girl’s shoulders suddenly sagged, weary. ‘I make better ale than bread.’
Another blot on Rob Brunson’s shield. This was a woman half-grown, no longer a girl, but not old enough to shoulder all this. Had he no better thought than to make this lass responsible for the whole household?
Not a thought to be shared. ‘And the head man? He has no wife?’ She had seen no sign he was married, but her breath seemed to pause, waiting for the answer.
The girl shook her head. ‘He’s not one for women.’
Stella was not surprised. Women would not have much time for that growling beast, either.
‘And are there no Brunson women to help?’
‘The mother is dead these two years. The head man’s sister moved off to marry that Carwell.’ She sniffed, as if she liked the Scottish Warden little better than Stella herself did. ‘Johnnie and his bride are building their own tower.’ She shook her head and leaned forwards. ‘And Johnnie’s Cate isn’t much for cooking.’
Well, there was nothing for it. She’d have to do with what she’d been given. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Beggy.’
‘Well, Beggy, I’ll tell you a secret. I’m not much for cooking either.’ A child saved by God’s hand was, in her family’s opinion, destined for more important things than brewing and broiling. She gave the girl’s stiff shoulders a squeeze and stood. ‘But you and I are going to see if we can make something fit to eat.’
‘In that?’ The girl looked at her, eyes wide. ‘That’s fine as a feast gown.’
She looked down and sighed. Her wool skirt was stained already. And she knew little more of washing than cooking. ‘Is there an apron?’
Beggy pointed. ‘One that needs washing.’
Better than none at all. She tied it on and turned back her sleeves. ‘Now, where’s the salt?’
‘Burnt.’ She rummaged on a shelf and held up a small sack. ‘This is all that’s left.’
When she was taken, she had worried about what the Brunsons might do to her. She had never thought that the blows her family had struck against the Brunsons would now fall on her as well.
More lightly, of course. What was a shortage of salt, after all?
‘Well, we’ll add spices then.’
The girl looked at her, blankly. ‘We ran out before Candlemass.’
‘Lamb?’
‘A little. Too soon for most.’
‘Something from the garden?’
Beggy shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
Stella looked around the kitchen. ‘Is there nothing left?’
‘Carrots. But the laird won’t eat them.’
‘He won’t? Well, then, I guess he’ll go hungry.’
See how he liked it.
Johnnie and Cate arrived near midday. While Cate went to feed her slobbering beast of a hound, Rob and John retreated to the laird’s private meeting room and Rob told him about the Storwick woman.
When the tale was done, John lifted his brows, doubtful. ‘The King has already named us outlaws. And now we hold an English woman?’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t go well.’
Could Johnnie never just accept his leadership? Rob had wanted agreement, not arguments. He had argued enough with himself already.
‘You, of all people, should understand.’ Because of Cate, Johnnie had more reason to hate the Storwicks than any of them.
But Willie Storwick was dead now, and much of Johnnie’s anger had died with him. ‘Carwell has stretched the law by holding Storwick without trial. When they discover you’ve got the woman, they’ll ride again.’
‘Let them come.’
Johnnie shook his head. ‘You’ve barely finished rebuilding from the last raid.’
‘Rebuilt stronger.’ He had higher walls. And doubled the watchers in the hills. They would not be surprised again.
‘That won’t protect us against King James.’
‘King James! King Henry! This side of the border or the other, I care nothing for a man I’ve never seen.’
Now he saw the worry in Johnnie’s eyes. ‘I’ve seen him. Bessie barely esc
aped from him.’
He shook off the guilt. Bessie had insisted she be the Brunson to plead their case to the King. For all the good it did them. Or the King. ‘He has no sway with me.’
‘Maybe not, but he’s put a price on our heads.’
His brother had come home from court, yes. But he still did not fully understand life here and what a leader must do to protect the family. To survive. Rob did.
‘And much has come of that, as you see.’ He spat in disgust. ‘Who’s to fear him? He’s barely more than a bairn. Doesn’t dare come himself.’
‘He will, Rob. I know him. He will.’ John grabbed his arm and shook it. ‘He burned a man at the stake in St Andrew’s.’
Rob couldn’t stop the shiver. A man should die on his pony, fighting. Not burned. Not hanged.
And not in his bed, as his father had.
‘Can you not just agree with me for once?’
His brother sat back, and crossed his arms, as if knowing further argument would be futile. ‘What are you going to do with her, then?’
‘Hold her here. And if they try to take Hobbes Storwick from Carwell …’ He left the threat unsaid. Couldn’t bring himself to say he’d kill a woman.
Storwicks wouldn’t know that, though. They’d done worse.
Johnnie looked at him, sharply. ‘Take Storwick? From a moated castle? Impossible.’
‘I’d expect you to try. If I were the one held.’
Silence. Then a sigh. ‘Aye. I would.’
Rob nodded, relieved. It was their own kind of truce.
‘Do they know yet that you have her?’
‘It’s been a day. Two. They know she’s gone.’ A missing daughter. They’d worry, not knowing whether she had fallen into a ravine, drowned in the river … He steeled his heart.
She was safe and better treated than she’d a right to be, but he was surprised to have seen no signs of a search.
‘Well, you can’t send a message to Bewcastle.’
He sighed. ‘Carwell must do it.’
His stubborn sister had been betrothed to the Scottish Warden at the King’s command. Then she had defied her brother to marry the man.
Thomas Carwell had managed to dance on the edge of the Border Laws he was paid to enforce and still not infuriate King James. At least, not until he ignored the King’s order that he bring the Brunsons to Edinburgh for hanging.
Taken by the Border Rebel Page 3
