Near midday, there was a knock on the door. ‘Come.’ Difficult to speak. What would he say first?
Not Rob, Cate, carrying a bowl of porridge. ‘I thought you would be hungry.’
Surprising to see such kindness from a woman who hated her. Yet nothing from Rob. Had he spared a thought for her at all?
‘I thank you,’ she said, expecting Cate to set it down and leave.
Instead, she wandered the room while Stella ate a few spoonfuls and regretted again the destruction of the weir.
‘He did not mean to be cruel,’ the woman said, at last.
‘Cruel?’ What could this woman know of what Rob had done to her?
‘When he locked you in the cell.’
She shook her head, as if it didn’t matter, thinking of the first time Cate had taken her measure. A woman Willie Storwick had touched? That woman would know real cruelty. And how to fight it.
Cate did not seem to expect an answer. ‘He is not a man who is at ease with a woman.’
The very word made her smile. ‘He is not a man at ease with the world.’
Cate did not turn away, but seemed to study her and, courage in hand, Stella returned the gaze. Steady. Waiting. Wondering what the woman was thinking and why she had come.
Finally, something like a nod. ‘You might be good for him.’
Her eyes widened. Surely she misunderstood. The Warrior Woman could not be thinking of a marriage between Brunson and Storwick.
Could she?
She cleared her throat. Cautious. She must be cautious. ‘What do you mean?’
But having said her piece, Cate turned towards the door, shaking her head. ‘Never thought to see the day,’ she said, just before the door closed.
Leaving Stella to wonder whether Rob had any inkling of what Cate thought. And whether he thought the same.
Hours passed before Rob appeared again.
She had hobbled to the window and back, her ankle throbbing when she put weight on it and when the blood seemed to rush around it. She was well and truly at the man’s mercy now and the fault was her own.
And she tried not to ponder the fact that her emotions were as captive as her body.
She recognised his knock this time and that he waited for her permission before he entered.
When she saw him, the pace of her heart, the gasp in her throat, told her that her treacherous body had succumbed to him all over again.
She waited for him to speak, waited while he devoured her with his gaze, glad for both their sakes that he clung to the door, the full length of the room away.
‘We leave tomorrow.’
Not the words she had expected. ‘Are you taking me home, then?’ The thought did not bring the joy it would have last month.
He shook his head. ‘To see your father.’
Relief, hope, gratitude, love, swirled through her veins and propelled her the few steps across the floor. She reached out to touch him. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me yet.’
She pulled back her hand. Yes, they could be too late. Her father could be dead, but at least he had tried.
He looked down at her foot. ‘Can you ride?’
At the thought of hours dangling on the back of a pony, her ankle began to pound. Well, no one would pamper poor Stella here. Not a cruel man, but one who never questioned duty. She should do the same. ‘Aye. I’ll manage.’
He nodded, now avoiding her eyes. ‘Tomorrow, then. First light.’ Turning away, closing the door …
‘Wait.’
He stopped, quickly, as if with the word he had reached the end of a rope, and looked at her again.
‘Did last night mean nothing to you?’
Yet she could see by his eyes that it did. ‘Would you have me betray what I was born to?’
‘There was no Brunson in that bed last night. No Storwick. There was only a man and a woman. And if your body lied to me, well, then …’ She inhaled. ‘Then you are not the man I thought you were.’
‘And just who did you think I was?’ Pride and anger mixed in his words. ‘You’ve known all along who I was.’
‘Aye, you’re a Brunson. But you’re also an honest and stubborn man who’ll kneel to no one.’
‘Including you.’
She bit her tongue. He was a man any woman on this side of the border would be proud to have. How could she have been foolish enough to think the man would ever be forgiving enough to marry a Storwick? Only another daft idea she had dreamed, hoping to find her purpose in life.
‘And after I see my father? Then what will you do with me?’
He sighed. ‘Carwell Castle first. After that …’
The sentence had no end.
Rob left Johnnie to guard the tower and took a dozen men with him for protection, not only from an attack, but from the temptation to take her again. Well, not from temptation, but from the chance to act on it.
And by the time they rode across the bridge into Carwell Castle, he was a man whose teeth had been ground to a nub from holding himself in check.
He had sent a man ahead, telling himself that this trip was no soft-hearted surrender to Stella. He needed to confer with Carwell before the King arrived and Hobbes Storwick was too ill to be moved. That was the reason for the journey. Nothing to do with his weakness for Stella Storwick, physical or emotional.
But after? His choices would become more difficult. Best to leave her there, he thought, as the huge, three-sided castle came into view. Carwell Castle could house a dozen such prisoners. Leave her with her father, let her bid goodbye to the bastard and let Carwell be burdened with her.
Inside the vast, triangular courtyard, the red hair of his sister Bessie was the first thing he saw. Wordless, she hugged him. Was she slightly thicker about the middle? Perhaps, but if Cate had not told him, he would not have guessed she was with child. He stifled a moment of envy when he saw the glow on her face. It became brighter every time she looked at her husband.
Carwell clasped his arm, a warmer greeting than he deserved. Or wanted.
But there was no time to waste. ‘Is he alive?’ he asked Carwell.
‘Aye.’
Then, Stella was beside him. ‘Where is he?’
Rob looked down at her ankle, frowning. She should not have dismounted without help.
Bessie stepped forwards, not wasting time on niceties. ‘Come.’
He watched the two women walk away, dark hair next to red. Stella’s steps were slow.
‘You should not be walking,’ he said. It was a large castle. She’d be near lame before she reached her father.
In two strides, he reached the women and swept Stella into his arms. No struggle. No argument. Instead, she drooped against his shoulder, a gesture louder than words. The warmth, the weight of her felt right against his chest.
He tightened his grip and looked at Bessie, ignoring the question in her eyes. ‘Which way?’
His sister smiled. ‘You’re a good man, Rob Brunson.’
He shrugged. ‘We had no chance to bid our father farewell.’
Bessie nodded and led the way.
Stella rested against Rob’s chest as he walked down corridors and up stairs, until they came to a room as far from the entrance as possible.
He let her down, gently. ‘Are you ready?’
She looked at him then, hope and confusion in her eyes. And his. ‘Thank you.’
Turning to the door, she straightened her shoulders.
‘You should know,’ Bessie said, softly. ‘Sometimes he is not … here.’
And she swung the door open.
They had housed her father high in a tower, with a window that let in the sound of the sea. As Bessie closed the door, Stella saw only a wan figure, lying in a canopied bed, under blankets too warm for the May air.
A few steps and she was beside him, sitting on the bed, wrapped in comforting arms as if he were still the strong father, she the little girl he protected.
They separated, finally, and sh
e sat up so she could fill her eyes with him. Gaunt. Pale. Weak. The body of the father she knew had left him. But the spirit, ah, that was still there.
His hand, held in hers, seemed made of bones so brittle they would break if she squeezed. Only then did she really understand the truth of it.
He is dying, she had told Rob. But she had thought only of separation. All the way here, she had planned to lay the problems of the squabbling cousins in his lap, trusting he could solve them still if only he came home. The family needed him. If the cousins could be forced to pay a ransom, he could come home …
And things could be as they had always been.
‘They let you come,’ he said, finally, each word a stone to be lifted.
None of that mattered now, all those foolish things she had thought. ‘Aye.’
‘More than I would have done.’
‘A man you don’t meet every day,’ she said, whispering the words, ‘for all that he’s a Brunson.’
He frowned, not wanting to hear. ‘Your mother?’ Few words. Enough.
‘Well, when I saw her last.’ A lifetime ago. Had they even told him that she had been so foolish as to be captured by Rob Brunson? No need to, if he did not know. ‘Praying for you.’
‘And you?’ He squeezed her hands now. ‘God still watches you.’
Never a question in his mind.
Only questions in hers. Questions near erupting into screams.
What do you expect of me?
She took a breath, then let it go. One more thing too late to ask. So she nodded.
His smile was reward enough. ‘When you go home, tell them—’
‘I won’t leave you.’
‘After …’ He gasped for breath. ‘After I’m …’
Gone.
She had known. She had told Rob as much. But face to face and knowing she would lose him … ‘No!’ Squeezing his hand without caring if it hurt him. As if she could hold him tightly enough to keep him alive.
‘What were you thinking, girl?’ he asked, finally. ‘To get yourself captured like that?’
Ah, so they had told him. Now she must confess the foolishness of the younger self she had been just a few weeks ago. ‘I thought that I had been saved so I could save you, so I crossed the border to look for you.’
His gaze seemed to drift to Heaven. He turned his head away.
‘Father?’ She gripped his shoulders, trying to force his attention. ‘What does God want me to do?’
There was no answer but his breathing.
Rob faced Thomas Carwell across the table in the man’s working chamber, both of them frowning.
‘You received the King’s message,’ Carwell said. ‘He’s coming to the Borders next month.’
‘I’ve heard of the man’s coming since he escaped Angus and sent Johnnie home last year.’ Rob scoffed. He had sent Johnnie to bring the Brunsons to fight the Earl of Angus, but Brunsons did not borrow other men’s battles. Even a king’s. ‘We haven’t seen him yet.’
‘This time we will. He finally forced Angus to flee the country and now he turns his attention to us. He is scheduling days of justice and bringing enough men to impose his will by force, if the law won’t serve.’
Rob shrugged, trying to keep his mind in this room instead of the one in the tower.
‘Aren’t you worried, man?’ Carwell snapped. ‘He’s already named you an outlaw and ordered me to bring you to Edinburgh.’
An order, to Carwell’s credit, he had not carried out, making him an outlaw, too. ‘And you’re worried because he’ll treat you as a Brunson?’
‘I’m worried because I’ve a wife carrying my child.’
‘He’ll be a Brunson, then.’ He, for Bessie would, of course, bear a son.
A frown, then a sigh. ‘Between you and the King, he has little choice.’
Bessie with child. No matter that she had married a Carwell and her son would be Warden of the March and bear his name. Brunson blood would run through his veins. That was the way of it. Family was given, not chosen.
Rob leaned forwards. ‘So tell me more, about this King of yours.’
Behind Stella, Bessie entered, quietly. She moved around the room calmly straightening the blankets, then offering a sip of water to the man lying in the bed. After, she washed his face with a soft cloth.
Small things. Things Stella should have done.
She must be a kind woman, to do them for an enemy.
‘When is your child due?’ Stella asked.
Bessie straightened and put her hand on her belly, eyes wide with surprise. ‘I’ve told only family. I didn’t think anyone could see … so soon.’
Stella shrugged. It took envious eyes to see so clearly.
Then Bessie frowned. ‘You won’t curse the babe, will you?’
‘Of course not!’ Stella shook her head, shocked that Bessie would think so. Still, a Storwick must seem alien to this woman, as a Brunson had to her a few weeks ago.
Bessie went back to her washing and Stella stroked her father’s other hand. He did not respond.
‘He sleeps and then wakes,’ Bessie explained, in a whisper. ‘Sometimes, for a while, he speaks as strong as any man.’
Her words were witness. She had seen the cycle many times. ‘You’ve been kind to him.’ Strange enemies, these Brunsons.
‘I lost my own father not ten months ago. Suddenly.’
And just like that, Rob was head man. ‘Were he and Rob close?’ There had been no son for her father. And no one named to step in when the time came. Would things have been different if she had not been a girl?
Silent, Bessie assessed her. Stella felt as if she were being judged to see if she were worthy of the answer. ‘My father spent his life training Rob, to be sure he would be ready. Everyone knew he was chosen.’
Chosen. Just as Stella had been. Rob, at least, knew what he was chosen to do.
Time drifted away, borne on the sound of waves at the window. Bessie came and went and still Stella sat by the bedside. Late in the day, her father woke again and she saw in his eyes the father she knew and smiled.
‘This Brunson,’ he said, voice ragged with pain. ‘What kind of man is he?’
Her body burned at his words. ‘Judge him yourself. He is here.’
His eyes closed and he nodded. ‘Bring him.’
She rose, trying to disguise her limp as she hobbled towards the door and stepped into the corridor.
And bumped into Rob.
‘Have you lurked here all the day?’ Her words were sharper than she had intended, uncertain whether she should be touched or angry, wondering what he had heard.
He shook his head. ‘I thought you might need … to go somewhere.’ He looked around. ‘For women’s things.’
A smile rushed to her lips before she could stop it. So long ago it was, when she had first set foot in Brunson Tower. ‘Thank you for thinking of it.’ She nodded to the small room tucked into the wall. ‘There’s a garderobe right here.’
He flushed and looked down at the stones of the floor.
‘But I’m glad you’ve come.’ She drew herself up and was Stella Storwick again. ‘He wants to see you.’
That quickly, he became Black Rob again. ‘Why?’
‘Who knows why?’
‘I’ve nothing to say to him.’
‘He’s a dying man. Maybe he wants to say something to you.’
He stood, silent, saying neither yea or nay. She let him take his time. Stubborn as a Brunson. Even the English knew the meaning of it.
The last of the sunlight turned the corner and left the hall in shadow. ‘Will you meet with him, then?’
For me. That, she would not say.
Still, he knew it. ‘You want it so much?’
She did, unsure why it mattered to bring together these two men who could only hate each other. Except that she … she loved them both. A thought quickly stifled.
‘He does,’ she said. ‘And he is my father.’
Teeth clench
ed, Rob stepped into the room.
Here was Hobbes Storwick. A man he had hated all his life. A man he had fought against. A man who had torched his home. And yet, here he lay, pale against the bedclothes, reminding Rob of nothing more than the way his father had looked the morning they had found him dead in his bed.
No difference then, in the hours surrounding death, between a father and an enemy.
Storwick opened his eyes and Rob saw hate, strong as it should be. Comforting. That, he understood, and his gaze returned it in kind.
He stood beside the bed and looked down, waiting, while Stella hovered at the door.
Her father looked at her. ‘Leave us,’ he said.
Rob turned his head, expecting her to argue, but before he could catch her eye, she had closed the door behind her, leaving him alone with his worst enemy.
‘You have my girl.’
So that was it. Dolt that he was not to have realised it. It was a father he faced now, not a head man. ‘Aye.’
‘Due to her own foolishness.’
Rob could not stop his smile. ‘Aye.’
‘I want you to let her go.’
Let her go. His first rush of feeling was not anger. It was emptiness. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘You don’t need her now. I’ll be dead before dawn.’
All the arguments he had made to himself over the past weeks lay like dead leaves at his feet except the one Hobbes Storwick must not know.
That there might be a child.
‘They do not want her back. Did you know that?’
The man closed his eyes and pain creased his forehead. Not pain in his body, it seemed. ‘Her mother does.’
Rob could not argue against that.
Storwick lifted his hand, but could not form a fist. ‘Nothing but weaklings left.’
Had his father felt the same? Had he lain on his bed, shaking his fist in fear of what would happen to the Brunson family after he was gone?
This man did. And, as far as Rob could tell, with good reason. No one had stepped up to take the reins.
To think of it another way, Hobbes Storwick had not trained anyone to do so. So was the fault his or theirs? Not perfect, then. Maybe no head man could be.
Even Rob Brunson.
Hobbes Storwick still spoke. ‘There was weakness in the blood. Willie—’
Taken by the Border Rebel Page 13
