Captive of the Border Lord

by Blythe Gifford

His stern expression softened. ‘Well, if the King doesn’t, I certainly will.’

  She told herself he was teasing. Or that he offered only out of pity, reminding herself that this man was, no doubt, a traitor to her family. But he was the only link left to home, a man of the Borders who knew her life and her family.

  One who, for whatever hidden reasons, had ridden beside them.

  As they reached the top of the tower, she succumbed to momentary gratitude. ‘I would like that,’ she said, with a smile. Climbing stairs had reminded her of all that waited her at home. Before she returned, she wanted to capture that moment once more, that moment on the floor that felt like flying.

  He took her hands and faced her, his expression no longer angry, but still serious. ‘To survive at court, you must learn the rules and yet be flexible.’

  ‘Flexible? Can the steps of a dance be changed?’

  ‘I do not speak only of the dance.’

  No. He spoke of secrets and shadows and motives hidden under polite smiles. Spoke of an ability to flex and bend that Brunsons, planted firmly in their valley, had never learned, nor wanted to.

  Yet she was here to return her family to the King’s good graces, so these were things she must learn, quickly, so she could accomplish her task and go home where she belonged.

  ‘Can you teach me?’

  He held out his hand. ‘We will start again with the pavane.’

  With a sigh of relief, she held out her fingers to rest in his hand. This dance she could do.

  * * *

  The evening waned and the muffled music reached their perch at the top of the tower. As he led her through the steps, she learned to pay attention, learned to anticipate the sway of his body, the fall of his foot.

  This was what he had spoken of, she realised. Bend and sway. Understand your partner and respond.

  And she also realised, unsettled, that he could do the same with her.

  She tripped on the next step.

  His grip tightened. ‘Does your injured foot still trouble you?’

  Daft man to ask about an injury he had conjured. ‘It is my doubts that trip me.’

  ‘The body does not lie. It hears your doubts. Set them aside. You are doing much better.’

  She glowed with the praise. ‘You have been patient.’ And kind. When had anyone ever spent so much time on her comfort?

  ‘Now we will move on to the galliard.’

  She swallowed and nodded. Set your doubts aside.

  ‘Just take it one step at a time. The first thing you must know is that the galliard is a man’s dance, meant to make him look good.’

  She blinked. It was a blunt admission from a man who never said too much.

  ‘You’re surprised? Think about it. All those jumps and flicks and kicks? A man’s every step will be scrutinised.’

  But thinking back on the dance, she had not watched the women. It was the men she had struggled to follow. And it was a sudden comfort that she did not have to be perfect. ‘So if I just jump at the right times, that will be good enough.’

  ‘No one can see what your legs are doing beneath that skirt. Just move up and down with the music. You will create the illusion of the dance.’

  Create the illusion. Was this one of the lessons of how to survive at court?

  ‘Keep your gaze on the man. And try to look admiring.’

  She arched her brows. ‘You think to make me gaze admiringly at you?’ Leaning forwards, she batted her eyes and gazed at him cross-eyed, a look that would have put Rob in his place when he was acting too self-important.

  Yet when she met his eyes, all the exaggeration fell away. There were things she admired about this man. The patient care he had taken to teach her. The way he had risked the King’s wrath to protect her. The silky hair that flew and fell with each jump. The strong legs that could not only ride, but leap and kick. The changeable eyes, that kept their secrets.

  It was only the dance that made her warm. Only the relief that she could do it, that she would not be embarrassed next time, that made her smile. Only the habit of being in tune with his body that made her sway closer...

  * * *

  His arms had taken her before he realised it. Last time, his armour and their audience had protected him. And her. This time, the cloth between them seemed all too flimsy, as if surely she must feel his arousal through her skirts.

  This time, they were alone. This time, there was no one to see what they did. She was happy and easy with him at last. He had dreamed of those lips and now they beckoned, tempting, closer...

  She stiffened and pushed him away. ‘No. Those games I will not play. Kisses are not trifles to be taken and tossed aside.’

  He took control of himself quickly. The laughter, the ease, had all fled from her face, replaced by anger.

  And regret.

  ‘Who was he?’ There had been a man. He had hurt her. That much, he surmised. ‘Tell me.’

  The shock on her face told him he was right. And she could not even summon the presence of mind to deny it. ‘Why should I?’

  Because I care.

  Something he had not realised until now.

  Something he did not want to admit.

  But she did not wait for him to answer, probably did not expect that he would. Her weak moment behind her, she was strong, stubborn Bessie again. ‘Is that how you do it?’ Her eyes did not leave his now. ‘Is that how you keep your secrets and weasel other people’s from them? There is no political secret here. Nothing that will benefit you or the King. It affects no one but me.’

  ‘He trifled with you, didn’t he?’

  The colour left her cheeks and her lips parted, as if to protest.

  Suddenly, it was all clear to him. ‘He kissed you in the moonlight, groped you in the stables, maybe he did more. Maybe he even...’

  He found he could not say it. Anger at this nameless man choked him. ‘And then he married some other woman and expected you to dance at their wedding.’

  Crossing her arms, she hunched her shoulders and turned her back, looking out at the darkness. And as the muffled sounds of the lute played below them, he knew if he did not have all the details, he was close enough.

  ‘And no. I did not.’ Her words seemed to come from a great distance.

  And had not danced since, he’d wager. Until now. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘It does not matter.’ She did not turn, speaking steadfastly to the dark. ‘A boy. Callow and callous. Who was I? Only a naïve girl who thought the first man who kissed her would be the last. I can barely remember his face.’

  ‘But you remember what he did,’ he whispered, as if that would lessen the pain. ‘How he hurt you.’

  Now she whirled back to face him, bristling with anger. ‘Don’t you? Don’t you have a scar from some past pain? Someone you remember?’ She smiled, telling him he had hidden his torment no better than she. ‘Yes, I can see you do. We all do. Who was she, this woman?’

  He shrugged, in control of himself again. ‘As you say, we all do.’

  ‘Ah, you were eager to dissect my secrets. What about yours? If I guess, as you did, perhaps I shall hit the mark. Let’s see—’

  She would ask now. Pry. Unearth the pain all over again, pain he had spent years trying to bury. So he would tell her something, something she already knew. Anything to stop this.

  ‘You need not guess what. You know. Angus stripped my father of the position of Warden of the March. It destroyed him.’

  Sympathy touched her eyes. The sympathy of a woman whose father had died only a few months ago. ‘And for that, you must destroy Angus.’

  He shrugged, not wanting to say more. His father had been strong and proud and blunt as a Brunson. If he had been more willing to bend, more able to compromise, then he might have kept his post.

  At least, that’s what Thomas told himself.

  But Bessie was learning to see behind his silences. ‘But the wrong done to your father...that is not why you live alone in that great cas
tle by the sea.’ Her eyes showed no sympathy. She looked like a wounded animal, threatened, and now ready to destroy her attacker. ‘You have no women in your house, you said. Who was she, this woman who wronged you?’

  Yes, he had secrets. This one was not for her, or anyone, to know. ‘I was married. She died.’

  An incomplete truth. Perhaps it would be enough.

  She stepped back, wavering. ‘It is not easy to speak of, is it?’

  ‘No,’ he said, finally, sorry he had spoken of it at all. ‘It is not.’

  The stubbornness in her eyes faded. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve a right to your secrets.’ The look she gave him was as much warning as apology. ‘As do I.’

  Then she turned away, blessedly silent, and started down the stairs, leaving him alone with his past.

  He turned his head, wishing he could hear the waves, lapping the shore so many miles away. When he had first left home, fostered to a landlocked family, he would summon the sound in his head to lull him to sleep.

  He missed it no less now. It was as if his blood had taken on the rhythm of it before he was born. Certain in its uncertainty, the sea had prepared him for life. He learned early that moons, tides, men, women, kings, alliances...all were changeable. There was nothing a man could grasp in life, nothing to cling to except the knowledge that it would change.

  And that he must be ready to change with it, to turn with the tides in order to survive. Life was as uncertain as the quicksands on the beach. One wrong move and there would be movement no more.

  And with that, a man must be content.

  That, he thought, as he turned for the stairs, and the memory of a kiss.

  Chapter Nine

  Not waiting for him, Bessie descended the stairs, regretting every word she had spoken.

  Foolish even to remember that kiss in the barn so long ago. It meant nothing, certainly not to the boy. But there had been nothing else, nothing since, so the memory had taken on the gloss of a lost dream.

  She had told the truth. She could no longer see his face clearly. But his bride? Ah, she remembered that woman clearly. She came from the Eastern March and had had white ruffles on her sleeves and a gold chain and no calluses on her fingers.

  She should never have told Carwell a word of it. She had no talent for deception, no silver tongue. The only way she knew to keep a secret was to keep her mouth shut.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she glanced into the Hall without entering. Glittering dancers still spun and twirled, wearing dresses and jewels, movements perfectly timed to notes plucked by men paid for making music.

  All things she had searched for before she could even imagine them.

  Yes, it was his bride she remembered. And somehow, she had thought coming to court would turn her into that woman. That something magical would happen to change her into someone worthy of someone...else.

  Oh, she loved her family and her home, but always beneath had been that restless feeling that there was something more. Something she had yet to see, yet to know. And for that moment, in Carwell’s arms, with his kiss, she thought, finally, that she had found it.

  So what had she done? Turned on Thomas Carwell like the meanest shrew. The man’s wife died. No wonder he was sad. Why did she imagine something else had caused his pain?

  Before he could catch up with her, she left the Hall, crossed the courtyard and made her way back to the room she’d been given, relieved to find it empty of Marys, and curled up in a blanket to sleep.

  Sleep did not come. Instead, her doubts expanded, floating in the dark room. Had she discovered Carwell’s truth? Or had his gallant manner and tales of a dead father and a dead wife deceived her? Had he told her all? Was it enough to make him the man he was?

  She wondered now, truly, what Carwell’s truth was.

  And why she cared.

  Only because she had been charged with finding out. Only because it might be linked with whether he had betrayed them on the Borders. Who was his wife? And how could she find out without asking him?

  The door opened and she squeezed her eyes tight, not wanting to face any of the Marys tonight.

  ‘Shhh. Someone’s here.’

  The door closed again. Muffled sounds from the corridor. A giggle. The sound of lips meeting. Footsteps fading, looking for another place to hide.

  Which Mary had it been? And with whom?

  She kept her eyes shut, glad she did not know. In her mind, she saw a room filled with swirling, surefooted dancers, while for her, away from the solid foundation of her home, every step she took led her to more uncertain ground.

  And in this palace, among these people, the untrustworthy Carwell might be the most trustworthy person she knew.

  * * *

  It was late the next morning before she was ushered into the King’s chambers to be formally presented. The King wanted to see her alone, but before Thomas would allow her to enter, he warned her not to speak unless spoken to and to say as little as possible for as long as possible.

  Well, he was not with her now. She would speak to the King as she liked.

  In the silence of waiting for the King to speak first, she looked at him carefully. This was the man who had made Johnnie a knight. The man who, once, Johnnie had wanted to please above his own family.

  The man Johnnie had cared for as a brother.

  He was a good-looking young man with the auburn hair she and Johnnie shared. She could see how they might have passed for brothers.

  She bent both knees, bobbing. It was the best curtsy she could do.

  ‘So you’re John Brunson’s sister.’

  What had Carwell told her to do? Was she to meet his eyes or no? Well, you could tell nothing of a man if you did not look him in the eye. The King’s eyes were hazel. ‘Aye.’

  ‘You have his look about you. Except in the eyes.’

  ‘Mine are brown.’ Like all the Brunsons except Johnnie.

  The King smiled in memory, an odd look in one so young. ‘We had good times together.’

  ‘He said the same, your Grace.’

  The dreamy look dissolved. ‘But he’s displeased me now. He sent you instead of coming himself. Did he think a pretty face would make me more lenient?’

  Ah, yes. She was learning that everyone’s motives were suspect. ‘He would have come himself, but he is newly married.’

  He was newly married, but that was not the only reason Johnnie had not come. When had her tongue learned to skirt the truth?

  The King’s smile slid into a leer. ‘And does not want to leave his bed?’

  Her cheeks felt hot and, for once, she had no word to say.

  But the King did. ‘So he hides behind a woman instead of coming to face my wrath.’

  How could he think that? Or why hadn’t she thought that he would when she insisted she be the one? ‘My brothers do not hide. But each has his own duties and responsibilities, and in my family women are as strong as men.’

  Though she did not feel so as she said it.

  ‘Women both strong and beautiful? I’ve never met such women. My mother is strong, but, alas, changeable. She loved my father, but he died. She loved Angus, then she didn’t love him. I loved him not at all, since he held me prisoner. And now she loves her new husband, Hamilton, or she did. Yesterday, she pined for Angus again.’

  He walked around her as he spoke, as if inspecting a statue, and she sensed a mind that worked as Carwell’s did. Full of options and possibilities, circling high above the prey like a hawk choosing his time.

  Making her feel like a pigeon, waiting for the hawk to dive.

  ‘So, Elizabeth Brunson, you see my dilemma.’ He said it as if it were obvious.

  ‘No, your Grace, I do not. You speak in riddles.’

  He frowned. ‘I ask your family for simple things. Loyalty. Men. Obedience to the law.’

  Things were simple on the Borders. Just not in the way the King thought.

  ‘I gave John a mission to accomplish. Not only did he fail—’
>
  ‘He did not fail.’

  The King’s eyes narrowed. She had interrupted him. What was she thinking?

  ‘He sends no men. He gives no oath. And instead of peace, I hear complaints of a Storwick killed in cold blood.’

  ‘Not exactly, your Grace. He was—’

  ‘He is dead, is he not?’

  Kings were not argued with, it seemed. Even when they were wrong. ‘I believe so, yes. And the world better for it.’

  ‘No Brunson men came to fight by my side as I tried to defeat the traitor Angus.’

  ‘No, your Grace. The men were doing something more important.’ Pursuing the villain Scarred Willie Storwick.

  ‘So you admit not failure, but wilful disobedience!’ His voice and his arm both raised, as if preparing to strike a death blow. ‘Even rebellion! From a man I had let into my innermost chamber!’

  In the whine of his words, she suddenly realised it was no longer the King speaking to her. It was a young boy who had depended on his ‘older brother’ as the one of the only sureties in his life. Someone who cared for the man, not just for the King.

  Someone whose desertion was a personal betrayal.

  She swallowed, searching for words.

  The King did not wait. ‘And now, when I ask only that he come and swear his family’s oath to destroy my enemy Angus, what does he do? He sends a changeable, unreliable woman. What am I to make of that, do you think?’

  She understood now why Carwell always spoke with care. Stirling Castle might be built on a rock, but there was no solid ground here. And she was not Elizabeth, but only plain Bessie, who must be who she was and do what she must. ‘I will tell you of my family, your Grace. Then you may make of it what you will.’

  ‘I know all about your Borders,’ the King answered. ‘Johnnie told me.’

  ‘Then he did not tell you enough.’

  The King’s frown was no match for one of Black Rob’s scowls. ‘Are you all this stubborn?’

  She nodded. ‘And I’m not the worst of the lot.’

  He waved a hand in permission. ‘Tell me what you will.’

  She wondered whether it would make a difference. ‘Whenever you have a question as to what to do, Your Grace, there is only one responsibility you have, only one way it can be resolved. You think what is best for Scotland.’