He waved his hands. ‘Just build a little dam and a place for them to swim in.’
‘You’ve not done this before either, have you?’
‘I watched my mother do it.’ Watched as she set the sticks in place and relished the luxury of the catch.
‘When was that?’
Years. It had been years. ‘A while ago.’
‘Then how do you know how to do it?’
How? He never asked that question. The how of things was passed down in the blood, embedded in the bones. Once the sticks were in his hands, he would remember. ‘So you insisted we come out here and build a weir and you know nothing of fishing?’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘Well, in my family, it’s the women who do it.’
Shock stole her speech.
He had never wondered at it before. His father had taught him of war and sheep and cattle. The rest was left to the women.
‘Well,’ she said, finally, ‘if you at least had a picture of it, that would help.’
‘What do you want?’ he retorted. ‘A book of lessons?’
‘Yes.’
Now he was the one who stared. ‘Could you read it?’
She coloured. ‘Maybe.’
‘Liar.’ He was learning her. Without the boy to protect, she had returned to protecting herself.
‘I could read a few words.’
‘The same two your mother knows?’ Just looking at her raised his temper. ‘You don’t cook, you don’t wash, you can’t fish …’ He waved his hands, fighting the temptation to put them on her shoulders and shake her. ‘What are you good for, lass?’
Pink embarrassment crept from her cheeks to the roots of her hair. He had upset her, which was no less than he had intended, but he had not expected to feel guilty for it.
But before she could answer, Wat ran out of the bushes, trailing sticks. He stopped in front of Rob and thrust the pile of twigs and sticks into his arms. ‘Here!’
Then he stepped back and looked from one to the other, his face transformed by a proud, happy smile.
Stella crouched before him. ‘That’s good, Wat. You did a good job. Can you get us some more?’
He nodded and ran off again.
‘Children,’ she said, gazing up at Rob with a soft smile. ‘I’m good with the children.’
Stella watched Rob’s scowl turn to frustration. He flung Wat’s precious twigs to the ground.
‘Then go marry someone special and have some.’
She rose, resisting a sharp answer, and tilted her head to study him. No man—indeed, no one at all—had ever treated her this way. Everyone at home spoke to her carefully, as if afraid to upset or anger her.
As if afraid to evoke any emotion from her at all.
But his words were like a spear in her empty womb.
‘When you let me go home, I will,’ she said, wishing that words could make it so.
Rob’s strong, stubborn gaze turned tender. Aye. Somewhere behind the black brow and the angry words, there lurked a touch of softness. Maybe some day, he’d find a woman who could release it.
‘Truce, then.’ Two words, but in those, she heard the lilt of a song.
She smiled and nodded towards the water. ‘Truce, while we see if between the two of us, we can figure out how to catch some fish.’
They waded into the water and Rob selected a place in the stream to build the dam. She explained to Wat what they needed and he ran back and forth, tireless, heaping twigs upon twigs.
Determined to prove her worth for something, she gritted her teeth, as silent as Rob, and bent to the tedious trial and error of lacing and stacking the sticks so they would not be washed away. At the end of the afternoon, wet, tired, and bedraggled, they had a makeshift weir, ready to trap a passing salmon or two or three.
Wading out of the stream, she sank down on the bank, heedless of the grass and mud beneath her. Rob did the same. Wat, quick to copy, sat between them, looking from one to the other.
‘You did well, boy,’ Rob said, ruffling the boy’s hair.
Wat smiled, bright as the sun.
Then, with a satisfied sigh, Rob stripped off his shirt.
She tried not to stare, but drops of water ran down the curve of his shoulders and traced the muscles of his arms and she remembered the feel of him, holding her to the earth, of that one moment she had no choice but surrender …
She cleared her throat and turned her eyes to Wat. ‘Yes, you did.’
‘So did you.’ The rumble of Rob’s voice cascaded through her.
‘Can I tell my mother?’ Wat said. ‘Can I tell her what I did?’
Stella looked to Rob. ‘Aye. Go on.’
‘She’ll be pleased,’ Stella called out, hoping it was true. ‘I worry about him,’ she said, after the boy was out of earshot. ‘His mother doesn’t seem to have any time for him and it would be so easy for …’
For something to happen.
Rob looked at her, silent.
She lifted her chin. ‘Someone should watch him.’ She did not want to ask permission. Did not want to say please.
‘What? Why?’
So he does not fall into the well.
‘Is he not a child of God who deserves to be cared for?’
‘He’s a halfwit who will never survive without help.’
‘Then you admit he needs help!’
A hint of disgust edged his eyes. ‘The boy must learn to survive on his own. I did.’
No. This man would not have sympathy for the weak. Strong, bold. He would not understand what it was to doubt.
‘But what if he can’t?’
‘Then he will be better off. If he can’t survive childhood, he’ll not survive a life on the Borders.’
Maybe he was right. Maybe this child would be better off dead.
Maybe she should have died in that well, too.
‘Besides,’ Rob continued, ‘no one has time to follow a child around all day.’
‘I do.’
He studied her face, his still as black as his name, and she thought he would deny her.
‘Go,’ he said, finally. ‘Ask his mother, then. I care not.’
Something, a pull of gratitude, rushed through her, threatening tears. Afraid to look at him, she stared at the sun-dappled water splashing over the little dam of sticks they had created, wishing, violently, that just once, the man would see the world without certainty. ‘Together,’ she whispered. ‘We did that together.’
In just a few hours of peace, Storwick and Brunson had built a weir. What could they build in a year of truce?
She closed her eyes, then opened them and forced herself to look at Rob again, careful to keep her eyes on his face. ‘Now all we need is some fish,’ she said.
‘Oh, soon enough, we’ll have fish aplenty,’ Rob answered. ‘I did not spend the day getting wet and tired to catch a passing carp.’
She studied his face. Sharp cheekbones slanted towards an angled nose, overshadowed with brooding brows and a high forehead. Did he ever smile? ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because by then, the Storwicks’ garth is going to be nothing more than sticks floating on Liddel Water.’
Words harsh as a slap jolted her to remember. Black Rob Brunson was no ally, no helpmate. Even a moment of peace was an illusion. Between their two families, there could be no truce.
Not now. Not ever.
Chapter Five
Stella scolded herself, silently, until the sun rose the next morning. She should have known better. She was a prisoner of a cruel enemy. A moment’s shared success was nothing more than a distraction
What are you good for, lass?
Nothing, or so it seemed.
Aye, there was the sad truth. She had crossed the border thinking God meant her to find her father and rescue him because her cousins would not. Instead, she had put herself in enemy hands and learned little except that her father was not held in Brunson Tower.
What was she to do now? Care for
Wat. That, at least, Rob Brunson had allowed her.
No guard stood by her door, so before she visited the Widow Gregor, she took the opportunity to wander the courtyard, hoping to see something of use, unsure what she was looking for. She retraced her steps of the first day, looking for something that would speak of the Brunsons’ defences instead of a place where her father might be held a prisoner.
She saw nothing that looked materially different from home. If there was something here that would turn the tide of battle, she couldn’t recognise it.
Beggy would not let her back in the kitchen. The man in the armoury frowned at her when she paused at the door. Finally, she went up to the parapet, sat on the stone seat near the chimney, and gazed to the south. A man on lookout, standing at the other end of the wall, left her alone.
And looking towards home, she knew again that she was on the wrong side of the hills.
At home, when the sun set, you could watch it. Here, it disappeared behind the hills, hidden and as difficult to see as Black Rob Brunson’s feelings.
If he had any.
She should have been mourning her father or scheming to escape or counting dirks in the armoury or at least keeping a watchful eye on Wat. Instead, she was thinking about a stubborn, silent man.
Sometimes when he did deign to speak it was in an accent so twisted she could barely understand the words.
No, she did not want to dwell on how much he filled her thoughts. Only because he was difficult to deal with. Only because he was the largest obstacle in her path. No other reason that just before she drifted to sleep at night she found herself thinking of his strong chest, bared in the sun as they sat on the bank …
At least while they built the weir, he did not ignore her. No, that wasn’t it. He did not ignore her. He dismissed her. As if what she wanted was unimportant.
At home, what she asked for appeared. She was treated with a deference she only recognised now that it had vanished. Here, she was no longer special Stella, but only an enemy captive.
‘Are you sad, then?’
Wat’s voice startled her. How long had he stood there watching her?
Yet he was the one soul in Brunson Tower who looked at her with sympathetic eyes. She motioned him closer. He put a hand on her knee and she ruffled his blond curls. ‘Aye, Wat. I’m sad today.’
‘Why?’
Because I’m feeling like the Lost Storwick.
What would the poor lad say if she were to tell him how cruel his hero was? But was that true for Wat? She had seen Rob impatient with the boy, yet never cruel.
She pulled him close and hugged him until he wiggled. No. There was no use in making this poor child sad as well. The child seemed too foolish to understand sadness.
Or too wise.
‘I was missing my father,’ she said, then forced a smile. ‘But I feel better when I talk to you.’
‘My father is in Heaven.’ He smiled, as if Heaven were as close as Canonbie.
‘Is he, now?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll see him there when I die and all the saints and Red Geordie Brunson, too.’
Speechless, she nodded back, wishing she had the kind of faith this boy did. The kind of faith her mother did. ‘Red Geordie? That’s Rob’s father?’
‘Aye. He went there and left Rob to care for us here.’
She stifled her observation on how well the head man was doing at the job.
‘Come, Wat.’ She stood and took his hand. ‘Do you think your mother will lend you to me for a while?’
He nodded, swinging her arm. The touch of his trusting hand in hers nearly made her cry. Special, aye. So special that she had never married, would not have children of her own.
She squeezed back and they went down the stairs.
When they entered the small hut at the edge of the courtyard, the Widow Gregor glanced up with eyes that looked one hundred years old.
‘What is it?’ she said, immediately. ‘Wat, did you bother this woman?’
The boy hung his head. She squeezed his hand. ‘No,’ she answerd quickly. ‘Not at all.’ Eight children, Rob had said. And a poor widow saddled with them all. No wonder she had no time or patience for one who was special.
‘Ah, then you’ve come for your dress,’ she said, picked up the carefully folded green velvet and handed it to Stella.
‘Thank you.’
‘I tried me best, but …’
The dress would never be the same. And somehow, it did not matter.
‘Come, Wat.’ His mother held out her hand. ‘Don’t bother this lady.’
Stella tightened her hand on his. ‘He is no bother. I’d like to watch him for you.’
Surprise dissolved into relief and then a shrug. ‘Do what you like. It will keep him from under me feet.’
Anger made her tongue tart. ‘You take little enough care of him. He wanders by himself. Something could happen to him.’
The Widow’s weary eyes met hers, a gaze at once hollow and overfull. ‘Who are you to judge my life?’
No one, she realised. She was no one at all. ‘Come, Wat. Find your ball and we will play.’
Days passed.
Rob allowed her outside the walls, as long as she was with Wat, somehow knowing that the grip of the boy’s fingers held her as tightly as an iron chain.
Each day, Stella took Wat down to check the garth, but if there were fish in the river, they were clever enough to swim past the trap. Still, Wat never lost hope.
And she was smiling at his faith when they walked back inside the gates late one morning and she came face to face with the Brunson Warrior Woman.
The woman her kin had so grievously wronged. The woman who had ridden with the men to track him down and exact revenge for the killing of her father.
Beside her, Rob spared barely a glance for Stella. ‘This is a Storwick,’ Rob said to the woman, not bothering with any other name.
Stella kept a lifted chin high and a wary eye. Johnnie’s Cate isn’t much for cooking, Beggy had said. Wearing pants and boots and a jack-of-plaites vest, but small and fair, she looked nothing like a man. Still, she looked menacing.
‘This is Cate,’ Rob said, finally looking at Stella. ‘Wife to my brother Johnnie.’
‘He’s in the hall,’ the slender blonde said to Rob. ‘He wants to see you.’
Rob’s hand circled Stella’s arm. ‘As soon as I lock her upstairs in Bessie’s room.’
It seemed her days of freedom had come to an end.
‘I’ll do it.’ Cate drew her dirk and stepped forwards. ‘I’d like a word with her.’
He looked from one to the other, then pushed Stella towards Cate.
Stella threw a worried glance at him as he disappeared into the public hall. Cate did not speak again until they reached Stella’s room. Once inside, she closed the door and stood in silence.
‘What do you want of me?’ Stella said, impatience overcoming fear.
‘Other than to rip your heart out?’
She shivered, thinking this woman could actually do it. ‘Yes, other than that.’
Cate raised her eyebrows. ‘What I want is to see if Storwick women are as monstrous as Storwick men.’
‘Well, I’d like to know the same about Brunson women,’ Stella retorted.
‘Rob? He’s strong and hard. A head man must be. But he’s no monster.’
Stella sniffed in disbelief. Her father was not so hard, at least, she had never seen him so except with Scarred Willie.
Cate stepped closer.
Stella recoiled.
‘I won’t hurt you,’ Cate said. ‘I promise. I know enough of hurt.’ Something haunted her eyes.
Stella had heard the women whisper. This woman had suffered at Willie Storwick’s hands. ‘We heard he was dead,’ she said.
Rumour was that the Warrior Woman herself had killed him. If so, no one begrudged her.
Cate blinked, but did not ask who had said this. ‘No one has found his body.’
Stella lo
oked at her face again. Aye, she could believe this woman would kill. What would her own life have been like, if she had not been shielded?
‘No one mourned him,’ Stella said. ‘He had been disowned.’
They all knew, the Storwicks, what kind of man he had been. They had learned, too late, how to protect their own from him. At first, her father had threatened him, thinking he would stop and, at first, it seemed as if he had. It was only later, too late, when they discovered he had only taken himself across the hills.
‘Truly?’ Cate looked sceptical. ‘We had heard, but …’ She shrugged, as if a Storwick could not be trusted.
‘He was no longer Storwick.’ Not after Truce Day, when she saw him force a kiss on this Brunson woman and then ride free. After that, her father had cast him out, shunned him and insisted the rest of them do the same. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘I’d like to be sure he’s dead.’
‘Why?’
She pursed her lips. ‘It was not only on your side of the border that he … hurt … women.’
This time, Cate did not hesitate. Her hand gripped Stella’s. ‘You?’
She shook her head, thankful. Her parents had made sure of that. But Storwick lands were wide and not everyone was so careful. ‘But no one mourns his death.’ She gripped Cate’s hand in return. ‘He is dead, isn’t he?’
Cate withdrew her hand, crossed her arms and nodded.
‘Then where’s his body?’
Cate nodded towards the hill. ‘Up there. At the bottom of a ravine. Where it belongs.’
‘And you killed him?’ Somehow, it seemed important for a woman to take her revenge.
Something shifted behind Cate’s eyes. ‘If I told you the whole story, you wouldn’t believe it.’
She opened her lips to say she would, but the woman’s eyes were hard again. ‘Let us begin again. My name is Stella,’ she said, instead.
Cate nodded. ‘Cate Gilnock, wife of Johnnie Brunson.’ When she spoke his name, Stella saw the first softness the woman had shown.
Aye, this clan was a hard one. But they were both woman, after all, perhaps with more in common than they knew. Maybe, just maybe, Cate would help persuade Rob to let her see her father.
‘Do you know,’ she began, hopeful, ‘where they are holding Hobbes Storwick?’
Taken by the Border Rebel Page 5