Taken by the Border Rebel

by Blythe Gifford

  ‘Are you sure? He likes the roof. And he might fall off …’

  ‘More places to hide here. Behind barrels, under sacks.’

  Nodding, she gripped her fists, as if to summon courage. And he saw the expression flash across her face he had seen that first day when he had threatened to lock her down here.

  ‘Wat?’ she called, finally. ‘Are you here? Come out, Wat.’

  He heard nothing but the scurry of mice feet.

  ‘I’ll look up here,’ he said, nodding towards the ladder to the entresol, where the barrels were stacked. ‘You check the well room.’

  He mounted the ladder, quickly.

  The lad had been missing too long.

  She dragged herself, step by step, to the room in the corner. The iron door was closed. And she released a breath. He could not have gone in here.

  And she was protected by being kept out.

  Still, she clung to the iron bars and peered in. A little light poured in from a small slit in the wall. Enough to let in air, but not enough to allow an arrow to penetrate.

  She could see all but one corner. No child in sight. But still … ‘Wat?’

  He must have been in the hidden corner, for he popped out and screamed, ‘Noooooo. Go away. I don’t want you.’ And started running around the well in the middle of the floor. The well whose cover was slightly askew.

  ‘Wat! Stop it.’

  She swung the door open, but something stopped her step. What if she approached and he tripped and …

  Before she could think further, Rob was beside her, had gone through the door and scooped Wat into his arms.

  Realising who was holding him, the boy immediately stilled. No more kicks or screams. Just the leftover tear on his cheek. But he wrapped his arms around Rob’s neck and put his head on his shoulder.

  She stepped back and leaned against the wall. Over. And she could breathe again.

  ‘I’ll take him.’ She held out her arms. Rob had never had patience with the boy, but now, he had an expression more gentle than she had ever seen before.

  Seeing her reach for him, Wat turned his head away and squeezed Rob’s neck.

  She dropped her hands. ‘Traitor.’

  ‘What did you do to the boy?’ Rob asked.

  ‘I told him he couldn’t have an extra bannock.’ Such a small treat. Perhaps she should not have been so stern.

  The boy’s face was still buried in his shoulder, so Rob could afford a grin. Then, he put a stern expression on and a voice to match.

  ‘Listen to me, Wat Gregor.’

  The boy lifted his head, slowly, and looked at Rob.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  He nodded, enthusiastic.

  She stifled a grin of her own.

  ‘From now on,’ Rob said, never taking his eyes from Wat’s, ‘when this lady says you are to do something, you do as she says. Do you hear me?’

  Wat glanced at her, guilty eyes coupled with a pout. He did not nod this time.

  ‘Wat, I’m talking to you.’

  ‘She’s an ugly dragon, like you said!’

  It took every muscle in her body to hold back the laugh.

  Rob, on the other hand, now looked black enough that Wat was cowed. ‘Enough. Now tell her you are sorry and you’ll not do it again.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He chewed his words a little more than usual. ‘I be good.’

  She reached out. ‘I’ll take him now.’

  Her arms brushed Rob’s as he handed the boy over. She felt the strength of his arms, felt the rise of his chest and the heat of his breath, and came too close to the strong jaw and the unexpected curve of his lip. No kiss. No touch more than to transfer the boy’s vulnerable body, but in the gesture, she felt as close to him as she had when their lips had met.

  Closer.

  ‘What the boy said, about the dragon, I didn’t mean …’

  She did not want to know that he had said. She did not want to know any more of what this man thought of her.

  She squeezed the boy and stepped away. Exhausted, his head drooped onto her shoulder and his eyelids sagged, weary.

  Stella dared meet Rob’s eyes again. ‘Most children outgrow those shouting fits by this age.’

  ‘He is not most children.’

  She sighed, expecting again his argument that the boy should be abandoned. Instead, his brown eyes studied Wat, then returned to hers.

  ‘He is lucky to have you. A boy like that … It would be easy for harm to come to him.’

  ‘I know.’ She squeezed Wat so tightly that he woke and lifted his head. ‘Wat, listen to me. What did I tell you?’

  ‘Always go home.’

  ‘That’s right. No matter what, whether you are scared or frightened or angry, you must not run off alone. Something could happen to you.’

  ‘I be good,’ Wat said, again, nodding at her this time as if he meant it.

  ‘Be sure you are,’ Rob said, in a tone that conveyed that the incident was over.

  She turned away and smiled, knowing Wat’s promise would not be kept, but grateful to Rob for trying. He’d learn when he had children of his own.

  Somehow, the thought was not comforting.

  Chapter Nine

  He was glad, Rob told himself a few days later, that Johnnie returned so quickly with the head man of the Elliots. He’d been thinking too much of the Storwick woman. And with the Gregor fool in his arms, his thoughts had even turned to children. He needed to get married.

  That would clear his mind.

  Rob, Johnnie and Jock Elliot settled before the empty hearth in the public hall. Jock was of an age of his late father. It seemed unnatural to meet him face to face as an equal, each man head of a family with all the duty that entailed.

  ‘Your father was a braw man,’ Jock began.

  ‘Aye.’ No more to say. No way to admit he missed him without sounding like a boy instead of a man.

  Silence fell. Rob looked to Johnnie, who leaned forwards to pick up the thought.

  ‘So,’ Johnnie began, smiling at Jock, ‘you’ve a daughter of marriageable age.’

  Rob tried to remember her. He must have seen her at some gathering. Had she been at his father’s burial? Hard to say. He had seen little that day for the tears in his eyes.

  ‘Aye,’ Jock said. ‘She’s full seventeen summers.’

  Rob frowned. ‘So young?’ Younger than his sister Bessie. Much younger than Stella Storwick, though that made no difference to him.

  ‘Old enough to marry. Many are at her age.’

  He knew as much. ‘Can she cook?’

  Johnnie glanced at him, but held his tongue.

  ‘Lamb stew, bannocks, carrots. The kitchen is home to her.’

  Carrots. Not his favourite. ‘Fish?’

  ‘Aye, fish, too.’

  Dull, he thought, but useful. Exactly what he wanted.

  ‘And she is healthy?’ Johnnie asked.

  ‘Never sick a day in her life,’ her father said. He leaned forwards and lowered his voice. ‘And a lovely lass, if a father may say so. Fair hair. Brown eyes. Full figured. Only missing two of her teeth.’

  He swallowed. That should not matter. Not at all. He did not care if the woman was comely or ill favoured. He needed an alliance with a family and a marriage with a woman who could manage the household.

  ‘And,’ Jock continued, with a smile that revealed the teeth he was missing, ‘we would be honoured to be joined to the Brunson’s head man.’

  Rob stood. To the head man. The only reason they would be considering the match. A woman who didn’t even know him.

  They want to claim they carry the son of the head man.

  That was all she wanted.

  And wasn’t that what he wanted? he thought, with more than a twinge of guilt. He had asked no more of this prospective ‘wife’, than she had of him. A nameless body had been all he had wanted. Not a woman for her own sake, but only one to cook his food and order his house.

  That no longer
seemed enough.

  As he left the room, Johnnie, sputtering, struggled to explain his brother’s abrupt departure.

  Stella saw Rob stride out of the hall, looking like thunder. She had learned enough of him now that she no longer assumed he was frowning at her.

  It was the whole world he hated.

  ‘Is there news?’ she asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘We were speaking of marriage.’

  Her stomach took a dive. ‘Yours?’ No reason that should matter. She looked at Rob Brunson, his expression as black as his name, and shivered. What woman would want to live with such a man? It would be a death sentence, a banishment to everlasting Hell to be tied to such a beast.

  She would never survive such a thing. It was the worst fate imaginable.

  He didn’t answer for a moment, but his eyes took hers. And she thought he was trying to tell her something without words.

  ‘Aye.’

  There it was, then. She swallowed, hoping she could find her voice again. ‘May it be a happy one.’

  Something shifted, as if the rock hard expression shattered. ‘Whenever it happens.’

  She looked behind him. Another equally unhappy man was saying a few words to Johnnie as he stomped towards his horse. ‘It is not—’

  ‘Nay. Not now. It will not be that one.’

  She closed her eyes in grateful thanks, ignoring the meaning of her relief.

  When she opened them, he was looking over his shoulder at the stranger. ‘And now I must fix the mess I made. Jock Elliot’s kin have been staunch allies of the Brunsons. Until now.’

  He turned his back on her and strode back to the man. Curious, she watched the two brothers. Johnnie had a hand on the man’s shoulder, as if trying to cajole him into a better humour. Rob must have made one of his blunt statements and the man took offence. Well, her father would have raised a fist to any man who had spoken amiss of her, although, she realised now, her prideful attitude might have sometimes deserved it.

  But Rob stood square before the man, and though she could not hear his words, the angle of his head and the furrow on his brow suggested a spare statement about himself.

  Admitting he was wrong.

  At least, that’s what the shock on Jock Elliot’s face seemed to say.

  Her relief slid into puzzlement.

  She was no expert on Rob Brunson, but she could not remember him ever admitting an error before.

  She turned away. Marriage to Rob Brunson. What woman would suffer such a sacrifice unless …?

  Unless it was what she had been saved to do.

  She wandered towards the tower, casting a casual glance behind her. If a Storwick were to marry a Brunson, would that mean peace?

  Would that mean her father could come home?

  If so, it would be worth any sacrifice. Even a lifetime with Rob Brunson.

  Brunsons and Storwicks had married before, of course. Once or twice. Border law forbade it, but even the edicts of kings couldn’t stop young lust. In the end, though, those couples had had to choose one side or the other.

  And they had not been the head man of one clan and the daughter of the leader of the other.

  The certainty of it settled on her like the fog on the hills.

  Stella, God saved you for a reason. It must be a large reason. Something important.

  That’s what her mother had always said. And so she had expected a vision to come from God, showing her exactly what she must do. Perhaps like that maid in France, God might put her on a horse at the head of a great band of riders and ask her to lead them into battle, guiding them to a glorious triumph.

  But as the years passed, no vision came. So she had grasped at the idea of crossing the border looking for her father. That was the biggest, most important thing life had ever asked of her.

  Until now.

  To bring peace to two families that had warred for generations. Was that her purpose?

  She wondered, sceptical. It would bring no moment of public glory and triumph. This would be a harder, private sacrifice. This would mean putting herself at the mercy of a monster, day after day, for the rest of her life, spent in exile, forced to submit to his kisses.

  The shiver that went through her was not entirely unpleasant.

  But the certainty that grew seemed immutable. Why else would God have allowed her to be captured, but to turn the hard heart of this man to release her father and embrace her clan?

  She straightened her shoulders. She did not know how she would do it, but marry Black Rob Brunson she must.

  Or die trying.

  Rob was certain, after he had choked on the taste of his swallowed pride, that now was not the time for marriage. Why had he even thought so? Ever since the Storwick wench had appeared, his thoughts had been muddled. Now was no time to be distracted by a woman, even a wife. He must get on and make plans with Johnnie and Carwell, prepare to deal with the King.

  And the Storwicks.

  They had surprised him, ‘twas true. Perhaps they were cleverer than he had given them credit for. For it seemed the Storwick cousins, whoever they were, had decided to just let poor Hobbes Storwick rot in Carwell’s castle and the daughter to do the same in his. And if they waited long enough, and took charge, what they wanted would become inevitable. They would lead the clan in fact until, after a while, no one but Storwick’s poor wife would remember, or care, what had become of him.

  Sometimes, life could be cruel that way.

  The question was, when the time came, what kind of warriors would they be?

  Johnnie and Cate had returned to the other end of the valley, carting some stone from the abandoned church to fortify their rising tower, half a day’s ride away. Wed only a few months, they were eager for their own place, their own space. So Rob slept alone in his father’s room again, living suspended, knowing that they would have to act soon, that the King would be coming.

  He was sorry, now, that he had insisted that Stella stay here. He had become lax about guarding her, but she seemed so comfortable, as if she were part of the household. So as long as she remained within sight of the tower and took the boy, he let her outside to check the fish trap. As long as the lad was with her, he felt certain she would not run.

  And if she did, it would make his life easier.

  He was too aware of her, he thought, as he mounted the tower stairs late one afternoon. Where she was, what she was doing. She lavished smiles and hugs on poor Wat Gregor, and every once in a while, he would catch her studying him, as if she were trying to see into his mind.

  Thank goodness she couldn’t. Once in a while, she might have seen herself naked there and—

  ‘Is there any word of my father?’

  Her voice jarred him. She stood in the door of her room, looking as comfortable as if she lived there. ‘Why would there be? Have you seen any messengers coming or going?’

  She looked down. ‘Cate told me she had seen him. I thought there might be news, he might be better …’

  Hope, he thought. All we ever had most of the time.

  He reached for her sleeve. ‘I’m sorry.’ And he wasn’t sure exactly what he was sorry for. Certainly he had no regrets for anything he had done. And yet he was using those words now as he never had before.

  ‘When did your father die?’

  Her unexpected question hit him like a blow. He did not want to be reminded of his father. He did not want to be reminded of how she would feel if her father …

  ‘August last.’

  ‘How did he go?’

  Rob shook his head. ‘In his sleep.’ Shame, to say the words.

  ‘A lucky man.’

  He stared at her. He had not thought so at the time.

  She did not relent. ‘And your mother?’

  He shrugged. ‘A few years before.’ Two? Three? He was no longer sure.

  ‘I’ve been fortunate,’ she said. ‘To have my family so long.’

  Life was uncertain and merciless, especially for the weak.
‘You’ve family still. You’ve a clan full of Storwicks.’

  ‘It’s not the same.’ Her eyes met his. ‘You have a brother. And a sister. I’ve had just my parents.’

  ‘There are days I would let you have them.’ Yet he smiled, as Johnnie might, knowing he did not mean the words.

  And she smiled as if she knew he did not. ‘My father and mother, no matter what happened, they thought I was special.’

  There was that word again. As if it were some magic cloak that belonged to her alone. ‘My father did not think the same.’ Perhaps fathers of girls were more forgiving. He did not recall his father raising a hand to Bessie.

  ‘It is not always a blessing,’ she said. ‘It is hard to know if you …’ She let the words trail away. ‘If you are good enough.’

  He nodded. ‘That I know. With my father, the answer was always “not yet.”’ Not good enough to be head man. There had been so much to learn. And now, too late for his father to teach him more.

  ‘With mine, the answer was “you will be.” They had expectations.’

  ‘Aye. So did my father.’

  Strange. Their fathers treated them so differently, but with the same result. Am I good enough? He would never have imagined that Stella Storwick would wonder. She seemed to think herself quite better than them all.

  ‘But they always believed I would fulfil them,’ she said. ‘In time.’

  He wished he could say the same. He thought his father might live for ever, if only because Rob was unready to succeed him.

  ‘And now,’ she said, whispering to herself, ‘there is no more time.’

  No more time. One day, he woke up and he was alone.

  The same could happen to her, she knew too well, and it might be his fault. Once more, he found himself flopping like a fish on the line, tempted once again to let her go to the man in time to say farewell.

  He found himself wanting to comfort her, this woman who was not only alone here, it seemed, but alone even among her own kind. It made them feel akin, in a way, for as head man he was alone. No matter what Johnnie could do, at the end of the day, he was alone. Would another body next to him in that bed help?

  And then he had crossed her threshold, stepped within her room, put his arm around her, felt her nestle against his shoulder without fear, and when he looked down, she was lifting her face, her lips close enough to kiss.