Читать книгу Taken by the Border Rebel - Blythe Gifford - Страница 10

As the door slammed behind him, Stella realised that her heart had somehow galloped up to her throat. Closing her eyes, she put a hand to her chest, trying to slow its beating and move it back to its proper place.

Aye. This man, this savage Brunson, was all they had ever said of the clan. And more.

God saved you, her mother always said. You are special in His eyes and He will let no harm come to you.

She opened her eyes to look around the room again, wondering whether God’s reach extended to this godless side of the border.

Capture had not been her plan when she left home this morning. Truth of it, she had no plan, but she could take no more of the endless bickering between Humphrey and Oswyn. Her father was ill and in Brunson hands. She had to do something.

Beneath her hand, her heart settled into a steadier rhythm.

She’d been spared the cellar, which meant his intention was to ransom her. In the interim, as custom decreed, she would be treated as a guest.

Yet they had asked no ransom for her father, as would have been expected. Did that mean he was already dead?

Something hit her door, too close to the floor for a knock.

She jumped and her heart thumped in answer.

The sound came again, on the floor this time, in an irregular rhythm. She opened the heavy wooden door and looked out.

The blond, round-faced boy she had seen in the courtyard ran up and down the hall, kicking a ball. When he saw her, he let the ball roll away.

‘Gudday,’ she said, noticing no one else was in the hall. No guard, then. Perhaps God’s will did extend so far north.

‘Gudein, lady.’ The boy mangled the words, as well as the time of day.

Still, she smiled. Children always made her smile. ‘What do they call you, lad?’

‘Wat,’ he said, his smile widening to meet hers. ‘I be Wat.’

She looked again, more carefully. A simpleton, by the sound of him, perhaps eight or ten. And one who knew the Brunson buildings better than she.

‘And I’m Stella.’ Swallowing her guilt, she knelt down, as if taking the boy into her confidence, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Wat, can you show me the tower? I’m sure I would get lost by myself.’

This might be her only chance to search for her father. And surely even Rob Brunson couldn’t fault a brainless boy for helping her.

Wat threw an uncertain look over his shoulder, as if hoping for reinforcements.

She squeezed his shoulder, driven by her own urgency. ‘I bet you know the best hiding places. Would you show me?’

Silent, he nodded, took her hand and led her up the stairs.

The warm, sunny day must have lured everyone outside, for they seemed to have the tower to themselves. And by the time she had seen everything from the stone flag roof to the entresol stacked with foodstuffs, she knew there could only be one place left.

Is that where you keep Hobbes Storwick?

No, he had said. But with a pause. A moment’s hesitation before a lie?

She looked down the stairs. Somewhere down there, the well’s open maw waited.

‘Wat,’ she said, gripping his hand so that he could not wander into harm’s way. ‘Show me the well room.’

Late in the afternoon, Rob returned home for the second time that day. After he had left the Storwick woman at the tower, he and his men had ridden hard and far, searching for signs that the Storwicks were riding. He found none. In fact, the family had been strangely quiet since their leader had been taken.

Why?

He had expected an attempt at rescue, or at least retaliation. Instead, only the whine of the wind swept over the border from the English side.

And instead of thinking about the potential threat, he was thinking of her.

Only because he must decide how to notify the Storwicks that she had been captured, not because he was remembering the heat of her, trapped between his legs and the ground.

He forced his thoughts to the simple things. Stabling Felloun instead of leaving him to graze. Removing the horse’s saddle and blanket. Fetching his feed. Patting his withers as thanks for another day of service.

With the horse cared for, he pushed open the iron yett that protected the sole door to the tower. Inside, the sound of unfamiliar footsteps echoed from the lower level.

Drawing his dagger, he bent his knees and followed the sound.

‘Show me.’ A woman’s whisper.

Hers.

He stepped more softly.

Back to him, clutching Wat by the hand, she stood peering into the well room. The iron grate had swung open, but she did not step inside. Instead, she leaned in, looking to the corners, as if the threshold itself were a cliff.

He straightened and released a breath, without sheathing his dagger. Well, now he knew he would have to waste a man to guard her door. ‘Did you change your mind, then?’

She jumped, gasping, and grabbed the boy close with both hands.

What was she looking for?

He stepped closer, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling. In the cramped space, his shadow loomed over them. Small, high window holes let in scant late daylight.

‘Don’t hurt the boy.’ Yet she clutched his head to her skirt, tight enough to smother the lad.

‘Hurt him?’ No more than he would hurt a dumb animal. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘A Brunson.’

What she thought an insult, he found a compliment. Yet he needed no halfwit, open-mouthed boy under foot right now. ‘Wat. Find your mother.’

The lad smiled at Stella Storwick and then ran up the stairs.

Rob moved closer, close enough that it seemed he must take her arm and turn her to look again into the small, dark room. In the centre, a covered well waited patiently for time of siege. Most days, they drew their water from the stream outside the walls.

‘So do you favour this instead of the “barren” room upstairs?’ The anger in his voice was for himself, but she would not know that.

Shoulders hunched, she shook her head without taking her eyes from the well. Even her silence angered him, making him speak as roughly as she expected. ‘Speak to me,’ he ordered. ‘Do you?’

At that, she stood straight and tall again. ‘No.’

One pride-filled word. But had he seen fear, too?

He pushed her ahead of him up the stairs. ‘Then stay where I put you.’ Her hair swung to one side, exposing the pale skin at the curve of her neck and releasing a scent faint as bluebells. ‘Next time, I’ll let you stay in the cellar.’

She threw a look over her shoulders, but it was too dark to read her eyes.

They walked the stairs in silence. Already, he regretted the impulse that had made him grab her and bring her home this morning. Once she had crossed into Brunson land, he had no choice, but then he had taken pity on her. Spared her the cell and put her in a room fit for honoured guests, a weakness he would not show again.

He pushed the heavy wooden door open. ‘Inside.’

She searched his eyes, then, not answering.

Uneasy under her gaze, he motioned her in. ‘Go on, now.’

‘Do you hold Hobbes Storwick here?’

Looking for the man. That’s what she had been doing. ‘I told you he was not down there. Did you not believe me?’

‘Does he still live?’

He opened his mouth to reassure her and thought better of it. The truth would be good enough.

‘He did when I saw him last.’ Few enough of his family had asked whether the man lived or died. ‘Now? I can’t say.’

Disappointment swept through her, sharp as a Cheviot wind, as Rob Brunson closed the door behind him.

He’s not here. He may not even be alive.

The man is a Brunson, hope argued. Would he keep the truth to himself?

She and the boy had searched the tower from roof to ground. She might have missed a corner or two, but not one large enough to house a prisoner. Still, there were outbuildings.

A window beckoned and she looked down at the courtyard. The kitchen hugged one wall, the public hall the other. Unless there was a separate room carved out of the hall, neither would hold a prisoner. She had only glimpsed the courtyard on the opposite side of the tower, but it seemed even smaller. She remembered only a small stable and a few huts for storage.

Would Black Rob Brunson be so cruel as to house a sick man in a hut?

Aye. She had no doubt of that. But then he would know whether her father lived or died. And while Black Rob Brunson was many things, she did not think him a lying man.

No. Her father was not here. She would have heard something. Even felt something.

Then where, Stella asked herself, as gloaming settled over the valley, had they taken Hobbes Storwick?

Cold, tasteless soup had appeared at her door that evening, swill not fit for hogs, so by late morning the next day, anger and hunger played tug of war.

Hunger was winning.

The rumble in her stomach made it hard to think, but if her father was not here, then she could do little but wait to be ransomed. But before she left, she would gather some information to take with her.

Everyone knew that the Brunsons could muster more men than any family on either side of the border. Two hundred horse seemed to appear in an instant. More than that when needed. But it was never clear how many of the men were in residence and how far the rest must travel.

Now that she had searched the place, she was sure there were fewer within the tower than they had thought. What else could she learn?

Stella had scant acquaintance with weapons and fortifications. Still, if she roamed the tower and studied carefully, she could describe the details to men who would understand them.

She went back to the courtyard window, this time assessing defences, not places to hold prisoners. In the months since the last raid, the Brunsons had rebuilt most of their outbuildings. And when she had entered the tower, she noted new stone bordering an opening above the door. A gun hole?

Everyone knew no Scot would touch a gun since the second King James was killed by his own cannon, but Rob Brunson did not seem the sort of man to fear a hagbut, if he chose to fire one.

If the Brunsons had guns in large numbers, the Storwicks needed to know it. And if she could bring the news, well, this might be the thing she had been saved to do, all those years ago.

Stay where I put you. Well, Rob Brunson was going to be angry with her again.

Outside the door, she heard the thump of Wat’s ball again and smiled. Was there a guard at the door? If so, she hoped he was more malleable than Rob. At home, she had no trouble handling such men. It took no more than a raised brow or a turn of the head and they would step aside, or run to fetch what she wanted. Things might not be so easy here.

But when she opened the door, Wat himself extended a straight arm and a flat palm to block her from crossing the threshold. ‘Gudein,’ he said.

Evening or morn, if Wat was her only guard, this would be easier than she thought. She took a step forwards, but his arm did not waver. ‘May I pass, please?’ Surely he only played a child’s game.

He shook his head. ‘Laird says you stay.’

But Rob Brunson was not in sight. Wat could not stop her, but he might raise a cry if she crossed him. ‘The laird meant that this room was to be mine. Not that I could never leave it.’

God would forgive her the lie. It was for a good purpose.

Wat shook his head, fast enough to make himself dizzy. She sighed. Logic seemed wasted on this poor soul, more so than on most children. ‘It will be all right,’ she said, laying a tender hand on his shoulder and kneeling so her eyes could be level with his. Taking his chin in her fingers, she forced him to look at her. ‘You will see. I’ll tell him you conveyed his wishes.’

And that was when she saw the mug and the plaid on the floor. So, Rob Brunson no longer trusted her to stay in her room.

‘Guard coming.’ He pumped his arm, waving his flat palm at her as if she were an unruly hound. ‘Stay.’

Her gaze swept the corridor. She listened for feet on the stairs. She did not have much time. What could she say so that the boy would allow her to leave? ‘But I’m hungry. Can you show me where I could find something to eat?’

‘Food later.’

She wrestled with her temper. It was not the lad’s fault, but talking to this poor simpleton was little better than talking to a stone.

A clatter from the floor above. The real guard on his way, no doubt.

A whisper, then, as if taking the boy into her confidence. ‘Black Rob Brunson is your laird, is he not?’

Finally, a wide smile. ‘Aye.’

‘And you want to be sure he knows everything he needs to know, don’t you?’

A nod, with no suspicion now.

She must hurry if she was to send the boy off for the head man before the real guard returned. Wandering the stronghold alone no longer seemed to be an option.

She whispered, urgent and quick, ‘Then tell him that I want to speak to him. Now.’

Creases in his forehead showed how hard the task might be.

‘Tell him,’ she said, ‘that I command him to come to this room. Now go.’

She pushed Wat towards the stairs. He scampered away as footsteps approached from above. Quickly, she retreated to the room, closing the door behind her, hoping the boy had not seen her fingers shake.

‘She said what?’

Rob realised when Wat cringed that he had yelled loud enough to make the child think the anger was for him. For Sim Tait, yes, who couldn’t hold his piss long enough to stand guard for an afternoon, but not for this unfortunate bowbart.

His outburst seemed to have stolen the boy’s speech.

‘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.