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

After the meal, Rob stomped down the stairs, frustration in every step. Unable to spend another minute with the Storwick woman, he told Sim Tait to take her back to her room.

And this time, to make sure she didn’t leave it.

He wanted to see the woman no more.

With each glance, she found him wanting. With each word, she judged his failures. And he had neither time nor care for the opinion of a Storwick. Anger, that was all he felt for her. Nothing more. If there was something more, he didn’t know what it might be and didn’t want to.

His steps slowed as he left the tower and headed to the stables. He would be glad when Johnnie came home. Before his brother had left, their conversations had been strained again. They had quarrelled about something—the King or the warden or raising of cattle. Better that Johnnie and his Cate would have their own place soon.

But it was lonesome, being a head man. Never showing weakness, even when you weren’t sure whether you had done the right thing.

Not that he would tell his brother that. But it would be nice to have him back here tomorrow. They could go out and race to mount the ponies, as they used to when they were boys.

Johnnie always won.

Normally, the horses grazed around the tower, but Stella Storwick’s appearance had made him cautious and he had brought them within the walls. When he entered the stable, he was surprised to see Widow Gregor’s Wat brushing Felloun and muttering something incomprehensible over and over.

He smiled when he saw Rob. ‘Gudein, my laird,’ he said.

‘It’s past midday, not eve, Wat.’ A waste of breath to correct him. The boy was a simple fool. Who knew how long he had been standing there, rocking back and forth, and brushing the same spot on the horse’s withers?

‘Careful, lad.’ He moved the boy aside. ‘You’ll rub the beast raw.’

‘Can I ride beside?’

‘No, Wat.’ He wanted no companion right now. Particularly not this babbling boy. ‘Go find your mother.’

The lad was the youngest of eight and his mother had few moments to spare for a fool.

Wat gathered his things, then paused at the stable door. ‘She’s pretty, the lady.’

Rob frowned. ‘What lady?’ Pretending he didn’t know.

‘The new lady.’

‘Is she now? I hadn’t noticed.’

Wat nodded, sagely, as if this were wisdom he could impart. ‘Aye.’

The lad’s comment seemed an accusation. Rob had noticed. And tried not to.

‘She’s a Storwick, Wat. That means she’s as ugly as a dragon inside.’

The boy frowned. ‘The way you’re as stubborn as a tup?’

He raised his brows. Most men would not be brave enough to insult him to his face, but this boy could not be responsible for what he said, no more than if a dog had been given leave to speak. Wat barely knew the words, let alone their meanings.

Or did he?

‘Aye, lad.’ The boy watched him with worshipful eyes, but didn’t know enough of fear to guard his tongue. Refreshing. ‘Very much like that.’

Wat tilted his head, as if he were trying to understand. ‘Well,’ he said, finally, ‘she’s a pretty dragon, then.’

He chuckled as Wat left.

A pretty dragon, aye. One whose beauty disguised something deadly.

The Brunson larder, she discovered the next morning, was, indeed, wanting.

The Tait girl was already moving among the pots, toting a sack of flour, measuring it out to start baking bread. When Stella walked in, she looked up, her gaze sullen. ‘Why are you here?’

‘To see if we can put some decent food on the table.’

A belligerent pout took over the girl’s face. ‘Nothing wrong with the food.’

‘Except that it’s barely edible.’

‘You think it’s so bad?’ The girl set the sack down and crossed her arms. ‘Cook it yourself, then.’

Stella bit her lip and swallowed. If the girl left her alone here, they would all starve. ‘I thought you might need help.’

‘From a Storwick?’ The girl waved her hands in the air. ‘Like you helped with this?’

She looked around the rebuilt kitchen, suddenly noticing the charred floor and the misshapen, half-melted pots. Her people had done this with their torches.

Well, it was no worse than the damage from the flaming brands the Brunsons had lobbed into her home, but bringing a blood feud into the kitchen would not fill her stomach. ‘I’m surprised they make you do all this alone.’

The girl’s shoulders suddenly sagged, weary. ‘I make better ale than bread.’

Another blot on Rob Brunson’s shield. This was a woman half-grown, no longer a girl, but not old enough to shoulder all this. Had he no better thought than to make this lass responsible for the whole household?

Not a thought to be shared. ‘And the head man? He has no wife?’ She had seen no sign he was married, but her breath seemed to pause, waiting for the answer.

The girl shook her head. ‘He’s not one for women.’

Stella was not surprised. Women would not have much time for that growling beast, either.

‘And are there no Brunson women to help?’

‘The mother is dead these two years. The head man’s sister moved off to marry that Carwell.’ She sniffed, as if she liked the Scottish Warden little better than Stella herself did. ‘Johnnie and his bride are building their own tower.’ She shook her head and leaned forwards. ‘And Johnnie’s Cate isn’t much for cooking.’

Well, there was nothing for it. She’d have to do with what she’d been given. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Beggy.’

‘Well, Beggy, I’ll tell you a secret. I’m not much for cooking either.’ A child saved by God’s hand was, in her family’s opinion, destined for more important things than brewing and broiling. She gave the girl’s stiff shoulders a squeeze and stood. ‘But you and I are going to see if we can make something fit to eat.’

‘In that?’ The girl looked at her, eyes wide. ‘That’s fine as a feast gown.’

She looked down and sighed. Her wool skirt was stained already. And she knew little more of washing than cooking. ‘Is there an apron?’

Beggy pointed. ‘One that needs washing.’

Better than none at all. She tied it on and turned back her sleeves. ‘Now, where’s the salt?’

‘Burnt.’ She rummaged on a shelf and held up a small sack. ‘This is all that’s left.’

When she was taken, she had worried about what the Brunsons might do to her. She had never thought that the blows her family had struck against the Brunsons would now fall on her as well.

More lightly, of course. What was a shortage of salt, after all?

‘Well, we’ll add spices then.’

The girl looked at her, blankly. ‘We ran out before Candlemass.’

‘Lamb?’

‘A little. Too soon for most.’

‘Something from the garden?’

Beggy shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

Stella looked around the kitchen. ‘Is there nothing left?’

‘Carrots. But the laird won’t eat them.’

‘He won’t? Well, then, I guess he’ll go hungry.’

See how he liked it.

Johnnie and Cate arrived near midday. While Cate went to feed her slobbering beast of a hound, Rob and John retreated to the laird’s private meeting room and Rob told him about the Storwick woman.

When the tale was done, John lifted his brows, doubtful. ‘The King has already named us outlaws. And now we hold an English woman?’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t go well.’

Could Johnnie never just accept his leadership? Rob had wanted agreement, not arguments. He had argued enough with himself already.

‘You, of all people, should understand.’ Because of Cate, Johnnie had more reason to hate the Storwicks than any of them.

But Willie Storwick was dead now, and much of Johnnie’s anger had died with him. ‘Carwell has stretched the law by holding Storwick without trial. When they discover you’ve got the woman, they’ll ride again.’

‘Let them come.’

Johnnie shook his head. ‘You’ve barely finished rebuilding from the last raid.’

‘Rebuilt stronger.’ He had higher walls. And doubled the watchers in the hills. They would not be surprised again.

‘That won’t protect us against King James.’

‘King James! King Henry! This side of the border or the other, I care nothing for a man I’ve never seen.’

Now he saw the worry in Johnnie’s eyes. ‘I’ve seen him. Bessie barely escaped from him.’

He shook off the guilt. Bessie had insisted she be the Brunson to plead their case to the King. For all the good it did them. Or the King. ‘He has no sway with me.’

‘Maybe not, but he’s put a price on our heads.’

His brother had come home from court, yes. But he still did not fully understand life here and what a leader must do to protect the family. To survive. Rob did.

‘And much has come of that, as you see.’ He spat in disgust. ‘Who’s to fear him? He’s barely more than a bairn. Doesn’t dare come himself.’

‘He will, Rob. I know him. He will.’ John grabbed his arm and shook it. ‘He burned a man at the stake in St Andrew’s.’

Rob couldn’t stop the shiver. A man should die on his pony, fighting. Not burned. Not hanged.

And not in his bed, as his father had.

‘Can you not just agree with me for once?’

His brother sat back, and crossed his arms, as if knowing further argument would be futile. ‘What are you going to do with her, then?’

‘Hold her here. And if they try to take Hobbes Storwick from Carwell …’ He left the threat unsaid. Couldn’t bring himself to say he’d kill a woman.

Storwicks wouldn’t know that, though. They’d done worse.

Johnnie looked at him, sharply. ‘Take Storwick? From a moated castle? Impossible.’

‘I’d expect you to try. If I were the one held.’

Silence. Then a sigh. ‘Aye. I would.’

Rob nodded, relieved. It was their own kind of truce.

‘Do they know yet that you have her?’

‘It’s been a day. Two. They know she’s gone.’ A missing daughter. They’d worry, not knowing whether she had fallen into a ravine, drowned in the river … He steeled his heart.

She was safe and better treated than she’d a right to be, but he was surprised to have seen no signs of a search.

‘Well, you can’t send a message to Bewcastle.’

He sighed. ‘Carwell must do it.’

His stubborn sister had been betrothed to the Scottish Warden at the King’s command. Then she had defied her brother to marry the man.

Thomas Carwell had managed to dance on the edge of the Border Laws he was paid to enforce and still not infuriate King James. At least, not until he ignored the King’s order that he bring the Brunsons to Edinburgh for hanging.

But still, the King had not removed the man from his office. Not yet, anyway.

‘He’s still the Scottish Warden. He can send an official message through the English Warden.’

‘Who’s no friend of any of us since we violated the new treaty. He’s not going to like it.’

‘Neither do I.’ You never knew with Carwell. Reiver one day. English collaborator the next. Agent of the King the day after that. ‘What’s to keep him from tattling to the King about it?’

‘Bessie.’

He sighed. For all that she was a woman, his sister was steadier than most lasses. He certainly missed having her about the tower. He was not a man who craved comfort, but without her, there had been no one to keep the kettle full and stuff fresh feathers into the mattress.

He wondered what the Storwick woman was doing in the kitchen. Probably scheming to poison him.

‘Well, I’ve saddled myself with the woman. And if they don’t know I hold her, it’s for naught. Would you go to Carwell Castle to tell him?’

‘You’ll not go?’

He shook his head. He had not spoken to the man since the Storwick raid. Nor to his sister Bessie. He was not ready to start now. ‘Not the time to leave the tower undefended.’

Johnnie eyed him for a moment. ‘We could take the girl with us. Give her to Carwell for keeping. She’ll be surrounded by a moat and out of your hands.’

‘And held beside her father. Together, the two of them would make an irresistible target.’ Based on Stella’s questions, they did not know where Hobbes Storwick was held. That could not last for ever. ‘If I hold her here, she protects our tower and makes them think before they ride to Carwell Castle.’

To protect the tower. No other reason he was keeping the woman. In truth, he’d as soon be rid of her and her haughty air.

Johnnie rose. ‘We’ll leave tomorrow. Cate will be happy to see Bessie again.’ He paused, waiting.

Rob averted his eyes.

‘I’ll tell her,’ his brother said, finally, ‘that you asked of her.’

‘Tell her I asked for her recipe for lamb stew.’

Family was all. Protecting it, not loving it.

Love made you weak.

The thought of Bessie’s stew reminded him that the Storwick woman was in the kitchen and he crossed the courtyard to see how she fared. Drizzle had dissolved yesterday’s sun, along with his good mood, and he began to doubt that today’s meal would be any more edible than yesterday’s.

At the kitchen door, he stopped.

The room—pots, hearth and floor—was white as if a snowstorm had hit.

And in the midst of it, the Storwick woman clutched an empty sack of flour.

Both women turned to him.

‘Take her away,’ Beggy shrieked, when she saw him. ‘I’d rather cook alone.’

Stella blinked. Rapidly.

Mercy. He had no patience for crying females.

He stepped into the room, sending a puff of flour over his boot. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘First, she let the stew burn. Now, she’s spilled half our flour!’ Beggy’s voice danced on the edge of a scream. ‘Get her out of here.’

He took Stella’s arm, but she looked back at Beggy. ‘I should help you clean …’

‘No! Don’t help,’ the girl said. ‘Or there’ll be nothing left to eat.’

He pulled Stella out of the kitchen and into the courtyard. ‘Did you plan to starve us all?’

‘I do not cook at home.’

He stared. All women cooked. Didn’t they? ‘You were the one who complained of the food!’ Criticising the lack of foolish luxuries, of no importance to anyone except to her. ‘And you don’t even cook?’

‘I didn’t think it would be so hard.’

‘For most women, it isn’t.’

‘Then why don’t you marry a woman who can cook?’

Her words hit as hard as horse’s hooves on rock. ‘And why don’t you marry a husband who’ll keep you from roaming the Borders alone?’

She licked her lips, crossed her arms, lifted her chin, all as if to fill the space where there should have been words. But flour still clung to her sleeves and her apron and her shoes and he couldn’t help but think she looked ridiculous instead of haughty.

‘I will,’ she said, finally. ‘Soon. Someone worthy. Special.’

Special. She said the word as if to insult him. ‘Who is special enough for you?’ The words curdled on his tongue. Why even ask? He didn’t care. Not really.

‘No one you would know. No one the least bit like you.’ She turned away, as if she could choose to end the conversation. ‘And no one who would interest you.’

Suddenly he wanted to know who would possess this infuriating woman. ‘He interests me if he will ride to rescue you. Or if he won’t ride as long as I keep you.’

She looked back at him, eyes wide, as if both ideas were new to her. He was not skilled with women, but this one was hiding something.

‘Then you will have to wonder at it, won’t you?’

And he did wonder. She was more than of an age to marry and more than passable to look on. Why was she not yet wed?

And as he looked at her, trailing white dust from her apron, he was also wondering why he had ever thought taking Stella Storwick was a good idea.

Stella kept her fists tight and her chin high, but her smile stiffened.

He would have to wonder because there was no one. Not yet.

There would be. Some day. It was hard to find the person good enough to join with a child saved by God.

‘Well,’ he said, a touch of pride in his voice, ‘the woman who marries a head man must be special, too.’

Relieved at the shift from her imaginary husband to his imaginary wife, she rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘The woman who marries you will have to have very special patience.’

‘The man who marries you will have to be a saint.’

A saint. Yes. That’s exactly the kind of man her parents were looking for.

Her stomach growled, loud enough that Rob looked down. ‘Next time, eat what’s put before you.’

‘Next time, put something before me I can eat.’ And dinner would be worse, now that she had singed the stew.

‘Brunsons don’t whine about food.’ He took her arm and pushed her ahead of him. ‘I should not have let you out at all.’

She looked towards the gate. He must not lock her in the tower again.

‘There ought to be salmon now,’ she said, dragging her feet. Liddel Water was just beyond the gate. Air without walls, a chance to explore, even to escape …

He had retreated to silence and did not glance at her.

She tried again. ‘Are you not a fishing man, then?’

Now he looked insulted.

‘Ah, I can see that you are not. Because you are such a fighting man.’ Maybe she could goad him into it. ‘Well, the man who leads the Storwicks provides for their bellies as well as for their protection.’

‘We have cattle and sheep to fill our bellies.’

She raised her brows. Her belly, certainly, had not been filled. ‘Do you not like fish?’

He paused, as if he were trying to remember the taste. ‘I like it well enough.’

‘Then why don’t you serve it?’

‘Not enough salmon to fish.’

‘I ate a plateful, only last week. There’s plenty of salmon.’

‘Plenty for Storwicks because your kind has blocked the cursed stream and the salmon can’t get up this far.’

The thought gave her pause. She had known, of course, that her family had built traps that allowed them to feast on fish, but she had never thought about what that would mean for the families who lived upstream.

‘Well, we’ll have to catch the few there are, won’t we?’

‘Do ye know any more of fishing than of cooking?’

What she knew about fishing wouldn’t fill a leather thimble. But it could not be so hard. Neither was cooking. If the Tait girl had not made her nervous, if there had been unburnt salt … ‘I know enough.’

He leaned away so he could meet her eyes. ‘Do you, now? Do you know how to build a garth?’

‘A what?’

‘A garth. A weir, I think you call it.’

‘Ah, yes.’ She knew the word. It was some kind of construction of sticks that the fish could swim into, but not out of. And she had never touched one in her life.

‘Or perhaps the Storwicks spear the fish by torchlight and slaughter them for sport. That would suit your style.’

Had they? Perhaps. They did not tell her all. ‘What we don’t eat isn’t wasted. There’s plenty who will pay for good fish.’

‘Is that how you pay for those clothes, then?’

She looked down. ‘Clothes?’ She looked down at her dress, now covered with flour outside the apron’s reach. She might have brushed away the flour dust, but now the mist was turning it into white mud.

‘You’ve got sleeves big enough to drag across the table and you’re wearing a gold cross fine enough for some king’s spawn.’

Without thinking, she touched the cross at her neck. The women of Brunson Tower wore coarse wool, laced vests and tight sleeves, as did most of the women in her home. But her parents had always made sure she had something better. ‘A gift. From my parents.’

‘Stolen, no doubt.’

‘You say that because that’s what fills your house.’

They faced each other with stubborn frowns, but there was no answer either could give. Reivers on both sides of the border lived that way.

‘There’s no disgrace in that,’ he said, finally. ‘The disgrace is in what else some men do.’

She knew the man he meant. Cousin Willie had been a disgrace to them all. Her father had even disowned him, but somehow the man had become a symbol, a pawn that the English king and warden had blown all out of proportion, leading to raids and treaties and kidnappings, all because of a man hated by his own kin.

Had the Brunsons killed him? Probably.

Was the world better off with him dead? No doubt. But she would not admit that to Rob Brunson.

She drew herself up to her princess height. ‘If you are unable, or unwilling, to provide good fresh fish for your table, then say so and I’ll go hungry. Don’t mock my clothes or insult my family instead.’

Shock. Anger. A clenched fist and jaw and a face as grim as the bare hills in winter. Would his anger be enough for him to let her out of the tower?

‘Ye want fish. We’ll get fish. But you’ll be the one to do it. And I warn you, you and your clothes will be wet and bedraggled before we’re through.’

And she couldn’t hold back a smile. Because she was sure his would be the same.