Blythe Gifford – Captive of the Border Lord (страница 7)

She knew who she was, what she was doing and why. And if she had to put up with the arrogant, untrustworthy Carwell in order to do it, then she would.

They mounted and rode out of the gate, turning east toward the sun. And she heard, drifting on the wind behind her, Rob and Johnnie, singing her on her way, the words of the song that defined the Brunsons.

Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars …

She had grown up knowing her place. Silent servant. Steady support. The calm, quiet, sturdy centre of the household. Now, she was leaving everything she knew and loved, but only so she could save it.

She glanced at Carwell out of the corner of her eye, surprised to see him watching her.

She looked away.

Aye, there might be one other reason she was going to court. Not for clothes or dancing, but so that when she returned, she could bring this man’s head on a platter.

The notes of the song grew faint and she turned to look at her home one last time.

Behind her, she saw nothing but fog.

Bessie had thought to draw him out as they travelled, but the day was cold and the wind raw and they rode too far and fast for idle talk. She had ridden the length and breadth of Brunson land, but when day’s end came, early, she was surrounded by unfamiliar hills.

‘This is the edge of Brunson land,’ he said, as they dismounted to make the night’s camp. ‘Robson lands start with that next ridge.’

She squinted in the gathering dusk. The next ridge looked no different than the one they had just left. ‘Is that part of the March also under your rule?’

‘Rule? The Warden rules nothing.’

‘Yet you insisted you were responsible for this side of the border.’

‘Responsible, yes, but the King barely rules here, as the Brunsons have made clear. I only try to keep louts like your brothers from killing each other.’ His smile was unexpected. ‘And me.’

How could he smile? Life and death were no game. ‘To those of us who live here, it is no laughing matter.’

‘I did not laugh,’ he answered. ‘I only thought to break your silence and make you smile.’

And against her will, a smile broke out. Rob could be a lout, it was true. ‘If you had to stand between those two loggerheads all your life, you’d be silent, too.’

At home, she seldom had a need to speak. It had left her awkward and graceless and unable to trade words with Carwell, let alone the King.

Her smile dissolved. ‘How long before we reach Stirling?’

‘Five days if the weather holds.’

She nodded, understanding. It was November. The weather would not hold.

Behind them, his men had fanned out and set to work, arranging the watch, building a fire, setting up camp. Each seemed to know his task. For the first time in her life, she did not.

She looked around for work to do and saw one of the men heating the griddle to fry oat cakes. ‘I’ll cook,’ she said, starting towards him.

Before she could move, Carwell’s gloved fingers circled her wrist. ‘I told your brothers I would take care of you.’

What a strange man. Had he never seen a woman bake bread? ‘Since I feed my brothers at home, I don’t think they would see a hot griddle as a violation of your oath.’

She tugged against his hand and he let her go, slowly.

‘Nevertheless, that is the way it will be.’

She opened her mouth, but before she could protest, he walked away to supervise the set up of the camp, leaving her with her hands propped on her hip and her mouth open, arguing with the wind.

Her hands, unfamiliar with idleness, dropped to her side, useless. The damp wind teased her with the smell of griddle bannocks frying.

Carwell might think to protect her, but surely his men would welcome her help? She looked over her shoulder. His back was turned, so she walked over to the fire and knelt down, welcoming its warmth on her face.

The man holding the griddle nodded at her without speaking.

‘Here,’ she said, reaching for the handle. ‘I’ll do that.’

Not waiting for permission, she grabbed the hot iron.

It seared her fingers and she dropped it into the flames, popping her fingers in her mouth.

Frowning, Carwell’s man dug into the hot coals with a gloved hand and rescued the meal. Muttering an apology, Bessie stood and stepped back.

How could she have been so daft? Turning away, she squeezed her eyes against tears of pain. She would never have made that mistake at her own hearth where she knew every stone in the floor. But here, even the land looked unfamiliar and unforgiving and she was far from home and at the mercy of a man she neither trusted nor understood.

‘Here.’ Carwell’s voice, just behind her, sounded as close as if he had heard her thoughts. He held out a crisp bannock. ‘Have one.’

Had he seen her awkward mistake? She studied his eyes, blaming the fading light when she couldn’t decipher his expression. Whatever anger he had held when he left her before was gone. Or hidden.

At home, she could interpret her brothers’ emotions, even when they did not speak. There, she was the hub of the wheel around which the rest of them revolved. Here, she had no place, no role, and this man before her was as confusing as the steps of the silly dance he had tried to teach her.

He grasped her unburned hand and set the warm oat cake on her palm. ‘Hot and ready.’

Her tongue wanted to refuse, but her stomach did not, so she accepted and her lips curved into an unwelcome smile as she munched her first bite of welcome warmth.

Then, startled, she felt Carwell wrap a heavy cloak around her shoulders.

She looked up at him, bewildered. No man she knew studied a woman so carefully that he could hear her unspoken thoughts. The men she knew didn’t even hear the ones she said aloud.

She might be cold, yes, but she was not a woman who needed pampering. She pulled off the cloak, holding it out to him. ‘I don’t need this.’

He took it back and swept it around her again, proving he could ignore her words as thoroughly as any man. ‘I won’t have you falling ill on the road.’

His hands rested on her shoulders and the wind, at her back, blew the cloak around them, enfolding them like lovers in a blanket. What would it feel like, to have a man to hold her, to protect her? She swayed, tempted to lean into his chest …

No. This journey was not about what she wanted. It was about her duty to her family. So while she could not succumb to a desire for protection, neither could she allow stubborn pride to make her refuse good food and warm clothes.

‘I must thank you, then,’ she said, the words bitter as the bannock had been savoury.

He let her go. ‘Don’t force yourself.’

She bit her lip. Again, she had stumbled. He must expect please and thank you, curtsy and smile, and all the rounded corners of courtly style.

Well, she had thanked the man. That was high praise from a Brunson.

‘I’ve made you a place there—’ he pointed ‘—near the water.’

They had stretched a blanket between the ground and a tree to create a makeshift tent. Her eyes widened. No Borderer bothered with a shelter when they travelled the hills. They slept under open air, the better to see the enemy’s approach.

But at the sight, her shoulders sagged, suddenly acknowledging her weariness. He had given her a private space, a shelter near the water where it would be easy to drink and wash.

The rush of gratitude was genuine this time, but she would not grovel with thanks. Not after he had rejected her last effort.

‘Your women must be soft,’ she said. The words held an edge of envy she had not intended.

Pain seized his face.

‘I can see,’ he said, struggling to return his mask to its place, ‘that you are not.’

Then she remembered.

Not … now. He had no women in his house.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’ Her thoughtless words fell gracelessly in the air. She was as awkward in speech as in the dance. Tripping over feet, bumping into people.

He did not wait for her to trip again before he turned to leave.

Chapter Four

Carwell was puzzling over her when he woke the next morning.