Return of the Border Warrior. Blythe Gifford
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would you do that?’ He kept his voice soft, not wanting to force her. ‘How would you tell him?’
She did not look up. ‘I would tell him you are a …’ She glanced up, studying John, as if uncertain he deserved the label. ‘That you are a “friend”.’
Looking into the mirror of her eyes, he suddenly wanted to be worthy of the name. ‘I am.’
Though her eyes reserved judgement, she turned back to the dog. ‘Friend,’ she said firmly, then spoke over her shoulder. ‘Reach out to him.’
He held out his hand and Belde sniffed it.
‘Friend,’ she said, as the dog licked his fingers. ‘John.’ Then she smiled. ‘He should not growl at you again.’
John hoped the same would be true of Cate. ‘How long have you been working with him?’
‘Three years.’
Only the dog brought softness to her eyes, so he would talk of the dog. ‘Was he with you the night your father was killed?’
The joy that had touched her face shattered.
Fool. Speak of something else. ‘The ponies? How long have you worked with them?’ Would she deign to answer?
She shook off the sorrow. ‘Longer. I had no brothers, so my father depended on me. And once he was gone …’ The darkness returned, and with it, all her barriers. Then she faced him again, head high. ‘We’ve the finest horseflesh on the Borders. Sturdy and tireless. They’ve been known to ride sixty miles without a stop.’
Long enough to leave Scotland after sunset, foray deep inside England and return home before the sun rose. In fact, without such mounts, there would be no reiving.
Yet in her talk of the ponies, he had heard a flash of pride. Better that than fear or anger. ‘You do a fine job, I’m sure.’
Instead of the smile he had wanted, she turned back to the pony, blinking against tears.
‘There now.’ He walked up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to turn. ‘No need to cry at a compliment.’
Belde stood to all fours, growling.
‘Quiet, beast,’ he said. ‘Friend.’
He wrapped both arms around her in a hug, thinking she would smile as most women did when cajoled.
Instead, she brought her knee up, squarely between his legs.
Hard.
He dropped his hold and doubled over, biting back a curse.
Teeth bared, the dog barked. Cate groped for his fur coat, without looking where her hand fell. Instead of his pain, he saw hers. There were no tears, but horror had replaced sadness and he wasn’t sure whether she saw him at all.
‘Cate!’ He tried to stand, barely able to hear himself over the dog’s baying. ‘What is it?’ She looked as if she were staring at spirits.
Cate knelt beside the barking beast and clasped her arms tightly around his neck. Then, as if her prayers for deliverance had been answered, her face relaxed, her eyes met his, and he saw Cate again.
She lost her parents to the Storwicks. Do you expect her to be dancing?
But that had been two years ago and death was no stranger to these hills. Her fear was beyond that.
She rose, her hand never leaving the dog’s fur, and gathered his leash. ‘I must go.’
And she turned her back, clearly intending for him not to follow.
But, with a slight limp in deference to the ache between his legs, he did.
His brother might disdain him. This woman might detest him. But he was not a man to be feared by women, even by one who clearly had much to fear. He grabbed her arm. ‘Stop.’
She did, but pulled her arm away so he was no longer touching her. The dog growled again, but she stilled him. ‘I told you—’
‘Listen to me,’ he began. ‘You may not like me. You may not want to lose Brunson men to the king’s business. And I understand you want no kisses, but I am a Brunson and you’re under my family’s protection, so you needn’t pull a dirk every time I am close.’
‘It’s you who must listen,’ she answered. ‘I warned you and you act as if you are a man without ears.’
‘I heard what you said.’ Lucky, he thought, that she had used her knee and not the dagger she’d threatened him with last time. ‘And it was a kiss you warned me against, not a simple touch.’
‘Then let me make it clear enough that even you can understand my meaning. No man touches me. Ever.’
He remembered again that first day, when she refused his hand. Strange even then, he had thought. And now he had seen the fear behind it. ‘I am not a man who hurts women. Ever.’
She stilled then, accepting his gaze with those deep-brown eyes, come from some common ancestor. A sigh escaped. ‘I know,’ she said finally, a whisper.
The whisper reminded him of the kiss, now so fully forbidden. He swayed towards her, then stopped himself before the dog could take a chunk from his leg.
‘Go then,’ he retorted, wincing and wanting to clutch himself again. He’d have to walk the pony back from here.
She did, but he called out before she was beyond earshot, ‘And don’t let that beast growl at me again.’
She looked over her shoulder with that barely-a-smile crooked corner of her mouth that made him think she might be laughing at him.
He might not be a man to be feared, but some man was. He wondered who. And why.
Chapter Four
Cate had a long, hard fight with herself as she ran away from him, back to the tower.
She had not allowed a man so close since …
Since then.
Though the Brunsons were family, they did not treat her as her father had, hugging her goodnight or ruffling her hair in play. Red Geordie was sparing with a hug, even for his own children.
That suited her. Here, she was protected, but no one tried to come too close.
Except this man, who knew no better than to put comforting arms around her shoulders.
She had stiffened at his touch, braced against the fear that would come and steal her mind, afraid she might spear him with her dirk before she could stop herself.
It did come, the fear, her old enemy, then left near as quickly as it came. And if she wounded his manhood and his pride, at least she didn’t leave him bloody.
Because his embrace had not felt like an attack, or even the prelude to a kiss. Instead, held against his chest, she had felt warm and comforted.
Safe.
When had she last felt that way?
Braw Cate, they called her. Cate the Bold. They thought her brave and bold and unafraid because she dressed in breeches and waved a blade.
She was not fearless. She was terrified.
Only with sword and dagger in hand did she dare to face those fears. Only when breeches disguised her womanhood could she rise from bed to face the world. Only with Belde within reach of her hand could she survive the most ordinary day. Going beyond the tower walls, as she must to train him, took every bit of her strength. And when she did, she always kept a clear view and an eye open for the enemy.
Now, this man had touched her and, for a few minutes, she had not felt fear.
And that frightened her more than anything else.
Inside the tower,