Taken by the Border Rebel. Blythe Gifford
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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