Create the illusion of the dance. Was this one of the lessons in how to survive at court?

There were things she admired about this man. The patient care he had taken to teach her the dance. The way he had risked the King’s wrath to protect her.

It was only the dance that made her warm. Only the relief that she could do it, that she would not be embarrassed next time, that made her smile. Only the habit of being in tune with his body that made her sway closer …

His arms had taken her before he realised it. Last time his armour and their audience had protected him. And her. This time the cloth between them seemed all too flimsy.

This time they were alone. This time there was no one to see what they did. She was happy and easy with him at last. He had dreamed of those lips, and now they beckoned to him …

AUTHOR NOTE

When I began to write this, the second in The Brunson Clan trilogy, all I knew of the story was that ‘the sister goes to court’. The next hint only seemed to confuse things. ‘Cinderella …’ whispered my Muse. She also said, ‘Rebecca …’ the perfect first wife of the Daphne du Maurier tale.

But the strongest message I received was an image of dancing in a castle by the sea. It seemed like something out of a fairytale—much too fanciful for the plain-spoken and practical sister of a rough and ready band of Border warriors.

Which was, of course, exactly the point.

About the Author

After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD started writing seriously after a corporate lay-off. Ten years and one more lay-off later, she became an overnight success when she sold her Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist manuscript to Harlequin Mills & Boon. She has since written medieval romances featuring characters born on the wrong side of the royal blanket. Now she’s exploring the turbulent Scottish Borders.

The Chicago Tribune has called her work ‘the perfect balance between history and romance’. She lives and works along Chicago’s lakefront, and juggles writing with a consulting career. She loves to have visitors at www.blythegifford.com, ‘thumbs-up’ at www.facebook.com/BlytheGifford, and ‘tweets’ at www.twitter.com/BlytheGifford

Previous novels by the same author:

 THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN

 THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER

 INNOCENCE UNVEILED

 IN THE MASTER’S BED

 HIS BORDER BRIDE

 RETURN OF THE BORDER WARRIOR*

*The Brunson Clan

Look for Black Rob’s story in The Brunson Clan trilogy coming soon

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Captive of the
Border Lord
Blythe Gifford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication

To all those who have forgotten what they want.

Or are afraid to claim it.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Michelle Prima and Pat White,

who help keep me sane, and to Pam Hopkins,

who continues to believe in me.

Women sing the ballads. The ballads do not sing of women.

—Geordie Brunson

But the women’s voices sang strong and clear. Strong enough to carry the stories down through the ages.

Left on the field by the rest of his clan

Abandoned for dead was the First Brunson man.

Every Brunson knew the Ballad of the First Brunson. Yet the song still held secrets.

Secrets for each Brunson to discover in his—or her—own way.

Chapter One

The Middle March, Scottish Borders— November 1528

Bessie Brunson took a deep breath and prepared to climb a flight of stairs for what seemed like the hundredth time since sunrise.

It was not yet noon.

The steps that faced her now led to the top of the barmkin wall, where her brothers had taken the watch, all the better to keep them from under her feet while she made final preparations for the wedding celebration. But two grown men needed food, so she raised her skirt in one hand, balanced the bag of oat cakes in the other, and started up the stairs.

Thunder rumbled and she looked up at the November sky, startled. Grey, windswept, but …

Not thunder. Hooves.

She hurried the last few steps to reach the wall walk, then stood between her brothers and looked west over the valley that was theirs. ‘Who comes?’

Black Rob shook his head. ‘No one I want to see.’

She squinted against the wind, as the banner’s green and gold became clear. The colours of Lord Thomas Carwell, Warden of the Scottish March.

I’ll hold you responsible, if something happens. Bessie had told him that, right before Willie Storwick escaped. And the warden had never proven he wasn’t.

Not to her satisfaction.

She turned to her brother John. ‘We did not invite him to your wedding.’

‘No,’ Johnnie answered. ‘But he was courteous enough to send a man ahead to announce his coming.’

‘Only because he knew he’d be shot from his horse if he arrived without warning,’ Rob said.

She sighed. Neither one of them had thought to tell her the guest list might swell. ‘Will you let him in?’

On her left, Black Rob, now head of the family, fingered his crossbow. ‘I’d rather shoot him.’

Johnnie, taller, with hair red as her own, shook his head. ‘We’ve done enough to anger the King. Let’s at least see what Carwell has to say.’

Rob scowled and she held her breath, waiting for them to quarrel anew, but finally, he nodded. ‘But we tell him nothing.’

The horses slowed as they approached the gate. Carwell removed his steel bonnet, a gesture of peace, and pushed straight brown hair off his forehead as he looked up at the three Brunsons. ‘We’re here to celebrate a happy occasion.’

‘Cease your blather, Carwell,’ Rob growled. ‘No one invited you.’

‘An oversight. I’m sure you meant to include the King’s representative.’

Beside her, Johnnie clenched a fist. He had come home a King’s man, but stayed home a Brunson. Some day, they would all have to answer for that.

‘Our hospitality does not extend to those who betray us,’ Rob called down.

‘An accusation I’ve denied.’

‘But did not disprove,’ John answered.

‘And still you’ve ridden and fought by my side.’

‘True,’ Rob said. ‘That doesn’t mean we trust you.’

No one knew whose side Carwell was on, except for his own.

Carwell stretched out his left arm, palm up, smile unshaken. ‘I swear by my baptised hand that I come in friendship.’

Now it was Johnnie who yelled, ‘And will you leave the same way?’

Bessie sighed. She could feed twelve more if she cut the beef in smaller chunks, though she wasn’t sure where the men would sleep. She leaned over the wall. ‘Leave your weapons at the gate and cause no trouble and you’re welcome to the feast.’

She turned to go back down the stairs, ignoring Rob’s glare and Johnnie’s raised eyebrows. ‘The meat wasn’t cooking itself while you three dunderheads traded insults. I’ll not have Johnnie’s wedding spoiled by the likes of him.’

Carwell had spoiled things aplenty already.

Carwell forced himself to smile while his men handed over pikes, swords and crossbows and entered the tower’s courtyard.

Disarming was no risk. If a Brunson wanted to kill you, he would be sure you had a sword in your hand when he did.

And Thomas Carwell was a man who always calculated the risks. He might be unpopular, but he was alive. So he’d smile at these people and celebrate this wedding without pointing out that the marriage of John Brunson and Cate Gilnock had put him in a very, very difficult position.

Bessie Brunson stood in the courtyard, the stern set of her chin less than welcoming. ‘Tell them to eat no more than their share.’

Rude words for soft lips, but he let her insult lie unanswered.

I’ll hold you responsible, she had told him. Apparently, she blamed him still.

He blamed himself. For things she would never know.

The smile strained his cheek muscles. ‘We’ll not make ourselves gluttons.’

He had a moment’s sympathy for her. His own castle had room aplenty these days. He could have housed legions of unexpected guests.

But the Brunson tower was built for strength alone. And Bessie Brunson, red-haired and small boned, looked as if she needed its protection.

The light brown eyes that studied him brimmed with suspicion. ‘It was no oversight that you weren’t invited.’

Despite her woman’s delicacy, she was as blunt and stubborn as the rest of her kin. Good way to get yourself killed.

‘But I wanted to celebrate with you,’ he said. ‘To congratulate John and Cate.’

That, and to deliver a message her family would not want to hear.

Her raised eyebrows and crooked frown suggested he had not fooled her. ‘So do that,’ she said, ‘and naught else.’

He tipped his head in thanks, as if she had the right to dictate to him. She’d discover the truth soon enough.

As she glanced toward her brother, a smile finally touched her lips. ‘They deserve a long and happy life together.’

‘Aye,’ he said. Something his marriage had been denied.

Despite, or because of, the extra guests, the celebration that began at midday went long into the night.

Ignoring the ache between her shoulders, Bessie looked over the crowded hall, satisfied. Drink still flowed, singing had begun and, with the addition of Carwell’s men, they had tapped the last barrel of red wine her dead father had taken from the church for safe keeping after the priest fled to Glasgow.

They had cleared space for dancing and the bride and groom skipped down the row together. Though Cate was still more comfortable in breeches than the skirt she wore, she floated beside John, mirroring his movements. The men began singing the new ballad they had composed about her.

Braw Cate, they called her, Cate the Belde …

Cate, laughing, tripped over her skirt and leaned against her smiling husband.

Bessie looked away.

The room was filled with men she had known her entire life—Odd Jock, Fingerless Joe, the Tait brothers—and not one among them could make her smile the way Cate smiled at Johnnie.

‘A good day,’ said Rob, next to her. It was not simply for his dark hair and eyes that her oldest brother was called Black Rob. Yet even he was smiling.

Her gaze drifted back to Thomas Carwell. A half-smile still stamped his face, slapped there like a permanent mask only meant to conceal what was beneath.

She knew something about concealed feelings.

‘Here, Bessie!’ Johnnie called. ‘Take a turn with me.’

She shook her head. ‘Brunsons sing, they don’t dance.’ Words her father had grumbled whenever her mother had tried to pull him to his feet.

Her brother laughed with the easy joy of a man just wed. ‘This Brunson does. Here.’ He reached out a hand. ‘I’ll show you how they dance at court.’

She waved him off, suddenly conscious of Carwell’s eyes on her. That man, too, had the courtliness Johnnie had acquired living beside the King in distant castles in places she had never seen.

And she had no desire to look like a country fool in front of them. ‘Dance with your bride, Johnnie.’

And then, before she knew it, Carwell was beside her, his hand on her waist. ‘I’ll show you.’

He did not wait for her protest, but swung her on to the floor, facing him.

‘It’s called the galliard and there are only five steps. Right, left, right, left, and then …’ He jumped off one foot and landed squarely on two. ‘Now you.’

She stared down at his feet and followed his lead. For just a moment, wearing her best dress, with her hair fresh washed, the ache slid off her shoulders. This must be how it felt to be a lady at court, light on your feet, dancing before the King …

Her eyes met his—his damnable, changeable eyes. He had no doubt danced with ladies like that. Ladies who knew all the steps.

She stumbled and tripped over Carwell’s feet.

Her forehead knocked his chin, her cheeks turned hot and she pulled away, feeling like the lout she was. ‘I do not dance. Let me be.’

She left the floor to lean against the wall and he turned to the other wives and sisters, making each of them giggle and smile in turn as they stumbled through the steps. Had she looked that way when she was beside him?

She bit her lip and turned away. Silly women.

The last honey-flavoured oat cake disappeared into Odd Jock’s maw and she pushed herself away from the wall, scooped up the empty platter and started down the stairs to fetch more. Let the other women enjoy the dance. She would fill the platters and mugs.

Carwell followed her out of the hall and down the stairs. He’d drunk enough to need a piss, no doubt.

‘There’s a garderobe in the corner,’ she called, over her shoulder, pointing. ‘No need to go outside.’

Opening the door a crack, she wished she, too, could stay within the tower’s walls instead of braving the courtyard to reach the kitchen. A cold mist hung in the night air, threatening to dissolve into rain.

Carwell joined her by the door. ‘Do you feel unwell?’

A strange question. She was as healthy as a Galloway nag, her mother had always said. ‘Of course not.’

‘Then perhaps you need some help.’

‘Help?’ How was it that a man, a stranger, noticed what her brothers did not?

She turned to face him, certain she must have misheard, but he was so close that she bumped against him. So close, she caught the scent of leather and the sea.

‘Yes.’ One word, too close to her ear. Close enough that she could have turned her head, touched her lips to his …

And then he was safely, smoothly, a step away, the awkward moment gone so quickly she thought she had imagined it.

An errant wind whistled through the open door and she tightened the plaid around her shoulders. Thomas Carwell, she was certain, never made an offer that wasn’t calculated. She wondered what he meant by this one.

Well, let him spy on the kitchen if he liked. ‘Come.’ She pulled the shawl over her head and darted into the damp darkness without looking back to see if he followed.

It was only a dozen steps across the courtyard, but by the time they stood inside again, the fog had settled on her shoulders and clung to his brown hair. She studied him in the fire’s light, hoping to see a hint of discomfort.

There was none.

His smile seemed as unmovable as a rock. His eyes, on the other hand, changed in every light. Were they brown or green or hazel?

Turning her back on him, Bessie shook off the question. The man’s eyes could be as brown as a Brunson’s and it would not change her opinion of him.

She had left the youngest Tait girl here, with instructions to watch the fire, but the poor girl had fallen asleep, snoring on the grain sack, leaving them a moment alone.

‘You didn’t really want to help me,’ she began, facing him again, ‘Just as you didn’t really come to make merry at John and Cate’s wedding. So before you upset the happiest occasion the Brunsons have enjoyed in months, why don’t you tell me why you are here?’

Carwell kept a smile clamped on his lips. He was learning not to underestimate Bessie Brunson, but it was hard to keep that in mind when he looked at the woman. Red hair tumbled over her shoulders, her brown eyes sparked with suspicion and her lips were full and soft and ready …

He stopped his thoughts. ‘Leave this night for celebration. I’ll speak to your brothers tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? When Rob’s head is double its size because of the wine he’s drunk this night and Johnnie is comfortably abed enjoying his new bride?’

He swallowed a sour retort. ‘They’ll be ready to listen when they hear why I’ve come. It’s a matter for men’s ears.’

She looked to Heaven before she met his eyes again. ‘You’ve no women in your household.’

He blinked. He hadn’t. Not for years. ‘No. Not … now.’

The memory cramped his heart. He would never take a woman for granted again. A twinge, a weary sigh—these could signal the threat of something worse.

He set the thought aside. That was not to be shared with anyone, least of all with this woman. Yet for a moment, he had imagined she would understand.

‘If you had,’ she said, ‘you would know that we do not need to be protected from the truth.’

Looking at this woman, he doubted that her family had protected her from anything at all. ‘Then you’ll know it when they do. And it will be tomorrow.’ The King had no more patience than that.

Despite his offer of help, she asked for nothing as she moved around the room, effortlessly scooping up oat cakes and putting another batch near the hearth. When she finished her sweep through the kitchen, she shook the girl awake and told her to watch that the fire did not burn the kitchen down.

Finally, she joined him at the door.

‘You wanted to help.’ She set down her cakes, filled two flagons with ale from the barrel, and shoved them at him, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘Carry these.’

Silent, he followed her into the cold, proud that he had refrained from pouring her precious ale into the dirt. The woman was as stubborn as the rest of her kin. Maybe more so.

But as he watched the sway of her walk, he remembered the way she had leaned towards him in the dance, following his lead through the unfamiliar steps. For those few moments, there had been nothing but music and movement and the two of them.

Well, her hatred would be back in force tomorrow.

Just as soon as she discovered he was here to take her brother hostage.

Chapter Two

The celebration continued long after they had ushered Johnnie and Cate to the marriage bed. Bessie shooed the rest away from the door, enticing them back to the hall with fresh ale in order to give the newlyweds privacy. Back in the hall, dance turned to song. Odd Jock was trying to teach Cate’s hound to sing.

The beast sang as well as Jock, to her ear.

Carwell’s men mingled without incident. Even Rob was chatting amiably as she made one more trip through the courtyard to the kitchen.

Carwell saw her go, but this time he did not follow.

The fog had become a soaking rain and she leaned against the kitchen door, weary, before making a final dash across the courtyard to the tower. The Tait sisters and the servant girl would help her clean up tomorrow, but she had yet to accommodate all of Carwell’s men. Six could sleep in the hall. The other five would have to share the large room on the top storey, but where would the warden sleep?

Rob was sleeping with the men so Johnnie and Cate could have the master’s room. That left only one bed.

Hers.

Pushing away from the door, she eyed the sack of oats where the Tait girl had dozed. It would make a good enough mattress, she supposed.

Rob’s voice and the familiar strains of the Brunson Ballad pulled her back. When he spoke, her brother was brief and gruff, but when he sang, his voice soared.

Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars,

Strong as the wind that sweeps Carter’s

Bar.

Sure-footed and stubborn, ne ’er danton

nor dun

That’s what they say of the band Brunson

Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man

Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man.

Inside the hall, the laughter had quieted. The rest were drifting off to bed. She leaned over to whisper in Carwell’s ear, ‘I’ve a place for you to sleep, if you’ll follow me.’

She spied a trace of weariness in his eyes as he rose and scolded herself, silently, regretting her tart tongue. He was two days’ ride from home and a guest in her house. She must give him no reason to complain of Brunson hospitality.

Opening the door to her room, she shivered. Thinking first of the guests, she had neglected to see to the fire. ‘It is a simple room,’ she said, kneeling to rekindle the flames. He was no doubt accustomed to tapestries and candles and pluckers of lutes. Well, Brunsons prided themselves on their prowess, not their possessions. ‘But I hope it will be satisfactory.’

‘This is your room,’ he said, still standing at the door.

‘Yes.’ She stood, dusting off her hands.

‘I won’t force you to give up your bed.’

‘Well, you’ll not be sharing it with me.’ Her eyes clashed with his.

‘I was not insulting you with that suggestion. Don’t insult me by suggesting I was.’

The words were sharp. Sharper than any she’d ever heard him say. So, it seemed the man did have a temper. And she had just the tongue to provoke it.

She looked down at the floor. That would have to serve as an apology. ‘Take the bed. You are a guest in my house.’

‘An uninvited one. I’ll join my men in the hall.’ He stepped into the corridor and smiled at her, as if to gloss over his previous words. ‘Rest well.’

She pulled down the bedsheets, surprised to see her hand shaking.

And outside the door, she heard what might have been a smothered curse.

When Bessie roused the newlyweds from bed the next morning to join Carwell’s meeting, their drowsy smiles hurt her heart. She hoped they had passed a wonderful night.

The rest of the day promised to be unpleasant.

They gathered with Rob and Carwell in the private area behind the public reception hall. In the centre of the room, a glowing brazier generated feeble protection against the cold.

Carwell looked as if he had slept no better than she.

‘King James,’ he began, ‘was forced to break off the siege against the Earl of Angus.’ Until only months ago, the earl, stepfather to the King, had also been the regent. Now he was the King’s worst enemy. ‘The King blames this defeat on the fact that the Brunson men he called for never arrived.’

She exchanged a quick glance with her brother John. The Brunson men had been doing more important things.

‘In addition,’ Carwell continued, ‘it has come to the ears of the King that Scarred Willie Storwick has disappeared. And may be dead.’

Johnnie and Cate exchanged uneasy glances. Bessie frowned, but bit her tongue. No doubt the King knew because Carwell himself had sent word.

‘No loss to either side of the border,’ Rob said, finally, ‘even if he was English. Would have been hanged long before if you had brought him to justice as you should.’

She expected an argument, or at least an explanation, but Carwell remained silent, his gaze steady. Heavy-lidded eyes gave him a calm look, but they also hid his expression. ‘The King, I am sure, would understand if someone, a Brunson, perhaps, had killed the man in self-defence.’

John shrugged.

Rob shook his head. ‘An attack is the best defense.’

Shush, Rob. But she held her tongue. His words were true enough, but not what the King, or Carwell, wanted to hear.

The warden did not hesitate. ‘Did you attack him?’

She held her breath. Her brother had near said as much.

‘I did not. Though if I had, I’d not be sorry.’

Carwell swung his gaze from Rob and let it rest on John. ‘Did you?’

Cate reached for her husband’s hand.

‘Storwick did not die by my sword,’ John said.

The warden nodded, as if he had known no explanation would be forthcoming. ‘So,’ Carwell continued, ‘can you explain how God, in his infinite wisdom, managed to kill the man?’

He paused, perhaps still hoping someone would. John kept his eyes on Carwell’s, not glancing at Rob or Bessie. Or Cate.

No one spoke.

Finally, John shrugged. ‘Who can fathom how God works his wonders?’

Bessie let out a breath, slowly. An accusation that could not be proven could always be denied. Carwell knew that as well as any of them. Better.

‘His death is a mystery,’ Rob said, ‘but the English dogs will come across the border soon enough to seek retribution. And we’ll need every Brunson man here when that happens.’

Bessie had no trouble deciphering Carwell’s fleeting look this time.

Anger.

‘Justice and punishment on this side of the border are my responsibility,’ Carwell said. ‘Not theirs.’

‘I wish you had remembered that earlier,’ John said. ‘When you had Storwick in your hands.’

Before he could shield his expression, she caught a glimpse of the anger again.

Just as quickly, he masked it.

‘I’m well aware of my duties.’ The arched brow and the crook at the corner of his mouth were well short of a smile. ‘And as you say, the man was a menace to the English as well as the Scots. I believe the English Warden is giving prayers of thanks along with those for Storwick’s immortal soul.’

They exchanged cautious glances, then Bessie sent up her own prayer.

Justice and punishment are my responsibility. He had not travelled for two days to confirm what he already knew. ‘So why are you here?’

The man’s eyes held hers, for a moment, and she had the disquieting feeling that he could see behind her eyes.

She closed them against his gaze, as if that could stop him from seeing the truth.

When she opened them, he was looking at her brothers again.

‘Those of us who live on the Borders understand God’s mysterious ways. The King seeks earthly explanation. And blame. Right now, he blames you. For all of it.’

‘A few Brunson men wouldn’t have won his siege for him,’ John said. He had told the family as much. At sixteen, the King was no expert in the art of war.

Carwell raised his brows. True or not, this was not what the King wanted to hear. Or would choose to believe. ‘Yet I sent every man I could spare to fight by the King’s side.’

The rest had fought beside Brunson men in the chase for Willie Storwick. Carwell, she noticed, managed to keep both the King and the Borderers placated. Most of the time.

‘But you,’ he continued, looking at John, ‘refused the King’s command to send Brunson men. You’re suspected of killing an Englishman. And now you’ve married without bothering to inform the King, let alone seek his permission.’ He sighed. ‘The only man in Scotland the King hates more right now is the Earl of Angus.’

John sighed. He had been as close to the King as a brother. Once. They had known there would be repercussions when he chose kin over king.

Still, his family were glad that he did so.

‘You have one chance to redeem yourselves,’ Carwell said. ‘The King has demanded all men loyal to him to take a Great Oath.’

‘To him?’ John asked.

He shook his head. ‘Against Angus. Pledging you will do everything in your power to destroy the man.’

Something the King had so far failed, utterly, to do.

Bessie looked to Rob. As head man of the Brunson family, the decision would be his.

‘I’ve no love for Angus or his kin,’ he began. ‘But I’ll take no oath against a family that’s done mine no harm.’ He didn’t take his eyes from Carwell. ‘There are enough who have.’

Carwell’s careful calm broke. With an exasperated sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Take the oath, for God’s sake. He’s going to be angry enough when he learns that Johnnie has married.’

Rob and John shook their heads at the same moment, at the same angle, and she smiled, seeing her father in them both. Seeing her family as one again.

‘An oath is a sacred thing,’ John said. It was one of the lessons coming home had taught him. ‘We’ll not take one for the King’s pleasure.’

She saw Carwell straighten his shoulders, as if all that had come before was only prelude. She held her breath, waiting for him to speak of why he had come.

‘Then you give me no choice. As warden, it is my duty to secure a pledge of peace from the Brunson family. Something to ensure your future good behaviour.’

‘Since our past has been so reprehensible?’ she said. Who was this man to demand oaths and pledges? ‘If we won’t swear an oath, why would we give a pledge?’

But John, who knew the ways of the King, understood it first. ‘It’s not words the King wants. It’s a hostage.’

‘Hostage is a harsh word.’ There was Carwell’s smile again. She was beginning to hate the curve of his lips.

‘If we displease him again, the King’s treatment will be harsher,’ Johnnie said.

Rob, Bessie, Johnnie and Cate looked at each other.

‘I should go,’ John said. ‘I’m the one he knows.’

The one who failed him.

‘He won’t like what you have to say,’ Rob answered.

John sighed. ‘I can face that.’

Shaking his head, Black Rob looked all of his name and more. ‘He’ll make you face it at the end of a rope, Johnnie.’

No. Her heart quickened its beats. Not Johnnie. Not when he had finally come home, not when he was just wed.

His bride threaded her fingers with his. ‘If you must go, I will go with you.’

Rob rose, trying to tower over the situation. ‘I won’t let you.’

‘But I promised the King when I came—’

Carwell jumped into the middle of the argument. ‘You, then.’ He pointed to Rob. ‘If the head man of the Brunson family went to court and gave his oath, the King would—’

‘Bah!’ Rob said. ‘I’ll give no man an oath that would prevent me from protecting my kin.’

Not Rob. She held her breath. Rob would bend his stiff neck for no one. Not even a king. He would only make things worse for himself. For all of them.

Her youngest brother rose. ‘We’ll think on it.’

That was Johnnie. Saving face. Buying time.

But time would not change facts. Her father had died less than three months ago. Rob had taken his place as head of the family. Johnnie was home and happy.

Her brothers, Cate, the family she loved so much her heart hurt to think of it, needed to be left alone, not torn apart and sent away.

Carwell rose, his courtier’s grace clashing with the harsh set of his brow. ‘Don’t think too long,’ he said. ‘The King is not a patient man.’

She felt herself rise from the stool and stand on her own two feet. No. She would not let him do this.

‘It will be me, then,’ she said. ‘I will stand surety for the Brunsons.’

Chapter Three

What was the woman doing? Was she daft?

Carwell glared at Bessie Brunson, then turned to her brothers. Surely they would not allow this madness.

Or was it?

Shielding his eyes, hiding his thoughts, he assessed the options. It was not what the King expected, but the King had an eye for the ladies. An apology from a beautiful Brunson might soften his heart while a belligerent argument from either of her uncooperative brothers could very well make things worse.

But to put a woman at risk, even one as stubborn as Bessie Brunson … no.

‘Impossible,’ he said, as if it were his decision.

Bessie ignored him, facing her brother. ‘I can go to the King. I can explain—’

‘Explain?’ Rob raised his hands to heaven. ‘Even if you leave Willie Storwick to God, we invaded neutral territory and torched a tower. That’s the right of it.’

‘Aye.’ Carwell sighed. He knew. He had helped them do it. ‘The King wants your oath and a promise of good behaviour,’ he continued, finally. ‘Not an explanation.’

‘What the King wants,’ said John, ‘is retribution.’ His grim expression reflected Rob’s. John had grown up beside the King and knew him better than any of them. ‘He’ll want you in chains.’

Carwell forced back a shudder. ‘Or worse.’ The King had been ruled by others since he was a babe. He had years of wrongs to right.

Her cheeks lost colour and he braced to catch her, should she faint. Realising the risk, she would no longer want to go.

She didn’t even flinch. ‘So it shall be.’

‘You don’t know what you are saying.’ Life here was hard, but the threats were clear. Court was full of hidden dangers, deceptive as the quicksands he had learned to avoid in childhood. The smooth sands might look safe, but a single misstep would suck you into danger.

And death.

Bessie Brunson couldn’t even navigate a dance without stumbling.

‘Leave us,’ Rob said, standing. ‘This is a decision for family.’

Relieved, he nodded. He was not here to bargain with Bessie Brunson. Let her brothers deal with her.

He turned for the door, whispering in her ear as he left the room, ‘They will not allow you to go.’

She smiled. ‘They won’t be able to stop me.’

Bessie refused to watch him leave the room. There would be a price to pay for putting herself at his mercy, though she did not know yet what it would be.

The moment he left the room, the objections all came at once.

‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘It’s not your place.’

‘You mustn’t.’ Cate grabbed her arm. ‘I won’t let you.’

Her plea was the hardest to resist, for the secrets they shared were not for a king to know. But Cate, who had been like a sister, was a wife now. And Bessie was sleeping alone in an empty room.

She squeezed Cate’s fingers. ‘There is no one else,’ she said, calmly. ‘Johnnie’s defied him already. The King will clap him in irons without even listening.’ She shook her head. ‘And, Rob, the only way you know how to talk is with a sword. But if I go …’

What was that tickle in her stomach? Fear or excitement?

‘I’m a woman. I can’t give the family’s oath, so the King can’t force us into that. But perhaps I can make him listen long enough for me to explain.’

‘Explain how Willie Storwick died?’ John took his wife’s hand.

Bessie shrugged. ‘I need tell no lies. None of us killed him. No one need know more.’

Especially Laird Thomas Carwell.

‘I wish I had,’ Cate muttered.

‘But maybe I can make the King understand …’ What would she have him know? How the wind whined at the top of the hills? The purple of the thistle in the late-day sun? How days were spent with an eye ever looking south, waiting for raiders to sweep into the valley?

How precious this home, this life, these people were?

‘We do what we must to protect the family,’ Rob growled. ‘That’s all any man needs to understand.’

‘Carwell doesn’t,’ she said.

‘The King,’ said Johnnie, ‘cares nothing about our family. He cares only that what he wanted to happen did not.’

What he had wanted was for Johnnie to enforce the King’s will on the Brunsons. Instead, Johnnie had come home to himself. To know that family was first. Last. All.

‘If I do not go,’ she said, ‘if I do not try to sway him, he will come after all of us.’

‘He’ll come anyway,’ Johnnie said, with grim certainty. ‘One day.’

‘That may be, but my going would give you the winter.’ Would give them time.

Johnnie and Cate exchanged swift smiles. Rob ran his thumb over the hilt of his dirk.

She had always been closest to John and now he looked at her, puzzled. ‘I once suggested you go to court, didn’t I?’

‘Aye.’ And she had refused, knowing she would be mocked for her plain dress and her country ways. Things too selfish to concern her now.

He took her hands. ‘So your heart is set on this?’ John said. ‘On meeting the King?’

‘The King?’ She let her fingers rest in his. ‘Do you think I make this journey so I can skip to a minstrel’s tune?’ This trip was her duty. Her father would be ashamed to think she had spared a moment’s thought for clothes or music. Or herself.

Johnnie shook his head. ‘I don’t trust him around you.’

She bridled. ‘I’m not one to be blinded by a king.’

‘You needn’t worry about Bessie,’ Cate added, loyally.

John smiled at his wife. ‘It’s not Bessie or the King that I don’t trust. It’s Carwell.’

They shared the silence of agreement. There, of course, was the problem. None of them did.

‘But the King does.’ Don’t insult me. The sharpest words he had said. She shrugged off the memory. Her brothers might have ridden side by side with him, but she refused to trust the man, with his half-truths and his changeable eyes. ‘That’s what matters now. Besides, with time enough by his side, I can find a way to prove he betrayed us.’

Scarred Willie had escaped twice when they had allied with Carwell. Only when the Brunsons tracked him down alone did the man end up dead.

John sighed. ‘He swore he didn’t.’

Rob snorted. ‘And you believe him?’

‘You don’t kill a man without proof.’

‘You don’t send your sister to court with him either.’

She sighed. ‘Argue amongst yourselves,’ she said, reaching for the door. ‘I’ll be packing.’

And when she entered the courtyard, the first thing she saw was Thomas Carwell.

Carwell stepped smoothly away from the door when he saw the flash of her hair, bright as a red-breasted bird flying over the valley.

He raised his eyebrows, a silent question. ‘And?’

She cocked her head without smiling. ‘As close as you are standing to the door, did you not hear?’

He had tried to listen, dammit, but the walls were thick. ‘I heard only something of packing.’

Behind her, the door opened and Rob stepped out. ‘Bessie, come back here! I’ll not let you leave with that unreliable—’

He saw Carwell and snapped his lips shut.

‘You can say it.’

‘Turncoat.’

A man who hid his badge to disguise his loyalties.

He clamped his jaw against a harsh reply. The man didn’t trust him. So be it.

John’s grim face appeared over Rob’s shoulder. He spared Carwell barely a glance. ‘You know nothing of the court, Bessie. Stirling’s a nest of vipers. You’ll be eaten alive.’

She faced her brothers calmly. ‘Will I? Then let the vipers choke.’

Stubborn wench. Her brothers might not trust him, but at least they were sensible enough to know it was unthinkable to put a woman, even this one, in such a position. ‘So we agree this is not for her to do.’

Rob turned back to him and he saw a shift behind the man’s eyes. ‘I’ve not decided.’

Damn. A misstep. Would Rob allow this, simply because Carwell opposed it?

‘Well, I have,’ Bessie said. ‘It’s the only solution.’

Her brothers exchanged glances. Rob looked back at her, to make one final plea. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I am sure that it is my duty,’ she said. ‘So step aside and stop wasting your breath.’ She looked over her shoulder at Carwell. ‘All of you.’

He inhaled, ready to argue against this madness. ‘It’s mine to waste.’

Suddenly, he faced three siblings and one wife, each with that ‘stubborn as a Brunson’ set of the jaw.

John shook his head. ‘She’s right, you know.’

Rob sighed. ‘Aye.’

They won’t be able to stop me, she had said. How had she known?

Both brothers turned to him now. ‘If anything happens to her,’ Rob said, ‘anything at all, it’s you who’ll be answering for it.’

‘She’ll be hostage to King James for your behaviour,’ he replied, smothering his anger. ‘If you violate the peace, do you expect me to defy the King for you?’

They traded sceptical glances. No, they knew better than that. They still blamed him for what had gone wrong on Truce Day.

No more than he blamed himself.

‘But her life,’ John said, glowering. ‘You must promise to protect her life with your own.’

He looked at Bessie. Her chin was high, her lips were set and he wanted nothing more than to refuse. The last time he had made such a promise, he had failed. But this …

No. He must not fail this time. ‘I’ll protect her life with mine.’ Her liberty? Well, that he could not promise.

‘And her reputation?’ John added.

Bessie’s eyes widened. ‘I need no such—’

‘Aye.’ He’d see she got there and back untouched. ‘That, too.’

‘If anything happens—’

‘I’ve given you my word,’ he retorted, cutting off Rob’s threat.

If anything happened to her, his conscience would punish him far worse than the Brunsons ever could. ‘We leave at dawn,’ he said to Bessie.

She nodded, her damnable calm like a thistle scratching his skin. This woman was as steadfast and unmovable as a rock. And nearly as unresponsive.

‘Be ready.’ He turned and walked away.

As Bessie took each familiar step down the tower’s spiral staircase the next morning, she trailed her fingers over stone walls her chubby fingers had reached for when she was a babe in her mother’s arms.

The stairs rushed to the ground all too quickly.

One step at a time, her father would say, when a task seemed too much

Now, each step was a farewell. Each stone and plank and candle deserved its own goodbye.

Cate greeted her with a hug when she reached the ground floor. Side by side, they walked to the door.

‘There’s flour enough to last the winter,’ she began, ticking off the things Cate must know when she was gone, ‘if you don’t make too many pies. Rob doesn’t like carrots, so when you make the stew, scoop his portion without them. The Tait girl can help you brew the ale. She’s good at it, but she’s lazy, so you need to watch her, and—’

The door opened; the courtyard yawned before her, crowded with men already mounted on their horses. Her wooden chest, pitifully small, was already strapped on wooden runners to be dragged behind a horse.

No time. There was no time left.

Cate rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘It will be all right.’

She did not speak of the ale.

Lifting her eyes, Bessie looked toward the hills, hung with fog. It was raiding season. Anything could happen while she was away. A thousand terrors crowded her thoughts.

She lifted her chin and shut her mind against them. Rob and John were waiting. They must not doubt her. She must leave them with minds at rest.

Her first farewell was for Johnnie.

Never afraid to show affection, he wrapped her in a hug. ‘Stay safe. The King is not a bad man, but he is younger than he is wise.’

She nodded. ‘He won’t keep me there long, will he?’

Johnnie ruffled her hair, as he had done when they were children. ‘A woman as pretty as you? He’ll have a hard time letting you out of his sight.’ His lips smiled. His eyes did not.

She shook her head. ‘Then don’t worry yourself. I’ll be home by Yuletide.’

Then, his back shielding them from Rob’s eyes, Johnnie pressed a silver coin into her hand. ‘In case you need it for … something.’

Her eyes widened.

‘That’s the King’s face on it,’ he said.

She ran her thumb over the crowned profile. ‘He has a strong nose.’

‘And a stronger will.’

She slipped the coin into the pouch at her waist and turned to Rob.

Never at ease with sentiment, he raised his arms from his side, not knowing what next to do with them.

She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his chest, but only for a moment. And when she reached to touch his cheek, he jerked away.

Ah, that was Rob. Just like his father. Never able to be soft, not even with her.

‘Don’t worry.’ She squeezed his hand and blinked, refusing to let the tears fall.

Instead of meeting her eyes, Rob glowered at Carwell. ‘Bring her safely back or you’ll wish you had. If anything happens to her, I’ll find you. No matter where you are.’

‘It won’t.’ But when he answered, Carwell looked not at Rob, but turned his gaze as if the vow were made to her.

She shook her head, not wanting the man’s promise. Never again would she trust him to be responsible for anything that mattered. ‘I will mind myself.’

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.

He did not like puzzles.

Problems, yes. Problems could be solved. Warring Brunsons could be persuaded to observe a temporary truce. The King could be convinced to return the warden’s post to its rightful owner.

The English could be induced to secret negotiations concerning the fate of the Earl of Angus.

These problems he could solve, though the solution might be imperfect. The trick was never to reveal your aim. To stay flexible and circumspect and let each side feel as if they had won.

But women could not be dealt with that way. Fragile, delicate and even irrational, a man could only accept them and protect them. At any cost.

For if he could not, the price would be much too high.

I’ll hold you responsible, Bessie had said. And he had failed. Betrayed by the betrayer, he had allowed an outlaw to escape.

A pale reminder of larger sins.

But Elizabeth Brunson? He did not know who she was or how to deal with her. She was silent more often than she spoke and when she looked at him with that damnable calm, he wanted to shake her.

He could deal with hot-blooded, quick-tempered Borderers. Was one, though he hid it well.

But he was accustomed to a woman who wanted to please, to bend, to mirror your wants in her smile. This woman took in your desires, ignored them and went on to do as she pleased.

Sure as the stars, they sang of the Brunsons. Immovable as a rock, they should have sung of her.

Well, such stubbornness might have been welcomed on the Borders, but at Stirling, it would serve neither of them well.

He was going to have to protect this woman, too, but in a very, very different way than most.

He rose to start the day. He must reach Stirling and convey the secret English offer to King James before official treaty negotiations reconvened. And as for Elizabeth Brunson, he would get her safely to Stirling and back.

What happened to the woman after that was not his affair.

For the first moments after she opened her eyes, Bessie thought she must still dream. Where were the walls that sheltered her? Where was the ceiling that had protected her from wind and rain for all of her eighteen years?

She had been away from home before, of course. Since her mother’s death, she had visited every scattered Brunson household. But she had never been so far away.

She had never been out of sight of the Cheviot Hills.

Now, she was on the edge of a strange landscape with a strange man, going to a place that might as well have been across the sea.

She sat up and shook her hair down her back. Well, here she was. She would do her duty. At least she had slept well.

She cast an eye towards the stream. This morning, shielded from the rest of the camp, she had easy privacy. When would she have water and seclusion again?

She grabbed her plaid and slipped out of her dress, leaving only the linen sark. Light touched the sky, but the sun still hid below the hills. Cold, cloudy, but without snow. The water would be freezing. Too bitter to bathe, but at least she could rinse off the dust of the journey before they headed into the hills again.

She crept down to the water and stilled as she heard something downstream.

And she turned her head to see Thomas Carwell, naked as the day he was born, wading into the freezing river up to his waist.

Her eyes widened to take in broad shoulders and a strong chest narrowing to—

She shut her eyes.

Hearing the splash that meant he waded in deeper, she dared to open them again. He had submerged himself in the water, then stood, throwing his head back, letting the water drip off his straight brown hair and run down his neck and shoulders on to his chest.

She shrank down, hoping he would not see her. Too late for pretence. If he saw her, he would know what she had seen.

Well, she had as much right to the river as he did.

Next time he ducked beneath the water, she would run around the bend, where he couldn’t see—

‘Do you spy on me, then?’

Too late. And a Brunson should never cower.

She opened her eyes and stood to her full height, fighting a shiver. How could the man stand so calmly, waist deep in frigid water? ‘You put my bed near the river. I assumed you wanted me to use it.’

For a moment, she could read his eyes clearly. They travelled from her hair to her bare toes, raising heat within to fight the air’s chill. The water safely disguised him below the waist, but the plain white linen covering her from shoulder to knee suddenly felt transparent.

Did her breasts press against the linen? Could he see the shape of her legs?

She wrapped the Brunson plaid around her shoulders, the ends covering her. ‘It seems you spy on me, Thomas Carwell.’

Yet she did the same, taking him in, no longer a warden, but just a man. Not as broad of shoulder as Rob, nor as tall as Johnnie, but she remembered how he stood close and draped the cloak over her shoulders, how his body seemed to fit against hers …

And then her eyes met his.

No ambiguity now. Just hunger he did not, or could not, hide.

He opened his mouth, but the words emerged slowly. With difficulty. ‘Perhaps we each only seek to bathe in the river.’

She nodded, her head a jerky thing, tongue-tied as if she had never seen a man’s chest before. She’d seen men aplenty. But never one that seemed …

‘I will let you finish, then,’ she said, turning her back. Hard to muster even those words, that movement.

He did not answer, but she heard more splashing behind her, and then footfalls, as if he had quickly climbed the bank. The rustle of cloth, as if he were pulling on breeches.

And then, behind her, the steps came closer …

She whirled, not wanting him to creep up upon her when she could not see him.

As soon as she turned, he stopped, still a safe distance away, carrying a shirt over his shoulder. Still out of reach. But close enough now she could see the hair sprinkled across his bare chest and the sword-trained muscles of his arms. She had thought of the man as the warden, as a courtier, perhaps, but this reminded her—he was a warrior, just as much as any man of the Borders.

‘I did not mean to disturb you,’ he said.

She shook her head. She had been the one to blunder upon him.

‘The water is cold,’ he continued. ‘Do not go in too deeply.’

‘You did.’ She had never intended to do such a daft thing, but the decision was hers, not his.

‘That’s how I know how cold it is.’ He gave her an easy smile, but she could see the cold had raised bumps on his arms. She had the strangest urge to wrap her plaid around him, to warm him …

‘Then go. Finish dressing yourself and leave me be.’

He swung the shirt over his head, blessedly covering himself, but the sigh she released was more regret than relief.

‘I’ll stand over there and keep my back turned. Let me know when you are ready.’

She nodded and scampered down the bank.

Would he turn to look? She felt as if they were equally armed, neither with an advantage. If she turned to find him looking, then what? Better not to know. Better to imagine him a man of his word.

And yet as she splashed water on her face and arms, she had the strangest need to defy him.

If he wasn’t looking, he wouldn’t know if she stepped in the water.

She held her sark above her knees and waded in, curling her toes against the rocks on the river bottom, and shivered.

It was every bit as cold as he had promised.

He had promised not to look.

So he busied himself with tucking his shirt in, putting on his jerkin, pulling hose over freezing feet. Bessie was a sensible woman. Surely she wouldn’t take long.

He listened for sounds, trying to hear something above the gurgling water of the river.

Trying to keep his head from turning.

The sounds of the river were a small comfort. Different, very, from the relentless tides of the firth, but unlike the hills, moving, always moving.

As they must move today. If he did not get the message to the King before—

A new sound. A woman’s cry.

He whirled and ran. Had she gone in? Was she drowning?

Yes, she had, daft woman. But far from drowning, she stood in thigh-deep water, soaked from head to toe, red hair clinging to her breasts, just hiding the curves and nipples that lay just beneath the thin, wet linen.

And she looked as angry as he felt.

‘Don’t you step a foot off that bank!’

‘I told you not to go in.’

‘Brunson tower is hard by Liddel Water. I know how to bathe in the river.’ Yet she was shivering now. A stronger woman than those he’d known, no doubt. But if she took a chill and died …

‘Get out of there before you freeze your—’ he looked away from her breasts ‘—self to death.’

‘Get away! You promised not to look.’

‘You promised not to get into the water.’

They glared at each other and he wasn’t sure whether it was anger or desire that raised his temperature.

He tried to keep his eyes on her face, but the linen clung to curves he had only imagined before. She was lean, like her brother Johnnie, but no one would ever mistake her for anything but a woman. Her breasts, now pushing through the wet strands of red hair, were high and proud and full. Her legs long. And between her legs, where the wet cloth clung …

He swallowed.

She had followed his gaze and there was no question now. She had seen his desire. Been touched by it. Her lips parted. She crossed her arms over her breasts. Her knees sagged, as if weak with some kind of hunger … as if she might fall back into the water any minute.

He waded into the river, lifted her up, walked back to the bank and set her down. His arms lingered on her shoulders. He looked down into her face, thinking again how full and ripe her lips—

She thumped his chest with both fists and broke his hold, stepping back. ‘Is this how you save my reputation?’

He looked down, realising he had walked into a river wearing leather boots. The woman had scrambled his thinking. He had thought only to protect her and then she was too close, too tempting …

‘It was not your reputation that was in danger. It was your health.’

‘I’ve not been sick a day in my life. Now step away and turn around.’

He shook his head. ‘Last time I turned my head, you jumped into the river. Now I’m taking you back to your tent and sitting there until you are dressed and ready. We’ve miles to go today.’

And his clothes were soaked from the waist down. It was going to be a long, cold ride.

Embarrassment, and something even more dangerous, warmed Bessie as she stomped back to her tent.

Treacherous man.

She had ignored the feelings he had raised that night he had arrived at the tower. Hand on hers in the dance. Standing too close. She had neither time nor inclination for such foolishness, particularly with this man who, no doubt, had betrayed her family once and might do so again.

She ignored the fact that she had, on a foolish whim, marched right into the river after he told her not to. After she had no intention of doing so.

She didn’t even like water.

One night away from home and she was no longer herself.

Her jaw trembled and her teeth clattered together. She clamped them tight, angry. It was as if she had left Bessie behind when she left the valley. All her life she had been the one bundled in blankets, layered in hose and gloves. So why had she marched into a frigid river in the middle of November?

The man had scrambled her thinking.

She was a sensible woman. Steady. Solid. Dependable. But with this man, steps that should have been simple became awkward. There was something about him that threw her … off.

Inside the tent, she stripped off her wet sark, wrung the water from her dripping hair and donned clean linen with shaking fingers. Shivering, she sneezed.

She was never ill and damned if she would be now. She would not give him the satisfaction.

No. Now she would do her duty, and that duty did not include swooning in any man’s arms, particularly those of a man who had likely betrayed her family. She had promised her brothers she would discover proof of that. Time to be about it.

She rolled up the rest of her things and stuffed them back into the travel bag. She would question him. She would uncover the truth.

But as she emerged from the tent and mounted her pony for the day’s ride, she glanced at Carwell and discovered she could not look at the man without a catch in her breath.

Without remembering …

Well, then, she would keep her shoulders square and her eyes straight ahead. Just a few days and she would be herself again. Just a few miles and she would be able to act as if their river meeting had never happened.

At least, she hoped so.

He was grateful, in the end, for the plunge into cold water. It kept his tarse from rearing its head when he looked at Elizabeth Brunson and remembered the feel of her in his arms.

But as the days wore on and the miles passed under the ponies’ hooves, the memory moved through him again. Aye. There was a reason he had not wanted Bessie Brunson to be the one to come on this trip. He had memories to forget. Memories to hide. And having her close made it that much more difficult.

Soon, they would reach Stirling Castle, where she would be put in a bed far away from him and where no loch or river would provide temptation.

For he must think of why he had come and what he might face. A new king. Grown, yes, but more than ten years younger than he. Younger even than Elizabeth Brunson.

He hoped the boy he only partly knew would be wise. Scotland could not afford war with England right now. But at least he and the King shared one goal.

The Earl of Angus would be caught and punished. The man must not slip through their hands, cross the border, and into the protection of his friend and ally, King James’s uncle, the English King Henry VIII.

Chapter Five

She was not prepared for Stirling Castle.

The Brunsons were the most powerful family in the March. She was unaccustomed to meeting families more powerful than her own. But as they rode up the steep, winding path to the castle, looming high on a cliff above them, she felt as if she were approaching Heaven.

And once inside, she was even more confused. Buildings, courtyards, all teeming with people. More than she had ever seen in one place, except for the times that Brunsons were riding a raid.

Carwell left her with the men for a few minutes, then returned with the steward.

‘It seems,’ Carwell said, as the steward took charge of the horses and men, ‘that when the King abandoned the siege against Angus, he brought the men here. There’s to be a tournament. Jousting and celebration.’ His voice did not sound celebratory.

‘What is it like, a tournament?’ Bessie asked. She might as well have been in France. They had tournaments there, she had heard.

‘It means we dress up and fight each other.’

‘Why?’

‘For glory.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Clearly, the King is a man who doesn’t have enough fighting to do in his everyday life.’

His expression echoed hers. ‘Or he wants a battle he can win.’ He leaned closer to whisper. ‘He is still smarting from his defeat by Angus.’

The defeat he blamed on the Brunsons.

She looked up at the cloud-covered sky. Falling off his horse into the mud would not improve his mood.

Finished with the men, the steward approached her with a boy to take her horse. As she started to dismount, Carwell was there, helping.

He steadied her on her feet and turned to the steward. ‘This is Elizabeth Brunson.’

She blinked. She had never been Elizabeth. Always, only, little Bessie. Elizabeth sounded like a different woman.

One who might dance at court, light on her feet.

The steward bent at the waist. ‘This way, my lady.’ He summoned another man to carry her travel chest.

She looked back at Carwell, suddenly reluctant to be separated. ‘Am I to meet the King?’

He shook his head. ‘There’s no time now. You’re to join the other ladies as soon as you change your dress.’

As she followed the steward up the stairs and down the hallway, she looked down at her travel-worn wool.

As soon as she changed into what?

With minimal introduction, the steward led her to a building at the far end of the huge stone palace and turned her over to a short, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who guided her upstairs, chattering in words Bessie had never heard.

‘Excuse me.’ She must interrupt the woman. ‘I don’t understand—’

‘Vous ne parlez pas français?’

Bessie shook her head.

‘Ah. I see.’ They had reached the end of the corridor and the woman opened a door. ‘It’s empty now,’ she explained, in words Bessie could understand, ‘but three of us share it already. We’re all named Mary.’

Bessie felt a moment of relief. She had not seen another woman in the week since she had left home. A female face was a comfort.

‘They call me Wee Mary,’ she said, with a smile that showed a gap between her front teeth.

‘I’m … Elizabeth Brunson.’ So Carwell had introduced her. So she would be.

The woman’s eyes widened. So did her smile. ‘You’re Johnnie’s sister?’

‘Aye. You knew him?’ A woman who knew Johnnie. It felt like coming home.

Mary laughed, deep in her throat. A laugh that said it all. ‘Aye. We all miss Johnnie,’ she said, with smile that spoke of experience. ‘Especially Long Mary and me!’

Although she knew her brother had lived at court, Bessie had never pictured his life here. She had certainly not pictured him with women.

Given the woman’s smile, Bessie decided not to mention that Johnnie was a happy new husband. ‘Long Mary?’

‘She’s the tall one. Stowte Mary and I both serve the King’s mother.’

‘And what does Long Mary do?’

‘As she pleases.’ Her expression teetered between envy and resentment. ‘For now.’

Bessie understood these words no more clearly than the French ones. ‘This is all so … different.’

Wee Mary took in Bessie with one sweeping glance. ‘Has the King seen you yet?’

Bessie looked down at her dress and then at Mary’s. She was wearing something stiff and black with gilded trim and a square neckline that exposed more than Bessie was used to.

This was worse than she had feared. She shook her head.

Mary raised her brows. ‘You are très jolie. Il va vous voir avec plaisir.’

Before she could ask what that meant, there was a knock on the door behind them. A servant entered, carrying Bessie’s chest, put it down and disappeared.

‘You’ve not much time,’ Mary said. ‘What are you going to wear?’

Bessie sighed, lifted the lid, pulled out her best dress and held it up. Next to Mary’s, it looked shapeless and faded. And she heard the echo of what she had told her brother months ago. She had no proper clothes for court.

Mary pursed her lips and raised her brows. ‘I see.’ She turned to another chest and rummaged among the contents. Finally, she pulled out something deep black, shapely, and with a blue inset in the front of the skirt. ‘This is Long Mary’s. She’s more your size.’

She reached out to stroke the fabric, the colours so vibrant they belonged on a bird. ‘I can’t just take someone’s dress.’

Wee Mary shoved it at her. ‘It no longer fits her. Now hurry.’

At the end of the tournament field, Carwell checked his armour, and made sure his men’s green-and-gold colours were firmly attached.

The King, impatient, had not waited to build seating for the spectators, so most would simply stand at the edge of the field in the valley below the castle. The women, perched atop the Ladies Rock overlooking the grounds, would have a better view. He looked, vainly, for Elizabeth.

‘Ah, there you are.’

Carwell turned and bowed in one movement. ‘Your Grace.’

In the chaos surrounding preparations for the tournament, there had been no time for formal presentation to the King. It had been months, more than a year, since he had seen James. All their agreements had been via messages and messengers.

Now, face to face, he could newly assess the man himself. Young. Red-haired, with a long, prominent nose. And carrying a brilliant green-and-gold bird on his wrist.

The King wasted no words. ‘You’ve news?’

‘Yes, Your Grace. News of several kinds.’

The King’s eyes flashed. Suddenly, he was less the excited sixteen-year-old and more the monarch. ‘Imminent danger?’

Carwell shook his head.

Relief touched the King’s eyes. ‘Then we will enjoy the tournament first. News will wait.’

‘A handsome papingo, Your Grace.’

James looked at the bird and smiled. ‘A gift.’ He turned his gaze out over his immediate kingdom. The King took a deep breath as he surveyed it. ‘And who is that lovely lark?’

Carwell followed the King’s glance to see Elizabeth, walking along the edge of the field.

And forced himself to breathe.

Her gown, stark black, set off her fair skin and made her firelight hair even more vibrant.

‘Elizabeth Brunson, Your Grace.’

‘Brunson?’ The word was sharp-edged.

‘Aye, Your Grace.’ His voice sounded appropriately detached. He congratulated himself. ‘John’s sister.’

‘Ah, of course. I can see it now. The similarity in the build….’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Johnnie’s sister, eh?’ Several things seemed to flash behind the King’s eyes, ending with a sigh. ‘Bring her to me.’

‘Now, Your Grace?’

The King frowned. ‘Of course, now.’

Carwell gave a brief bow and muttered something that should have been Of course, Your Grace, but wasn’t.

Her eyes lit up as he approached. She must feel truly isolated now, he thought. She had never looked so happy to see him.

He concentrated on keeping his eyes on hers so he would not look down at her bodice, where he could see the edge of breasts he had been trying to forget since he had carried her from the stream.

He cleared his throat. ‘You look lovely.’

She looked down. ‘I look like a pigeon in a pig pen.’

‘The King doesn’t think so.’

She lifted her head and he saw a flash of fear in her eyes. She looked around his shoulder.

‘That’s the King, yes. With the bird.’

She raised her brows. ‘I’ve never seen a falcon like that.’

‘It’s not a falcon.’ He reached out to take her elbow, his touch staking some kind of claim. ‘He wants to meet you.’

She pursed her lips, then nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To explain?’

Yet when she lifted her head, he found himself staring at the curve of her neck and her delicate throat.

And thinking of the hangman’s noose.

‘Not today. Today, only curtsy and smile and say as little as possible.’

Lifted chin, stubborn lips and fear, still, in her eyes. ‘I speak no French.’

Now, his smile could reassure. ‘Neither does the King.’

Her lips relaxed and released a breath. ‘Will he ask for our oath?’

He shook his head. The King needed no reminders of the Brunsons’ bad behaviour today. Not until Carwell had had a chance to assess the situation. ‘He is in a good mood and ready to enjoy the jousting. Be sure he remains so. Come.’

She matched her strides to his as they walked across the damp field. ‘What do I call him?’

‘Address him as “Your Grace”.’ He tightened his grip on her arm. ‘And say nothing bad about the bird.’

The sun had broken through the clouds and the day had warmed, as if on the King’s command, as they approached James, standing before his tent, surrounded by attendants.

‘Your Grace,’ Carwell said, his hand still on Bessie’s arm. ‘Elizabeth Brunson.’

She bent her knees, but not her stubborn neck. Even a Brunson woman bowed to no man.

The King’s eyes roved across her curves and Carwell fought the tension in his jaw. Well, what man wouldn’t like to look on her? He did. Too much.

Smiling, the King stroked the bird’s bright-green feathers. ‘Welcome to Stirling Castle and to my tournament.’

‘Thank you, your Grace.’

‘And this,’ the King said, lifting the wrist with the bird, ‘is Pierre. Greet the lady, Pierre.’

Pierre squawked and fluttered his wings. Elizabeth leaned away and pressed against Carwell. He found his arm around her waist.

Quickly, she recovered herself, but kept her lips firmly shut.

The King frowned. ‘Is he not impressive?’

She glanced at Carwell for permission. ‘I’ve never seen such a creature before.’

The King’s eyes narrowed and he handed the bird to an attendant. ‘Johnnie is not with you.’

She glanced at Carwell and swallowed. ‘No, he’s—’

‘It’s a day for celebration, Your Grace. Even the sun emerges to honour your glory.’

James frowned, but two squires hovered, holding armour. The red-and-gold surcoat with the royal arms was waiting, flapping in the wind. The King looked up at the uncertain sky. ‘We begin within the hour.’ He looked back at Elizabeth. ‘Who carries your favour, milady?’

Her eyes flickered, uncertain. ‘My favour, Your Grace?’

‘In the lists. Your kerchief. Your scarf. The token of your affection.’ The King’s smile was too smug, his eyes too eager.

Carwell stepped forwards. ‘I do.’

Beside him, Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Fortunately, she kept her mouth closed.

Carwell took the King’s frown for her.

‘Don your armour, Carwell. You, and your men.’ And he turned his back and stepped into the tent.

Carewell bowed and backed away, dragging Bessie beside him.

She pulled her arm away. ‘You carry no favour of mine.’

‘But the King was about to ask for it. He can collect all the favours he wants. And when he wins, he would want to collect from you.’

‘Collect? I’ve nothing to give him.’

How was this woman to survive here? ‘You have what every woman has and every man wants.’

The heat in his eyes left no doubt of his meaning. And left a cloud of pink on her cheek. Something he had not seen before.

‘What if he does not win?’

‘The King always wins.’

‘So you think to save me?’

He had, but now, he could think only to have her. The door of temptation had opened and he struggled to shut it against the vision. Even those lips, so plump and rounded. Such a soft contrast to the rest of her. A woman who told the truth or stayed silent.

‘I think,’ he said, finally finding his voice again, ‘that you do not want to anger him if you hope to help your family.’

‘Aye,’ she said. Those impossibly beautiful lips curved into a smile. ‘And refusing to give him his expected reward would anger him.’

‘It would indeed.’

‘And if I refuse you? Will you be angry?’

Bessie watched his eyes darken. Anger? No. Something more. The hunger she had seen in his eyes at the stream when he saw her—

Why had she asked such a daft thing?

His control returned quickly. Feelings disappeared. ‘First I will have to win. Then you would have to refuse me. Let those things happen and then we’ll see.’

His gaze drifted to her lips. Her own hunger rose.

He stepped away. ‘But before any of that, you must give me a favour.’

A favour. She looked down. How was she to give him a favour? She was in a borrowed dress, without even a handkerchief of her own. And she would not honour the man by allowing him to carry the Brunson blue and brown.

‘Don your armour,’ she said. ‘By the time you are ready, I will have it for you.’

All she needed was a moment alone and a pair of scissors.

Chapter Six

In less than half an hour, Carwell saw her return and hand him a strip of linen—rough, white, and plain. He took it without comment, knowing it must have come from the sark shielding her skin.

‘It is all I have,’ she said. ‘I hope it does not embarrass you.’

Any other woman, forced to cut a favour from her undergarment, would have been abashed. And though he had seen her curse herself for stumbling in the dance, this simple thing, this-all-she-had, she offered without shame.

Or hesitation.

Then, she was a Brunson.

And when he pressed it to his lips, they burned with the thought that this piece of cloth had pressed against her skin.

‘Nothing else would suit me as well.’ He tied the ragged strip to his lance. ‘It is well made, serviceable and cut from something none of us can do without.’

She smiled. ‘May it bring you success.’

‘And my reward?’ Suddenly he wanted it, that feeling of her lips yielding to his.

Her smile faded. ‘You gave my brothers your word.’

‘Your innocence is safe,’ he answered, more smoothly than he had expected. ‘Do not doubt it.’

Her life and her good repute were in his care. And the second now looked more challenging than the first.

What every woman has and every man wants.

Carwell’s words followed her as she climbed Ladies Rock, her borrowed dress dragging on the grass. There was something about a woman like that. Like the mare in heat, sending off signals. A glance, a lifted brow, an easiness of laugh.

Aye, she thought, as she looked at the dozen or more women gathered there, hoping to see Mary’s familiar face. It was easy to see what these women had that men wanted. She imagined that more than one of them had graced the King’s bed already.

Or visited Johnnie’s.

And she felt they must look at her and know how ignorant she was of such things. Innocent, Carwell had called her.

Even he could tell.

There were girls, many of them, who sampled men until they found one to their liking. She had not. She was the head man’s daughter. Men walked carefully around her. And when one did not, Rob set him straight.

Rob. Johnnie. Thinking of her brothers, she was swept with longing. She was far from home, wearing a borrowed dress. At home, she was a Brunson. The name alone ensured respect.

Here, she no longer knew who she was.

Below her, she recognised the Carwell green and gold on a group of men at the end of the field. On the Border, men fought in a jack-of-plaites jerkin, tall boots and a bonnet. You would see the eyes of the man who faced you.

Here, covered, these men had no faces, no hair, no eyes. They were only metal bodies, armoured from head to toe. This Thomas, mounted on a chestnut destrier and recognisable only by his colours, was a man entirely different from the one who had ridden by her side.

A tall, slope-shouldered woman joined her, recognition in her eyes. ‘The dress flatters you, Elizabeth Brunson.’

She turned back from looking at Thomas to face a woman who must be Long Mary. ‘I thank you for the loan of it.’

The woman cradled her stomach with both hands. ‘The King will buy me another.’

Before Bessie could ponder that comment, Wee Mary came up beside them. ‘Who is that one?’

Bessie followed her gaze. Thomas had taken off his helmet and handed it to a waiting squire. Bareheaded, his brown hair fluttered straight as a banner in the stiff breeze.

She struggled to subdue a breath. ‘In the green and gold, you mean?’

‘I don’t know who he is,’ said Long Mary. ‘But I would like to.’

Bessie hugged her secret knowledge, reluctant for a moment to share. ‘That’s Thomas Carwell, Warden of the Scottish March.’

‘You know him well?’

She knew him not at all. But what was she to say? ‘He carries my favour.’

A true statement, but without the significance they would give it. Then the vision of him, naked in the stream, heated her cheeks.

Wee Mary smiled, knowingly, and looked at Carwell again.

‘That white scrap of linen?’

Her face burned. ‘It is well made and serviceable.’ Like Bessie Brunson. Used when needed, ignored when not, disposed of when its time was through. Not something to bring delight, nor something beautiful to cherish.

‘And a little soiled around the edges.’ Long Mary tittered.

Bessie turned back to the field, ignoring the laugh. Let them think what they liked.

Wee Mary patted her arm. ‘Perhaps she’s trying to capture her unicorn.’

The words were not French, but they might as well have been. They meant something to the Marys she did not understand.

‘The King carries my favour,’ Long Mary added, with a smile.

As if he knew they had spoken of him, Carwell broke away from his men and rode to the base of the Ladies Rock. Even mounted, he was nearly twelve feet below her. Too far away for her to read his eyes.

He dipped his lance to her. On either side of her, the Marys stepped back, according her a new measure of respect.

She swallowed, uncertain. What was she to do now? He might intend to honour her, yet he only exposed her ignorance of court protocol.

‘You have honoured me with your favour today,’ he said. ‘I will honour you with my victory.’

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