you try to escape, it will be down to the cellar with you.’
He opened the door and she stepped in, turning to survey the room. ‘A bit barren, but it will do.’
‘Barren?’ He was still unused to the luxury of the curtained bed he’d been sleeping in these last months. This room had a broad bed, fireplace, and stool. What more did a body need? ‘It was good enough for my sister. Unless you’d prefer the cellar.’
He thought she flinched again, but just as quickly, her calm returned. ‘No. This will do.’
‘Do?’ The word a judgement. ‘You should be grateful I’m letting you set foot in my sister’s room.’
A pout seemed to threaten her lower lip. ‘It’s just … it’s not what I’m accustomed to.’
‘Are you accustomed to one of your English king’s castles, then?’
Her eyes widened, neither fear nor insult in her gaze. ‘I’m not accustomed to the Scots side of the border at all.’
‘Easy to tell. You don’t even know where it is.’
‘I do now,’ she snapped, taking his eyes square.
Was that warning or temptation in her green gaze? No matter, he met it, refusing to waver. ‘Next time, stay on your own side.’ He turned his back and reached for the door, but she called to him before he could close it.
‘I would. If only the Brunsons would do the same.’
He pulled the door closed. Hard.
Chapter Two
As the door slammed behind him, Stella realised that her heart had somehow galloped up to her throat. Closing her eyes, she put a hand to her chest, trying to slow its beating and move it back to its proper place.
Aye. This man, this savage Brunson, was all they had ever said of the clan. And more.
God saved you, her mother always said. You are special in His eyes and He will let no harm come to you.
She opened her eyes to look around the room again, wondering whether God’s reach extended to this godless side of the border.
Capture had not been her plan when she left home this morning. Truth of it, she had no plan, but she could take no more of the endless bickering between Humphrey and Oswyn. Her father was ill and in Brunson hands. She had to do something.
Beneath her hand, her heart settled into a steadier rhythm.
She’d been spared the cellar, which meant his intention was to ransom her. In the interim, as custom decreed, she would be treated as a guest.
Yet they had asked no ransom for her father, as would have been expected. Did that mean he was already dead?
Something hit her door, too close to the floor for a knock.
She jumped and her heart thumped in answer.
The sound came again, on the floor this time, in an irregular rhythm. She opened the heavy wooden door and looked out.
The blond, round-faced boy she had seen in the courtyard ran up and down the hall, kicking a ball. When he saw her, he let the ball roll away.
‘Gudday,’ she said, noticing no one else was in the hall. No guard, then. Perhaps God’s will did extend so far north.
‘Gudein, lady.’ The boy mangled the words, as well as the time of day.
Still, she smiled. Children always made her smile. ‘What do they call you, lad?’
‘Wat,’ he said, his smile widening to meet hers. ‘I be Wat.’
She looked again, more carefully. A simpleton, by the sound of him, perhaps eight or ten. And one who knew the Brunson buildings better than she.
‘And I’m Stella.’ Swallowing her guilt, she knelt down, as if taking the boy into her confidence, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Wat, can you show me the tower? I’m sure I would get lost by myself.’
This might be her only chance to search for her father. And surely even Rob Brunson couldn’t fault a brainless boy for helping her.
Wat threw an uncertain look over his shoulder, as if hoping for reinforcements.
She squeezed his shoulder, driven by her own urgency. ‘I bet you know the best hiding places. Would you show me?’
Silent, he nodded, took her hand and led her up the stairs.
The warm, sunny day must have lured everyone outside, for they seemed to have the tower to themselves. And by the time she had seen everything from the stone flag roof to the entresol stacked with foodstuffs, she knew there could only be one place left.
Is that where you keep Hobbes Storwick?
No, he had said. But with a pause. A moment’s hesitation before a lie?
She looked down the stairs. Somewhere down there, the well’s open maw waited.
‘Wat,’ she said, gripping his hand so that he could not wander into harm’s way. ‘Show me the well room.’
Late in the afternoon, Rob returned home for the second time that day. After he had left the Storwick woman at the tower, he and his men had ridden hard and far, searching for signs that the Storwicks were riding. He found none. In fact, the family had been strangely quiet since their leader had been taken.
Why?
He had expected an attempt at rescue, or at least retaliation. Instead, only the whine of the wind swept over the border from the English side.
And instead of thinking about the potential threat, he was thinking of her.
Only because he must decide how to notify the Storwicks that she had been captured, not because he was remembering the heat of her, trapped between his legs and the ground.
He forced his thoughts to the simple things. Stabling Felloun instead of leaving him to graze. Removing the horse’s saddle and blanket. Fetching his feed. Patting his withers as thanks for another day of service.
With the horse cared for, he pushed open the iron yett that protected the sole door to the tower. Inside, the sound of unfamiliar footsteps echoed from the lower level.
Drawing his dagger, he bent his knees and followed the sound.
‘Show me.’ A woman’s whisper.
Hers.
He stepped more softly.
Back to him, clutching Wat by the hand, she stood peering into the well room. The iron grate had swung open, but she did not step inside. Instead, she leaned in, looking to the corners, as if the threshold itself were a cliff.
He straightened and released a breath, without sheathing his dagger. Well, now he knew he would have to waste a man to guard her door. ‘Did you change your mind, then?’
She jumped, gasping, and grabbed the boy close with both hands.
What was 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