Taken by the Border Rebel. Blythe Gifford

for the weak. Strong, bold. He would not understand what it was to doubt.

      ‘But what if he can’t?’

      ‘Then he will be better off. If he can’t survive childhood, he’ll not survive a life on the Borders.’

      Maybe he was right. Maybe this child would be better off dead.

      Maybe she should have died in that well, too.

      ‘Besides,’ Rob continued, ‘no one has time to follow a child around all day.’

      ‘I do.’

      He studied her face, his still as black as his name, and she thought he would deny her.

      ‘Go,’ he said, finally. ‘Ask his mother, then. I care not.’

      Something, a pull of gratitude, rushed through her, threatening tears. Afraid to look at him, she stared at the sun-dappled water splashing over the little dam of sticks they had created, wishing, violently, that just once, the man would see the world without certainty. ‘Together,’ she whispered. ‘We did that together.’

      In just a few hours of peace, Storwick and Brunson had built a weir. What could they build in a year of truce?

      She closed her eyes, then opened them and forced herself to look at Rob again, careful to keep her eyes on his face. ‘Now all we need is some fish,’ she said.

      ‘Oh, soon enough, we’ll have fish aplenty,’ Rob answered. ‘I did not spend the day getting wet and tired to catch a passing carp.’

      She studied his face. Sharp cheekbones slanted towards an angled nose, overshadowed with brooding brows and a high forehead. Did he ever smile? ‘How can you be so sure?’

      ‘Because by then, the Storwicks’ garth is going to be nothing more than sticks floating on Liddel Water.’

      Words harsh as a slap jolted her to remember. Black Rob Brunson was no ally, no helpmate. Even a moment of peace was an illusion. Between their two families, there could be no truce.

      Not now. Not ever.