He turned back, sweeping her with a glance head to toe. One that said she might be daft, but he wasn’t. ‘You wander the hills alone with no horse?’
She shrugged to hide the shaking. ‘Sun doesn’t often come like this. I wandered too far.’ And had hoped to wander further. A horse would draw attention. ‘Let me go. I’m of no use to you.’
‘Oh, you’re of use to me. You’re going to serve as a hostage for the good behaviour of the rest of your people. If they ride to rescue Hobbes Storwick, you’ll be the one to pay.’
She blanched. Thank God. At least her father was alive.
They had not even been sure of that.
In violation of the Border Laws, the Brunsons had torched her home and captured her father, too ill to travel to the most recent Truce Day gathering.
But never too ill to defend his home.
Since then, there had been no word. None of them would have put it past the Brunsons to have killed him outright, but if he was alive, who held him?
That was why she had come to the hills today. To discover if her father was alive, where and what it might take to rescue him.
At his words, he’d seen a flash of fear disrupt the pride in her eyes. As if she really thought he was no better a man than her own vile kin.
Scarred Willie Storwick had shown no mercy to Johnnie’s Cate. This woman deserved no better.
But Rob Brunson was not a Storwick.
He sighed and eased his grip on her arm. The road to the south was clear and quiet, but he wondered whether to trust his ears and eyes. He’d been so lovesick at the sight of his land, he had not even noticed her before he dismounted.
His father would have never made such a mistake.
Against her skin, his palm heated, but he could not let her go or she would run again, bringing the others if they were not already on the way.
‘You’re a Storwick, that I know.’ He remembered, too late, why she looked familiar. He had seen her on Truce Day, last autumn, and spared one glance too many for her swaying hips. ‘Which one?’
She lifted that pointed chin in his direction, then pursed her lips before she answered. ‘One of the Red Storwicks.’
A Red Storwick without red hair, but she had the green eyes, huge and heavy-lidded. ‘You’re looking at Black Rob Brunson,’ he said.
She nodded, as if the news were old. ‘I know. Head of your clan.’
She could say so, but after eight months, those words still did not come easily to his tongue. ‘What do they call you?’
‘Stella.’ No hesitation this time.
‘What kind of name is that?’ It was no name he had ever heard. Not like Mary or Agnes or Elizabeth.
One she was proud of, judging by the way she held her head. ‘It’s Latin.’
‘Latin! Only churchmen know that.’
‘My mother does.’
Disbelief must have shown clear on his face.
‘Well, she knows a word or two.’
Proud of that, too. This woman seemed proud of everything. ‘So what does it mean, your name?’
‘Star.’
A chill rippled down his back. Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars. Thus began the Ballad of the Brunsons.
Those stars had no connection to this woman. None.
‘Well, Stella Storwick, you’ll have no need for Latin in Brunson Tower.’ He pointed to the pony. ‘Up there. Now.’
Stella kept her head down as they rode through the Brunson gate, hoping he would not see how closely she studied the family stronghold. Would they hold her father on the top floor? Or in the tower’s dark bowels? She searched every slit in the stone wall, hoping to see his face.
Black Rob rode behind her, his arms reaching around her, tight as shackles, to hold the reins. After he dismounted, he helped her down, a greater kindness than she had expected. Men appeared. A few women. A young, round-faced boy stared at the head man as if he were a hero.
Someone led the horse away and Rob told them who she was in few words while she looked around. The Brunsons had made more progress on rebuilding since their last raid than the Storwicks had.
Of course, they’d had more time.
He pushed her ahead of him towards the tower.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To the well room with the ale barrels,’ he growled. ‘And the spiders.’
Her heart beat faster. No, please not there. She swallowed.
He studied her silence. ‘Afeared?’
Stella stood straighter. ‘No Storwick ever feared a Brunson.’
‘The canny ones did.’ No touch of sympathy warmed the cold words.
‘Is that where you hold Hobbes Storwick?’ If so, she would force herself, despite the fear.
He narrowed his eyes and stared at her until she felt certain he knew who she was and why she asked. ‘No,’ he said, finally.
Did that mean they did not hold him in that room? Or was her father not here at all? She wrestled her disappointment.
Inside, thick walls blocked the sun. Cool, damp air, smelling of ale, surrounded her. And she heard the echo of water, deep in a well …
Once safely ten steps beyond the sound, she breathed again. She was to be spared that, at least. For now. With the reprieve, she could think again and realised she had been walking since daybreak.
At the tower’s next level, she paused. ‘I need …’ She faced implacable disgust in his eyes. He would not care that she needed a garderobe and a moment of her own. It was not something she wished to speak of to any man.
Remember who you are, Stella.
She lifted her head and fixed her stare on Black Rob. ‘I need time for women’s things.’
Puzzlement, then understanding unseated the disgust in his eyes. A flush stained his strong cheekbones. Still gripping her arm, he pushed her to the other corner of the floor until they stood before the door of the little room. The man who had been full of bluster shifted from one foot to the other.
A young girl walked out of the hall and he dropped Stella’s arm to grab hers. ‘You. Stand before the door. Call me when she’s done.’
He stepped back. ‘And don’t think about jumping out.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘How daft do I look?’
‘Daft enough to wander alone on the wrong side of the border.’
She closed the door on him and listened to his retreating steps, grateful for a moment alone to gather her strength. She had planned to get close to the tower, close enough to see or hear something about her father that would force her squabbling cousins to act. Instead, she was within the walls and a prisoner.
If she told Rob Brunson who she was, once he knew she was Hobbes Storwick’s daughter, the man would no doubt take her directly to her father and then …
She sighed. No. Her first instinct had been the right one. The less they knew of who she was, the safer she would be.
But since she was inside the tower, she could discover where her father was being held. She would see him soon. It couldn’t be that hard. Search the floors, speak with a servant …
But what if her father was not here. Then what?
Waiting