Taken by the Border Rebel. Blythe Gifford

‘Where did Bessie go?’

      A frown creased his brow. ‘You ask too many questions.’

      She turned away from his inspection and forced herself to take another sip. One girl to feed all these men. Well, if one girl did it, it could not be that difficult. Anything would be better than being locked in a room and having nothing to eat but saltless soup.

      ‘I agree. I’ll do it,’ she said, as if he had given her a choice.

      But she certainly wasn’t doing it for Black Rob. She just did not want to starve before she assessed his defences and went home.

       Chapter Three

      After the meal, Rob stomped down the stairs, frustration in every step. Unable to spend another minute with the Storwick woman, he told Sim Tait to take her back to her room.

      And this time, to make sure she didn’t leave it.

      He wanted to see the woman no more.

      With each glance, she found him wanting. With each word, she judged his failures. And he had neither time nor care for the opinion of a Storwick. Anger, that was all he felt for her. Nothing more. If there was something more, he didn’t know what it might be and didn’t want to.

      His steps slowed as he left the tower and headed to the stables. He would be glad when Johnnie came home. Before his brother had left, their conversations had been strained again. They had quarrelled about something—the King or the warden or raising of cattle. Better that Johnnie and his Cate would have their own place soon.

      But it was lonesome, being a head man. Never showing weakness, even when you weren’t sure whether you had done the right thing.

      Not that he would tell his brother that. But it would be nice to have him back here tomorrow. They could go out and race to mount the ponies, as they used to when they were boys.

      Johnnie always won.

      Normally, the horses grazed around the tower, but Stella Storwick’s appearance had made him cautious and he had brought them within the walls. When he entered the stable, he was surprised to see Widow Gregor’s Wat brushing Felloun and muttering something incomprehensible over and over.

      He smiled when he saw Rob. ‘Gudein, my laird,’ he said.

      ‘It’s past midday, not eve, Wat.’ A waste of breath to correct him. The boy was a simple fool. Who knew how long he had been standing there, rocking back and forth, and brushing the same spot on the horse’s withers?

      ‘Careful, lad.’ He moved the boy aside. ‘You’ll rub the beast raw.’

      ‘Can I ride beside?’

      ‘No, Wat.’ He wanted no companion right now. Particularly not this babbling boy. ‘Go find your mother.’

      The lad was the youngest of eight and his mother had few moments to spare for a fool.

      Wat gathered his things, then paused at the stable door. ‘She’s pretty, the lady.’

      Rob frowned. ‘What lady?’ Pretending he didn’t know.

      ‘The new lady.’

      ‘Is she now? I hadn’t noticed.’

      Wat nodded, sagely, as if this were wisdom he could impart. ‘Aye.’

      The lad’s comment seemed an accusation. Rob had noticed. And tried not to.

      ‘She’s a Storwick, Wat. That means she’s as ugly as a dragon inside.’

      The boy frowned. ‘The way you’re as stubborn as a tup?’

      He raised his brows. Most men would not be brave enough to insult him to his face, but this boy could not be responsible for what he said, no more than if a dog had been given leave to speak. Wat barely knew the words, let alone their meanings.

      Or did he?

      ‘Aye, lad.’ The boy watched him with worshipful eyes, but didn’t know enough of fear to guard his tongue. Refreshing. ‘Very much like that.’

      Wat tilted his head, as if he were trying to understand. ‘Well,’ he said, finally, ‘she’s a pretty dragon, then.’

      He chuckled as Wat left.

      A pretty dragon, aye. One whose beauty disguised something deadly.

      The Brunson larder, she discovered the next morning, was, indeed, wanting.

      The Tait girl was already moving among the pots, toting a sack of flour, measuring it out to start baking bread. When Stella walked in, she looked up, her gaze sullen. ‘Why are you here?’

      ‘To see if we can put some decent food on the table.’

      A belligerent pout took over the girl’s face. ‘Nothing wrong with the food.’

      ‘Except that it’s barely edible.’

      ‘You think it’s so bad?’ The girl set the sack down and crossed her arms. ‘Cook it yourself, then.’

      Stella bit her lip and swallowed. If the girl left her alone here, they would all starve. ‘I thought you might need help.’

      ‘From a Storwick?’ The girl waved her hands in the air. ‘Like you helped with this?’

      She looked around the rebuilt kitchen, suddenly noticing the charred floor and the misshapen, half-melted pots. Her people had done this with their torches.

      Well, it was no worse than the damage from the flaming brands the Brunsons had lobbed into her home, but bringing a blood feud into the kitchen would not fill her stomach. ‘I’m surprised they make you do all this alone.’

      The girl’s shoulders suddenly sagged, weary. ‘I make better ale than bread.’

      Another blot on Rob Brunson’s shield. This was a woman half-grown, no longer a girl, but not old enough to shoulder all this. Had he no better thought than to make this lass responsible for the whole household?

      Not a thought to be shared. ‘And the head man? He has no wife?’ She had seen no sign he was married, but her breath seemed to pause, waiting for the answer.

      The girl shook her head. ‘He’s not one for women.’

      Stella was not surprised. Women would not have much time for that growling beast, either.

      ‘And are there no Brunson women to help?’

      ‘The mother is dead these two years. The head man’s sister moved off to marry that Carwell.’ She sniffed, as if she liked the Scottish Warden little better than Stella herself did. ‘Johnnie and his bride are building their own tower.’ She shook her head and leaned forwards. ‘And Johnnie’s Cate isn’t much for cooking.’

      Well, there was nothing for it. She’d have to do with what she’d been given. ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Beggy.’

      ‘Well, Beggy, I’ll tell you a secret. I’m not much for cooking either.’ A child saved by God’s hand was, in her family’s opinion, destined for more important things than brewing and broiling. She gave the girl’s stiff shoulders a squeeze and stood. ‘But you and I are going to see if we can make something fit to eat.’

      ‘In that?’ The girl looked at her, eyes wide. ‘That’s fine as a feast gown.’

      She looked down and sighed. Her wool skirt was stained already. And she knew little more of washing than cooking. ‘Is there an apron?’

      Beggy pointed. ‘One that needs washing.’

      Better than none at all. She tied it on and turned back her sleeves. ‘Now, where’s the salt?’

      ‘Burnt.’ She rummaged on a shelf and held up a small sack. ‘This is