Taken by the Border Rebel. Blythe Gifford

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.

       Chapter Five

      Stella scolded herself, silently, until the sun rose the next morning. She should have known better. She was a prisoner of a cruel enemy. A moment’s shared success was nothing more than a distraction

       What are you good for, lass?

      Nothing, or so it seemed.

      Aye, there was the sad truth. She had crossed the border thinking God meant her to find her father and rescue him because her cousins would not. Instead, she had put herself in enemy hands and learned little except that her father was not held in Brunson Tower.

      What was she to do now? Care for Wat. That, at least, Rob Brunson had allowed her.

      No guard stood by her door, so before she visited the Widow Gregor, she took the opportunity to wander the courtyard, hoping to see something of use, unsure what she was looking for. She retraced her steps of the first day, looking for something that would speak of the Brunsons’ defences instead of a place where her father might be held a prisoner.

      She saw nothing that looked materially different from home. If there was something here that would turn the tide of battle, she couldn’t recognise it.

      Beggy would not let her back in the kitchen. The man in the armoury frowned at her when she paused at the door. Finally, she went up to the parapet, sat on the stone seat near the chimney, and gazed to the south. A man on lookout, standing at the other end of the wall, left her alone.

      And looking towards home, she knew again that she was on the wrong side of the hills.

      At home, when the sun set, you could watch it. Here, it disappeared behind the hills, hidden and as difficult to see as Black Rob Brunson’s feelings.

      If he had any.

      She should have been mourning her father or scheming to escape or counting dirks in the armoury or at least keeping a watchful eye on Wat. Instead, she was thinking about a stubborn, silent man.

      Sometimes when he did deign to speak it was in an accent so twisted she could barely understand the words.

      No, she did not want to dwell on how much he filled her thoughts. Only because he was difficult to deal with. Only because he was the largest obstacle in her path. No other reason that just before she drifted to sleep at night she found herself thinking of his strong chest, bared in the sun as they sat on the bank …

      At least while they built the weir, he did not ignore her. No, that wasn’t it. He did not ignore her. He dismissed her. As if what she wanted was unimportant.

      At home, what she asked for appeared. She was treated with a deference she only recognised now that it had vanished. Here, she was no longer special Stella, but only an enemy captive.

      ‘Are you sad, then?’

      Wat’s voice startled her. How long had he stood there watching her?

      Yet he was the one soul in Brunson Tower who looked at her with sympathetic eyes. She motioned him closer. He put a hand on her knee and she ruffled his blond curls. ‘Aye, Wat. I’m sad today.’

      ‘Why?’

      Because I’m feeling like the Lost Storwick.

      What would the poor lad say if she were to tell him how cruel his hero was? But was that true for Wat? She had seen Rob impatient with the boy, yet never cruel.

      She pulled him close and hugged him until he wiggled. No. There was no use in making this poor child sad as well. The child seemed too foolish to understand sadness.

      Or too wise.

      ‘I was missing my father,’ she said, then forced a smile. ‘But I feel better when I talk to you.’

      ‘My father is in Heaven.’ He smiled, as if Heaven were as close as Canonbie.

      ‘Is he, now?’

      He nodded. ‘I’ll see him there when I die and all the saints and Red Geordie Brunson, too.’

      Speechless, she nodded back, wishing she had the kind of faith this boy did. The kind of faith her mother did. ‘Red Geordie? That’s Rob’s father?’

      ‘Aye. He went there and left Rob to care for us here.’

      She stifled her observation on how well the head man was doing at the job.

      ‘Come, Wat.’ She stood and took his hand. ‘Do you think your mother will lend you to me for a while?’

      He nodded, swinging her arm. The touch of his trusting hand in hers nearly made her cry. Special, aye. So special that she had never married, would not have children of her own.

      She squeezed back and they went down the stairs.

      When they entered the small hut at the edge of the courtyard, the Widow Gregor glanced up with eyes that looked one hundred years old.

      ‘What is it?’ she said, immediately. ‘Wat, did you bother this woman?’

      The boy hung his head. She squeezed his hand. ‘No,’ she answerd quickly. ‘Not at all.’ Eight children, Rob had said. And a poor widow saddled with them all. No wonder she had no time or patience for one who was special.

      ‘Ah, then you’ve come for your dress,’ she said, picked up the carefully folded green velvet and handed it to Stella.

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘I tried me best, but …’

      The dress would never be the same. And somehow, it did not matter.

      ‘Come, Wat.’ His mother held out her hand. ‘Don’t bother this lady.’

      Stella tightened her hand on his. ‘He is no bother. I’d like to watch him for you.’

      Surprise dissolved into relief and then a shrug. ‘Do what you like. It will keep him from under me feet.’

      Anger made her tongue tart. ‘You take little enough care of him. He wanders by himself. Something could happen to him.’

      The Widow’s weary eyes met hers, a gaze at once hollow and overfull. ‘Who are you to judge my life?’

      No one, she realised. She was no one at all. ‘Come, Wat. Find your ball and we will play.’

      Days passed.

      Rob allowed her outside the walls, as long as she was with Wat, somehow knowing that the grip of the boy’s fingers