Captive of the Border Lord. Blythe Gifford

Rob said. ‘That doesn’t mean we trust you.’

      No one knew whose side Carwell was on, except for his own.

      Carwell stretched out his left arm, palm up, smile unshaken. ‘I swear by my baptised hand that I come in friendship.’

      Now it was Johnnie who yelled, ‘And will you leave the same way?’

      Bessie sighed. She could feed twelve more if she cut the beef in smaller chunks, though she wasn’t sure where the men would sleep. She leaned over the wall. ‘Leave your weapons at the gate and cause no trouble and you’re welcome to the feast.’

      She turned to go back down the stairs, ignoring Rob’s glare and Johnnie’s raised eyebrows. ‘The meat wasn’t cooking itself while you three dunderheads traded insults. I’ll not have Johnnie’s wedding spoiled by the likes of him.’

      Carwell had spoiled things aplenty already.

      Carwell forced himself to smile while his men handed over pikes, swords and crossbows and entered the tower’s courtyard.

      Disarming was no risk. If a Brunson wanted to kill you, he would be sure you had a sword in your hand when he did.

      And Thomas Carwell was a man who always calculated the risks. He might be unpopular, but he was alive. So he’d smile at these people and celebrate this wedding without pointing out that the marriage of John Brunson and Cate Gilnock had put him in a very, very difficult position.

      Bessie Brunson stood in the courtyard, the stern set of her chin less than welcoming. ‘Tell them to eat no more than their share.’

      Rude words for soft lips, but he let her insult lie unanswered.

      I’ll hold you responsible, she had told him. Apparently, she blamed him still.

      He blamed himself. For things she would never know.

      The smile strained his cheek muscles. ‘We’ll not make ourselves gluttons.’

      He had a moment’s sympathy for her. His own castle had room aplenty these days. He could have housed legions of unexpected guests.

      But the Brunson tower was built for strength alone. And Bessie Brunson, red-haired and small boned, looked as if she needed its protection.

      The light brown eyes that studied him brimmed with suspicion. ‘It was no oversight that you weren’t invited.’

      Despite her woman’s delicacy, she was as blunt and stubborn as the rest of her kin. Good way to get yourself killed.

      ‘But I wanted to celebrate with you,’ he said. ‘To congratulate John and Cate.’

      That, and to deliver a message her family would not want to hear.

      Her raised eyebrows and crooked frown suggested he had not fooled her. ‘So do that,’ she said, ‘and naught else.’

      He tipped his head in thanks, as if she had the right to dictate to him. She’d discover the truth soon enough.

      As she glanced toward her brother, a smile finally touched her lips. ‘They deserve a long and happy life together.’

      ‘Aye,’ he said. Something his marriage had been denied.

      Despite, or because of, the extra guests, the celebration that began at midday went long into the night.

      Ignoring the ache between her shoulders, Bessie looked over the crowded hall, satisfied. Drink still flowed, singing had begun and, with the addition of Carwell’s men, they had tapped the last barrel of red wine her dead father had taken from the church for safe keeping after the priest fled to Glasgow.

      They had cleared space for dancing and the bride and groom skipped down the row together. Though Cate was still more comfortable in breeches than the skirt she wore, she floated beside John, mirroring his movements. The men began singing the new ballad they had composed about her.

       Braw Cate, they called her, Cate the Belde …

      Cate, laughing, tripped over her skirt and leaned against her smiling husband.

      Bessie looked away.

      The room was filled with men she had known her entire life—Odd Jock, Fingerless Joe, the Tait brothers—and not one among them could make her smile the way Cate smiled at Johnnie.

      ‘A good day,’ said Rob, next to her. It was not simply for his dark hair and eyes that her oldest brother was called Black Rob. Yet even he was smiling.

      Her gaze drifted back to Thomas Carwell. A half-smile still stamped his face, slapped there like a permanent mask only meant to conceal what was beneath.

      She knew something about concealed feelings.

      ‘Here, Bessie!’ Johnnie called. ‘Take a turn with me.’

      She shook her head. ‘Brunsons sing, they don’t dance.’ Words her father had grumbled whenever her mother had tried to pull him to his feet.

      Her brother laughed with the easy joy of a man just wed. ‘This Brunson does. Here.’ He reached out a hand. ‘I’ll show you how they dance at court.’

      She waved him off, suddenly conscious of Carwell’s eyes on her. That man, too, had the courtliness Johnnie had acquired living beside the King in distant castles in places she had never seen.

      And she had no desire to look like a country fool in front of them. ‘Dance with your bride, Johnnie.’

      And then, before she knew it, Carwell was beside her, his hand on her waist. ‘I’ll show you.’

      He did not wait for her protest, but swung her on to the floor, facing him.

      ‘It’s called the galliard and there are only five steps. Right, left, right, left, and then …’ He jumped off one foot and landed squarely on two. ‘Now you.’

      She stared down at his feet and followed his lead. For just a moment, wearing her best dress, with her hair fresh washed, the ache slid off her shoulders. This must be how it felt to be a lady at court, light on your feet, dancing before the King …

      Her eyes met his—his damnable, changeable eyes. He had no doubt danced with ladies like that. Ladies who knew all the steps.

      She stumbled and tripped over Carwell’s feet.

      Her forehead knocked his chin, her cheeks turned hot and she pulled away, feeling like the lout she was. ‘I do not dance. Let me be.’

      She left the floor to lean against the wall and he turned to the other wives and sisters, making each of them giggle and smile in turn as they stumbled through the steps. Had she looked that way when she was beside him?

      She bit her lip and turned away. Silly women.

      The last honey-flavoured oat cake disappeared into Odd Jock’s maw and she pushed herself away from the wall, scooped up the empty platter and started down the stairs to fetch more. Let the other women enjoy the dance. She would fill the platters and mugs.

      Carwell followed her out of the hall and down the stairs. He’d drunk enough to need a piss, no doubt.

      ‘There’s a garderobe in the corner,’ she called, over her shoulder, pointing. ‘No need to go outside.’

      Opening the door a crack, she wished she, too, could stay within the tower’s walls instead of braving the courtyard to reach the kitchen. A cold mist hung in the night air, threatening to dissolve into rain.

      Carwell joined her by the door. ‘Do you feel unwell?’

      A strange question. She was as healthy as a Galloway nag, her mother had always said. ‘Of course not.’

      ‘Then perhaps you need some help.’

      ‘Help?’ How was it that a man, a stranger, noticed what her brothers did not?

      She