Captive of the Border Lord. Blythe Gifford

Carwell wrap a heavy cloak around her shoulders.

      She looked up at him, bewildered. No man she knew studied a woman so carefully that he could hear her unspoken thoughts. The men she knew didn’t even hear the ones she said aloud.

      She might be cold, yes, but she was not a woman who needed pampering. She pulled off the cloak, holding it out to him. ‘I don’t need this.’

      He took it back and swept it around her again, proving he could ignore her words as thoroughly as any man. ‘I won’t have you falling ill on the road.’

      His hands rested on her shoulders and the wind, at her back, blew the cloak around them, enfolding them like lovers in a blanket. What would it feel like, to have a man to hold her, to protect her? She swayed, tempted to lean into his chest …

      No. This journey was not about what she wanted. It was about her duty to her family. So while she could not succumb to a desire for protection, neither could she allow stubborn pride to make her refuse good food and warm clothes.

      ‘I must thank you, then,’ she said, the words bitter as the bannock had been savoury.

      He let her go. ‘Don’t force yourself.’

      She bit her lip. Again, she had stumbled. He must expect please and thank you, curtsy and smile, and all the rounded corners of courtly style.

      Well, she had thanked the man. That was high praise from a Brunson.

      ‘I’ve made you a place there—’ he pointed ‘—near the water.’

      They had stretched a blanket between the ground and a tree to create a makeshift tent. Her eyes widened. No Borderer bothered with a shelter when they travelled the hills. They slept under open air, the better to see the enemy’s approach.

      But at the sight, her shoulders sagged, suddenly acknowledging her weariness. He had given her a private space, a shelter near the water where it would be easy to drink and wash.

      The rush of gratitude was genuine this time, but she would not grovel with thanks. Not after he had rejected her last effort.

      ‘Your women must be soft,’ she said. The words held an edge of envy she had not intended.

      Pain seized his face.

      ‘I can see,’ he said, struggling to return his mask to its place, ‘that you are not.’

      Then she remembered.

      Not … now. He had no women in his house.

      ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’ Her thoughtless words fell gracelessly in the air. She was as awkward in speech as in the dance. Tripping over feet, bumping into people.

      He did not wait for her to trip again before he turned to leave.

       Chapter Four

      Carwell was puzzling over her when he woke the next morning.

      He did not like puzzles.

      Problems, yes. Problems could be solved. Warring Brunsons could be persuaded to observe a temporary truce. The King could be convinced to return the warden’s post to its rightful owner.

      The English could be induced to secret negotiations concerning the fate of the Earl of Angus.

      These problems he could solve, though the solution might be imperfect. The trick was never to reveal your aim. To stay flexible and circumspect and let each side feel as if they had won.

      But women could not be dealt with that way. Fragile, delicate and even irrational, a man could only accept them and protect them. At any cost.

      For if he could not, the price would be much too high.

      I’ll hold you responsible, Bessie had said. And he had failed. Betrayed by the betrayer, he had allowed an outlaw to escape.

      A pale reminder of larger sins.

      But Elizabeth Brunson? He did not know who she was or how to deal with her. She was silent more often than she spoke and when she looked at him with that damnable calm, he wanted to shake her.

      He could deal with hot-blooded, quick-tempered Borderers. Was one, though he hid it well.

      But he was accustomed to a woman who wanted to please, to bend, to mirror your wants in her smile. This woman took in your desires, ignored them and went on to do as she pleased.

      Sure as the stars, they sang of the Brunsons. Immovable as a rock, they should have sung of her.

      Well, such stubbornness might have been welcomed on the Borders, but at Stirling, it would serve neither of them well.

      He was going to have to protect this woman, too, but in a very, very different way than most.

      He rose to start the day. He must reach Stirling and convey the secret English offer to King James before official treaty negotiations reconvened. And as for Elizabeth Brunson, he would get her safely to Stirling and back.

      What happened to the woman after that was not his affair.

      For the first moments after she opened her eyes, Bessie thought she must still dream. Where were the walls that sheltered her? Where was the ceiling that had protected her from wind and rain for all of her eighteen years?

      She had been away from home before, of course. Since her mother’s death, she had visited every scattered Brunson household. But she had never been so far away.

      She had never been out of sight of the Cheviot Hills.

      Now, she was on the edge of a strange landscape with a strange man, going to a place that might as well have been across the sea.

      She sat up and shook her hair down her back. Well, here she was. She would do her duty. At least she had slept well.

      She cast an eye towards the stream. This morning, shielded from the rest of the camp, she had easy privacy. When would she have water and seclusion again?

      She grabbed her plaid and slipped out of her dress, leaving only the linen sark. Light touched the sky, but the sun still hid below the hills. Cold, cloudy, but without snow. The water would be freezing. Too bitter to bathe, but at least she could rinse off the dust of the journey before they headed into the hills again.

      She crept down to the water and stilled as she heard something downstream.

      And she turned her head to see Thomas Carwell, naked as the day he was born, wading into the freezing river up to his waist.

      Her eyes widened to take in broad shoulders and a strong chest narrowing to—

      She shut her eyes.

      Hearing the splash that meant he waded in deeper, she dared to open them again. He had submerged himself in the water, then stood, throwing his head back, letting the water drip off his straight brown hair and run down his neck and shoulders on to his chest.

      She shrank down, hoping he would not see her. Too late for pretence. If he saw her, he would know what she had seen.

      Well, she had as much right to the river as he did.

      Next time he ducked beneath the water, she would run around the bend, where he couldn’t see—

      ‘Do you spy on me, then?’

      Too late. And a Brunson should never cower.

      She opened her eyes and stood to her full height, fighting a shiver. How could the man stand so calmly, waist deep in frigid water? ‘You put my bed near the river. I assumed you wanted me to use it.’

      For a moment, she could read his eyes clearly. They travelled from her hair to her bare toes, raising heat within to fight the air’s chill. The water safely disguised him below the waist, but the plain white linen covering her from shoulder to knee suddenly felt transparent.

      Did her breasts press against the linen? Could he see the shape of her legs?