Taken by the Border Rebel. Blythe Gifford
from above. Quickly, she retreated to the room, closing the door behind her, hoping the boy had not seen her fingers shake.
‘She said what?’
Rob realised when Wat cringed that he had yelled loud enough to make the child think the anger was for him. For Sim Tait, yes, who couldn’t hold his piss long enough to stand guard for an afternoon, but not for this unfortunate bowbart.
His outburst seemed to have stolen the boy’s speech.
‘It’s all right, Wat.’ He put both hands on the boy’s shoulders. He could barely understand the child, who seemed to chew each word before he could spit it out. He might have misunderstood. ‘Tell me again what she said.’
Wat’s eyes searched the ceiling as if the words he struggled to find might be in the rafters. ‘Storwick command you to come. Now!’
Imperious words, if they were truly hers.
‘Hungry!’ Wat yelled.
Rob sighed and shook his head, unable to tell whether Wat or his prisoner was the hungry one.
Truth told, he was new to all this. Until less than a year ago, he had ridden at his father’s side, but when Rob took over the role he had prepared for all his life, he had not been prepared for a woman prisoner. Particularly not this one.
You can have no weakness, son.
What kind of woman was she? He mulled it over again as he climbed the spiralling stone stairs.
Storwick commands. Not in his house.
He quickened his steps and with a withering glance at Sim Tait, pounded on the door, not waiting for permission before he opened it.
She stood before him with a smile and a lifted chin. ‘Enter.’
One word. Arrogant as if he had interrupted something and she was graciously giving him permission to do so.
Command you to come. Had she been so bold? Only if she were accustomed to command.
He grabbed her arm and shook it, wishing he could shake her certainty. ‘You’re not a Red Storwick. You’re of Hobbes Storwick’s family.’
The high and mighty lift to her chin did not waver, but fear crept into her eyes again. ‘What makes you think so?’
‘You rode with him the day Scarred Willie escaped.’ It came back clearly now. In the midst of a standoff between Brunson and Storwick, she had dismounted to wander the market booths and shop for ribbons. Disobedient, daft and damn distracting. ‘And you’ve done nothing but ask of him since you got here. What kin are you? Tell me.’
‘You’re hurting me.’
He dropped her arm as if it were on fire.
Silent, she pursed her lips and clasped one hand to the other elbow, as if to keep it away from the spot he had touched.
Force was what he knew best. Not a good weapon to use against a woman. He shrugged. ‘Not surprising you deny him.’ He looked away. ‘That you’re ashamed to admit it.’
‘Where is he?’ Now she reached for him, fingers teasing his arm. ‘Please tell me.’
His lips parted to answer her.
Don’t be a weak fool, son.
He’d be damned if he was going to tell her more. They had kept his whereabouts secret for good reason. If the Storwicks knew Carwell had their leader locked tight in his moated castle, a raid would be sure to follow. He pulled his arm away. She was some kin. What difference did it matter which? ‘You sent the boy for me. Why?’
‘He didn’t tell you?’
‘A fool’s words. Meaningless.’
She looked at him as if wondering whether to say the truth. ‘I am hungry.’
Hungry. So the boy had meant her.
‘Do you mean,’ she continued, ‘for me to starve?’
He wanted to lock her in the room so he would see as little of her as possible, but that meant sending the Tait girl up with food, as if the woman were an honoured guest, entitled to be waited on and to eat a private supper.
But he’d not be accused of cruelty.
The smell of the midday soup, about to be served, crept into the room. Better to keep watch on her. ‘We’ll be taking food now. Come if you are hungry.’
He jerked his head towards the door and she glided ahead of him, lifting her skirts and floating down the stairs, leaving him to follow as a lackey to a queen.
Her hips and her hair swayed in opposite directions, and once again, he glimpsed the nape of her neck. As quickly, it was hidden behind a curtain of curls, black as his own. What would it taste like, her skin on his lips …?
His foot hit the floor at the end of the stair, jarring him from the vision. He pointed ahead. ‘Here.’ As if she could not see the hall before them with her own eyes.
She paused at the door, looking over the room, full of wary men.
‘Do you expect them to bow?’ He pulled on her arm, more roughly than he had intended. ‘Come. Sit.’
The Tait girl set the fare before them. Soup and bread and cheese.
Next to him, Stella took a sip and crinkled her nose in judgement.
‘We don’t eat banquets here,’ he warned. His father ate plain food, though not quite this plain. ‘I don’t care much for comfort.’
Now she was the one who scoffed. ‘That’s evident. Is there no salt or spice?’
Truth to tell, he thought the soup had lacked since Bessie left, but he did not know how to fix it. ‘Could you do better?’
‘Depends on the state of your larder.’
His stomach churned. He had more important things to do than count eggs. ‘I’ll let you find out. You be the cook tomorrow.’
He had no doubt she would find the larder wanting.
Stella took another sip. The Storwick men would be roaring if they had to choke down this swill, but she knew nothing of how to fix better.
God spared your life, her mother always said. He did not intend for you to spend it cooking.
The problem was, no one seemed to know exactly how He did intend for her to spend it.
‘How many men need feeding?’ She glanced down, as if the number were unimportant, gripping the bowl of soup so her fingers would not shake.
He shrugged. ‘Twenty.’
No more than at home. At least in the tower. ‘And the others?’
‘Ye needn’t worry about more. There’ll be no feasting.’
She nodded, hoping she masked a smile. Twenty men. And now she’d be allowed to leave her room to roam the buildings. ‘How many girls will be helping me?’
She had seen the man hold back words before, but this time, his jaw sagged. More speechless than silent.
He swallowed. ‘How many what?’
Storwick Tower was only a little grander than the Brunsons’, but somewhere her mother supervised women who toiled to produce food and drink and clean laundry. Stella had never been one of them.
‘Girls.’ She waved a hand. ‘To help me.’ Perhaps all they needed was firm direction. If she just told them what she wanted, they would produce it. A fat hen, perhaps. Or a fresh caught fish.
‘The Tait girl does it all.’
Now she was the one near dumb. ‘One woman does it all?’
‘She