Return of the Border Warrior. Blythe Gifford
the Gilnock wench.
In truth, he had not planned to kiss her, but when she refused to surrender, when her eyes clashed with his as strongly as her blade, he found himself … roused. Even then, he had expected little more than the taste of cold steel. But her lips, thin and sharp as her tongue, warmed, drew him in …
And then rejected him.
She might not have meant it as a challenge, but that was his body’s translation.
Women did not refuse Johnnie Brunson.
He watched her, surrounded by her men, wondering what kind of a woman she was. Flaxen hair framed a face hard, sharp and spare as the rest of her. At least, that’s what he had thought until he was close enough to feel her breasts against his chest and see the sweep of her thick lashes.
He forced his thoughts away from rumpled sheets and throaty laughs. She did not seem to offer stories of her own, but she laughed at the others and encouraged them to tell their own tales.
In that, at least, she seemed a woman. She was likely as changeable as any he had known. All he must do was figure out how to change her.
Beside John at the table, the men who had ridden with Red Geordie were swapping stories of Storwick cattle stolen and recovered and stolen again and making promises of the cattle they would steal in Geordie’s memory.
John did not waste breath to argue. Black Rob would decide when, where and if they raided again, but John must not force that choice too soon.
When next John turned to look for Cate, she had gone.
‘Would you sit a watch with him?’ His sister’s voice, soft, came over his shoulder.
He turned to see her, and Rob, faces scored with grief, behind him.
‘It should be kin beside him,’ Rob began, as if John were kin no more.
‘Rob, please.’ Bessie’s voice was weak and weary.
He met his brother’s eyes, clashing as they had, even as boys. ‘I am as much his son as you are,’ he said. At least, that was what he had told himself whenever he had doubts. ‘I will take my turn.’
He rose. No other choice. He must face his farewell.
Alone, he climbed the stairs and paused at the open door to the room where his father lay. The candle that would burn throughout the night flickered on the chest by the hearth.
And at the foot of the bed, Cate Gilnock sat, head bowed, as if she were kin with the right to sit with him.
Anger pushed him into the room to claim his place. His brother, his sister, even the men who rode beside Geordie the Red were closer to him than John was. That, he had accepted.
But not this woman, this interloper.
‘I sit with him alone,’ he said, voice cold.
She jumped up and reached for her dagger, stopping only when she recognised him. ‘If you cannot respect his word, you should not sit with him at all.’
Her words twisted inside him, sharp as a blade. ‘Alone,’ he said, not trusting himself to say more.
Wordless, she lowered her blade and stepped outside.
His father lay in the curtained bed where he had died, arms at his side, wrapped in white linen. John could hardly imagine his gentle, doe-eyed sister having prepared the body for burial, but here he lay, even in death, his face as fierce as in John’s memories.
He took a step forwards. He should pay his respects. He should pray for his father’s soul as Cate no doubt had done. Or perhaps he should be fearful that the man’s spirit, vengeful, might still haunt the room. He should feel … something.
Instead, he felt as if he stood in an empty room.
Hard to even picture this body as his father, straight, strong and spare of speech with no time for his youngest boy except brief minutes to drill him in the wielding of the staff and sword. He had not been the son favoured with the old man’s care and training. John had been the one pushed from the nest and sent to the king, his loss mourned no more than that of a cow or a sheep.
And in ten years, never a word sent except notice of his mother’s death, as if John had ceased to exist once he had left Brunson land.
Well, he was back and his father, in truth, was dead as he had been to John for the last ten years.
Taking a step closer to the bed, he was swept with a wave of grief that weakened his knees. Staggering, he gripped the corner post of the bed to stay upright. He thought Rob was the one who needed to grieve, Rob the one who needed time to adjust to his father’s loss before he shouldered the demands of the head of the family.
Now, John faced the truth. He was the one for whom it was too soon. Too soon to accept that his father was gone. Too soon to release the glimmer of hope he’d felt as he rode across the hills, proudly wearing his armour. Hope that he might make peace with the man at last.
Too late for that now.
Peace, if peace were possible, would have to be made with his brother.
The air stirred behind him. The room was empty no more.
‘When did you last see him?’ Cate’s voice.
He did not turn, but spoke the memory. ‘I was twelve. He sent me to Edinburgh, with just enough men to assure I’d arrive safely. We rode as far as the burn, crossed the water, I turned back to wave…’
But his father had already left the parapet and, in that moment, left his life.
John shook his head, stood straight and turned his back on the body in the bed. There would be no reconciliation now. ‘I last saw him ten years ago.’
Shadows and candlelight softened her face, until he believed, for a moment, that she understood.
Or did he see only pity for a man who did not belong to his family?
He bristled against it. She was the one who did not belong beside the deathbed. ‘Why are you praying over my father as if he were kin? Where is your own?’
‘Dead as yours.’ Whispered, words more vulnerable than any she had yet spoken. ‘At the hand of Scarred Willie Storwick.’
Now. Only now did he understand. ‘So you picked up his sword and his men and vowed vengeance.’
She didn’t bother to nod, and when her eyes met his, the woman’s softness was gone and he faced the warrior again. ‘And your king will have no men of ours until I’ve had it.’
Her words, a vow, chilled him, but hot anger rose to wipe out the feeling. This stubborn woman was his enemy, as much or more so than the Storwicks across the border. ‘The king will have his men, or you’ll wish he had.’
She sniffed. ‘I’m not afraid of your king.’
‘I was not speaking of the king.’
Her eyes widened and he regretted his threat, but her obstinacy had swamped all his plans of persuasive charm.
He leaned closer, this time resisting her lips. ‘But the king, too, knows something of revenge. That’s why he’s going to destroy the man who’s held him captive these last few years.’
‘If he’s a man who knows revenge, he will know why I need mine.’
‘He won’t. Not if it stands in his way.’
He wanted to best her now, as he’d been unable to do in the yard. ‘So if you’re of the Brunsons, you’ll do as we do. The king will have his men. I am here to make sure of it.’
‘Johnnie!’ Bessie stood at the door, the faintest hint of judgement in her voice.
How long had she stood there, silent as a wraith, watching?
And what had she seen?
She