Taken by the Border Rebel Read online

  And he did.

  Not like before. Not with desire and possession mixed. This time, it was like a benediction. A blessing. A sharing of the sorrow and joy and poignancy of life all distilled in a touch.

  A nibble, a little more. And then, mutually, they parted.

  The kiss had spoken.

  Just as those glances between his parents once had.

  Rob had never trusted words, and while he didn’t want to, he had to trust this.

  And its message made him shake as no battle ever had.

  Stella’s heart thumped against her chest. She could hear it in her ears.

  His arms still surrounded her, strong as the wall around the tower. Strong enough that no harm would ever come to the woman he chose as his wife.

  Up to now, they had shared only anger and desire and their differences.

  This kiss was between two, imperfect, wounded people who might comfort each other. And as she rested, still, in his arms, hearing his heart where her ear rested against his chest, she could see days and nights and months and years, resting exactly so.

  The thought should have comforted her. It did not. It made the fantasy of marriage to him too real. Not a vision of leading an army on a charging steed or of self-righteous sacrifice on an enemy’s altar. Just a life with ebbs and flows. Mornings and evenings. Births and deaths. And someone to share it all.

  She straightened. He dropped his arms, as if he, too, had just realised who, and what, they were. She stepped back, turned away and brushed off her skirt, as if she could brush away the closeness. Behind her, she heard him clear his throat, felt him square his shoulders.

  ‘I should find Wat,’ she said, still not ready to face him. ‘Without me to look after him, something might happen.’ How could she have been so careless? The boy might go exploring again. He might fall down a well …

  ‘Stella.’

  His voice commanded she look at him. She let her fear, her doubt and her anger fall away, and did. ‘Yes?’

  He wanted to speak. She could tell that much. Had learned to read at least some of his expressions. Pain. Regret. Yearning. She could see all that. Even that he might consider letting her go …

  Or did she see only her own feelings?

  And then he smiled. A small one. Rueful. One that said clearly there were things he would not say.

  ‘Will there be fish for the table today?’

  She nodded, as if that had been their conversation. ‘Aye.’

  And as he left, all she could think of was that they had built the fish trap together.

  Chapter Ten

  The kiss gave Stella pause. In his arms, it had all seemed real. Even possible.

  Still, it was strange to walk the tower and the courtyard and to picture it being her home, to picture being Rob’s wife.

  When she had first come, forced to see the world from this side of the border, everything looked backwards, as if she was peering into her looking glass with the world reversed behind her. Even the sun rose and set in the wrong place.

  She had expected to enter a world of evil monsters. Instead, she was surrounded by people who ate, slept and peed the same way her family did.

  And given Willie Storwick, these people were probably nicer.

  So although she told herself that to marry Rob Brunson would be a great hardship, it was not, strictly speaking, the truth.

  The kitchen needed help, yes, and the Warrior Woman was as fierce as any rider she had ever known, but aside from that, and their accents, these people were not so different from her own.

  Except that they did not hold their breath when they looked at her, waiting. They simply judged her on what was before them. The Stella of today, not some long-ago miracle.

  And Rob Brunson, the man she expected to be as black as his name, was strong, silent, stubborn, and as devoted to his people as her father to his.

  The world was a strange place indeed if she could see herself living in the Brunson Tower. But if she did, Rob Brunson could not deny his wife’s wish to see her father before his death. Could he?

  So, as May stretched towards June, she fell into the rhythm of the household. With Johnnie and Cate gone, Rob tended the sheep and she tended Wat and the fish traps.

  And nothing more was said of kings or truces or her father. Yet something hovered, unspoken, as if everyone were waiting …

  And one fine May day, she tired of waiting for a miracle.

  She sat in her room after the evening meal, listening to the household quiet, hoping he would not make a late eve of checking the guards. The sheep and lambs would start making their way into the hills tomorrow, he had said, and he would be off riding more than usual.

  When she thought he might have returned, she sneaked into his room, lit only by the leftover moonlight. Not for him the comfort of a candle.

  He was standing, chest bare, as if he had been undressing for the night.

  ‘What brings you?’

  She kept her mouth shut. She would have to show him. To overcome his resistance with her body instead of talking. If she could join with him, then he would see.

  She pressed her body against his, raised her hands and pulled his face down to hers. He could have resisted. Could have held her off, easily, but he didn’t. Did he want it as much as she?

  His arms tightened around her. He deepened the kiss. And she thought the answer must be yes.

  Yes.

  ‘Stella …’

  His lips moved over hers, then explored the taste of her cheek, her ear, her neck, until his lips and hands seemed to be everywhere at once. And then, he took her mouth again, not gently, but with his tongue thrust deeply into her, meeting, fighting with hers.

  No respectful kiss she had ever received was anything like this.

  She felt its echo below her waist, felt the emptiness there that wanted him.

  Yes, wanted him.

  Had she come here, calculating, meaning to seduce him? She could no longer remember. Her body took command now.

  And his.

  She let her greedy hands slide from his cheeks down his neck and shoulders to stroke the skin of his back and then of his chest. Her breasts burned now, wanting to press against him, the muscles as hard as she had imagined. The shaft between his legs harder.

  Did she know what came next, what to do? No matter. Her hands, her lips, moved of their own will, over his skin, to his waist, lower. She dropped to her knees, her fingers fumbled at his breeches, but he took her wrists, in that implacable grip, and pulled her up, then lifted her into his arms and laid her on the bed.

  She closed her eyes, the better to feel, to sense him. From that first day, pressed against the ground of the hills, she had wanted this, wanted him over her, ready to possess her, to take her, to make her surrender as she had refused to do all these weeks.

  She reached down to pull up her skirts and spread her legs and then reached for his hand, not knowing what else to do, eyes still shut tight.

  Please.

  He paused.

  She opened her eyes.

  For a moment, suspended above her, he was far enough away that she could see his eyes. No words. The man spoke little at the best of times. He was not one to put emotions into words instead of action.

  So she must act, too, not wait for her brain to talk to her in confusing riddles. She wanted her body to speak as his always did. Forceful. Strong. Unhesitating.

  She grabbed his tarse and drew it to her, drew him to her, inevitable, impossible to resist.

  If he gripped his teeth any more tightly, he would break them apart and swallow them all.

  You can’t. You can’t. Not her.

  But her touch made him as heedless and thoughtless as the young man who had kissed the girls who didn’t want him, but only what he could give.

  And why did this woman want him? To trick him? He did not know. But it was not for love. That could not be.

  He pulled from her, feeling her fingers slip away, and he almost turned back.
Almost shook it all off to bury himself in her and in forgetfulness. He wanted to take her, to brand her, to touch her so that she would never be Storwick again, so that she would belong …

  He rolled off the bed, stumbled and clung to the bedpost. Belong to him? No. That must not be.

  He searched for an even breath. This had been no gentle kiss or exploration. This had been the most primitive sort of desire. One that might make her think him no better a man than Scarred Willie Storwick.

  But it had felt like more. Beyond. And that feeling was one he feared even more.

  He staggered on his feet. On the bed, she pushed herself to a sitting position and tugged her skirt down to cover her bare legs, not looking at him. Her breasts rose and fell as she tried to catch a breath, with no more success than he.

  In a moment, she would raise her eyes to his and he would have to face the hate in them again. Hate that these past weeks had almost erased.

  He closed his eyes. ‘I should not have …’ Weak words, but the only ones he had.

  The rustle of bedclothes ceased.

  He opened his eyes.

  Her expression was not what he expected. ‘It was …’ A large breath, then, ‘It was not you alone.’

  Aye. That was what had spurred him on. The woman had been hungry for him. Still was, judging by her eyes.

  A match for his.

  They looked at each other, making love without touching.

  Don’t let go of the bedpost, Rob me boy. Or you’ll not be able to control what happens next.

  No doubt there was something else he should say, but Rob was not a talker. Johnnie was the one who played with words. Rob believed that if a man was to do a thing, he should do it, not blabber on about it.

  But if her body’s desire mirrored his, he was facing danger strong as ever he had faced from a Storwick before, more treacherous than the point of a Storwick’s pike.

  She looked away first, swung her legs over the other side of the bed and stood. He let go a sigh of relief and looked about for the clothes they had flung aside in their haste. It gave him something to do. Put on a shirt. Tie a knot in the breeches. Flimsy armour, but the best he had.

  She stood at the window, her back still shutting him out. ‘Your room looks south, but clouds have covered the stars tonight. Will it rain tomorrow, do you think?’

  He picked up a scrap of cloth. A handkerchief. Hers.

  His fingers tightened on it. ‘This will not happen again,’ he said.

  She whirled to face him. ‘Will it not?’

  He could not read her eyes. Anguish? Challenge? Did she thrust her breasts towards him in temptation?

  She was the one. She was the one who had kissed him.

  ‘Next time you knock,’ he said. ‘I’ll not open to you.’

  But she had opened to him. Her legs, white and soft and willing. Her hands trying to guide him home … The memory still hot enough that he was at the ready all over again.

  She must have sensed it. Walked around the bed that separated them, hips swaying, until she was close enough for him to catch the scent of her and be lost all over again.

  Her arms snaked around his neck. Her fingers tangled in his hair and pushed his head to her lips …

  ‘No!’ He grabbed her hands, capturing her wrists and held her at arm’s length.

  Flushed, she seemed angry enough to breathe fire. Or was that desire instead?

  ‘What do you want of me, woman? Do you think to lure me to your bed so you can accuse me of defiling you?’ Although touching her had not been defilement, but connection deep as life.

  She shook her head and he sensed some shame there.

  He struggled to put his head in command of his body. ‘Or do you just plan to kill me in my own bed?’

  ‘I thought …’ Now she was the wordless one.

  ‘What?’ He shook her arms, getting her to meet his eyes again. Who was this woman? He had thought her arrogant and idle and useless. Yet no one could have been more caring with Wat. But never, ever, had he thought she would be so brazen as to force herself on him, though he had thought of her in his arms, and in his bed, more times than he wanted to admit. Even to himself.

  She only shrugged and shook her head.

  ‘I’m taking you to your room,’ he said. ‘And if you ever try this again, I will lock you up below.’

  That was the only threat that had ever seemed to frighten her. She didn’t seem to fear anything else. Even him.

  Holding her wrists with his left hand, he opened the door a crack. The corridor was empty. He strode into the hall, swinging her behind him, opened the door to her room and shoved her across the threshold.

  Just before he closed the door, she looked up at him and he could see the hunger in her eyes again, physical, and more …

  He leaned towards her, words, conviction fled again, lips parted, matching hers.

  At the last moment, he forced himself to swerve and leave his kiss on her cheek before he closed the door.

  And then, he realised he still clutched her handkerchief in his hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  Stella found no peace in sleep. Nor in dreams.

  Her body still burned, whether from shame or desire she could not say.

  Her plan had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

  All her self-righteous talk of sacrifice was a lie. She wanted him. Wanted him still. Wanted him with some kind of wild, reckless abandon that had stolen a simple plan and run roughshod over her intentions.

  This was not the noble martyrdom she had expected. Nor was it the glorious, but hard-won victory she had long thought her mission would be.

  It was carnal lust.

  But she had not been alone in that. He wanted her just as strongly. She knew it. Felt it in his body’s response. Strong and forceful, yes, but not cruel. Wanted her, wanted to take her, and yet it was all hunger and urgency, he, too, near helpless against the tide.

  But not quite.

  He had been the stronger. He had been strong enough to stop.

  She was not sure why. Not because he respected her, surely. His disdain had been clear from the first. But there had been a struggle, behind his eyes. Something he had no words for. Something that could only be captured in the softest kiss.

  As if there was some reason he didn’t want to speak. Or couldn’t.

  And for that, she did not know whether to love or hate him.

  Love. Where had the word come from? She had intended marriage and peace between the families, never love. Love meant his needs would be as important as hers. Love would make her vulnerable, even helpless …

  And the next moment, she realised what she must do.

  Leave.

  There was no more to discover here. Her father was being held far away and Black Rob had refused all pleas to let her see him. She must flee before her father was lost to her for ever.

  Before she succumbed to one more kiss in Rob Brunson’s arms.

  Coward. He’s the one you must escape.

  Soon. Now.

  Tomorrow.

  The next morning, once Stella was certain Rob had left to ride his rounds, she strolled across the courtyard, carrying her salmon-catching sack, full of other things. She entered the kitchen and scooped up a bannock or two, bidding Beggy gudday.

  ‘Wat gets hungry,’ she said, stuffing the food cakes in her hanging pocket.

  She spared only a careless glance for the kitchen as she left, as if her eyes only tripped over it instead of bidding it farewell.

  On the way out of the gate, she waved to the guard as if it were an ordinary day, smiling, hoping he would not stop her.

  He did. ‘Where’s the lad this morning?’

  ‘He’ll be along.’ Though she hoped not. She did not think she could bid Wat farewell without tears. ‘I just need to check the weir.’ As she did every day. ‘By the nightfall, we’ll have salmon, I hope.’

  She said it with a smile.

  Fortunately, Sim Tait was a man who liked s
almon. And who underestimated how far a woman could get without a horse.

  She strolled slowly, swinging her sack, and her hips, from side to side. If he watched her, all he would see was a woman enjoying the early summer sun.

  ‘Wait, wait!’ Wat’s voice. He was running to catch her.

  Ran right into her arms and she hugged him. Hard.

  She had not wanted to see him this morning. Not wanted to come face to face with the child she’d come to love. At least with Wat, she could admit it.

  She was crying and rubbed the tears away. ‘Now, Wat, I think Beggy just put some fresh bannocks in to bake. Please go back to the kitchen and wait until they are done and bring one back for each of us. Can you do that?’

  He nodded and turned to run back to the tower.

  And if I am not here when you come back …

  No. She could not say that. Couldn’t give even this poor child a hint. Maybe they would think she had drowned in the stream …

  ‘And, Wat,’ she called, waiting for him to stop and listen. ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘Always go home.’

  She nodded, choked and waved. ‘Now go.’

  She watched until he was back inside the walls surrounding the tower, then, she dipped over the rise and down to the edge of the stream and let go a breath, knowing she was out of sight.

  The water ran merrily this morning. She glimpsed a flash of silver scales and held her breath. A fish?

  It did not matter. She would not allow it to matter.

  She tiptoed towards the water, so as not to startle the fish. Then, she looked at the construction of twigs and sticks that she and Rob and Wat had built.

  Putting down the basket, she searched the ground for a tree branch heavy enough to do some damage. Then, hefting one with both hands, she waded into the stream and swung it at the weir, madly as if she were Wat, obsessed with repeating the same thing, over and over.

  Madly as if she could destroy her feelings for Rob along with the weir they had built.

  Water sprayed and splashed until it dripped from her hair and skirt and she did not have to sort the tears from the stream that snatched the twigs away and sent them merrily careening towards the Solway Firth.