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Captive of the Border Lord
Blythe Gifford
TO MARRY HIM WILL BE TO BETRAY HER FAMILY Bessie, the selfless sister of the powerful but stubborn Brunson clan, has sacrificed herself for her family’s honour and is at the mercy of the court of King James. Illsuited to court life, she must confront their mortal enemy, Lord Thomas Carwell, dressed in nothing but borrowed finery and pride.Underneath the relentless gaze of her captor she’s enticed not only by him but also by the opulence of a world far removed from her own. When the furious King demands her brother’s head, Carwell is the only one to whom she can turn. But she must pay the ultimate price for his protection…The Brunson Clan The family who will kneel to no one…
Create the illusion of the dance. Was this one of the lessons in how to survive at court?
There were things she admired about this man. The patient care he had taken to teach her the dance. The way he had risked the King’s wrath to protect her.
It was only the dance that made her warm. Only the relief that she could do it, that she would not be embarrassed next time, that made her smile. Only the habit of being in tune with his body that made her sway closer …
His arms had taken her before he realised it. Last time his armour and their audience had protected him. And her. This time the cloth between them seemed all too flimsy.
This time they were alone. This time there was no one to see what they did. She was happy and easy with him at last. He had dreamed of those lips, and now they beckoned to him …
AUTHOR NOTE
When I began to write this, the second in The Brunson Clan trilogy, all I knew of the story was that ‘the sister goes to court’. The next hint only seemed to confuse things. ‘Cinderella …’ whispered my Muse. She also said, ‘Rebecca …’ the perfect first wife of the Daphne du Maurier tale.
But the strongest message I received was an image of dancing in a castle by the sea. It seemed like something out of a fairytale—much too fanciful for the plain-spoken and practical sister of a rough and ready band of Border warriors.
Which was, of course, exactly the point.
About the Author
After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD started writing seriously after a corporate lay-off. Ten years and one more lay-off later, she became an overnight success when she sold her Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist manuscript to Harlequin Mills & Boon. She has since written medieval romances featuring characters born on the wrong side of the royal blanket. Now she’s exploring the turbulent Scottish Borders.
The Chicago Tribune has called her work ‘the perfect balance between history and romance’. She lives and works along Chicago’s lakefront, and juggles writing with a consulting career. She loves to have visitors at www.blythegifford.com, ‘thumbs-up’ at www.facebook.com/BlytheGifford, and ‘tweets’ at www.twitter.com/BlytheGifford
Previous novels by the same author:
THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN
THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER
INNOCENCE UNVEILED
IN THE MASTER’S BED
HIS BORDER BRIDE
RETURN OF THE BORDER WARRIOR* (#ulink_7af78f3d-0c39-5da6-9fa2-019a840e7021)
* (#litres_trial_promo)The Brunson Clan
Look for Black Rob’s story in The Brunson Clan trilogy coming soon
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Captive of the
Border Lord
Blythe Gifford
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dedication
To all those who have forgotten what they want.
Or are afraid to claim it.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Michelle Prima and Pat White,
who help keep me sane, and to Pam Hopkins,
who continues to believe in me.
Women sing the ballads. The ballads do not sing of women.
—Geordie Brunson
But the women’s voices sang strong and clear. Strong enough to carry the stories down through the ages.
Left on the field by the rest of his clan
Abandoned for dead was the First Brunson man.
Every Brunson knew the Ballad of the First Brunson. Yet the song still held secrets.
Secrets for each Brunson to discover in his—or her—own way.
Chapter One
The Middle March, Scottish Borders— November 1528
Bessie Brunson took a deep breath and prepared to climb a flight of stairs for what seemed like the hundredth time since sunrise.
It was not yet noon.
The steps that faced her now led to the top of the barmkin wall, where her brothers had taken the watch, all the better to keep them from under her feet while she made final preparations for the wedding celebration. But two grown men needed food, so she raised her skirt in one hand, balanced the bag of oat cakes in the other, and started up the stairs.
Thunder rumbled and she looked up at the November sky, startled. Grey, windswept, but …
Not thunder. Hooves.
She hurried the last few steps to reach the wall walk, then stood between her brothers and looked west over the valley that was theirs. ‘Who comes?’
Black Rob shook his head. ‘No one I want to see.’
She squinted against the wind, as the banner’s green and gold became clear. The colours of Lord Thomas Carwell, Warden of the Scottish March.
I’ll hold you responsible, if something happens. Bessie had told him that, right before Willie Storwick escaped. And the warden had never proven he wasn’t.
Not to her satisfaction.
She turned to her brother John. ‘We did not invite him to your wedding.’
‘No,’ Johnnie answered. ‘But he was courteous enough to send a man ahead to announce his coming.’
‘Only because he knew he’d be shot from his horse if he arrived without warning,’ Rob said.
She sighed. Neither one of them had thought to tell her the guest list might swell. ‘Will you let him in?’
On her left, Black Rob, now head of the family, fingered his crossbow. ‘I’d rather shoot him.’
Johnnie, taller, with hair red as her own, shook his head. ‘We’ve done enough to anger the King. Let’s at least see what Carwell has to say.’
Rob scowled and she held her breath, waiting for them to quarrel anew, but finally, he nodded. ‘But we tell him nothing.’
The horses slowed as they approached the gate. Carwell removed his steel bonnet, a gesture of peace, and pushed straight brown hair off his forehead as he looked up at the three Brunsons. ‘We’re here to celebrate a happy occasion.’
‘Cease your blather, Carwell,’ Rob growled. ‘No one invited you.’
‘An oversight. I’m sure you meant to include the King’s representative.’
Beside her, Johnnie clenched a fist. He had come home a King’s man, but stayed home a Brunson. Some day, they would all have to answer for that.
‘Our hospitality does not extend to those who betray us,’ Rob called down.
‘An accusation I’ve denied.’
‘But did not disprove,’ John answered.
‘And still you’ve ridden and fought by my side.’
‘True,’ 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.
