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Taken by the Border Rebel
Blythe Gifford
TORMENTED BY HER INNOCENCE As leader of his clan, Black Rob Brunson has earned every dark syllable of his name. But, having taken hostage his enemy’s daughter in a fierce act of rebellion, he is tormented by feelings of guilt and torn apart with the growing need to protect her – and seduce her!Stella Storwick feels Rob’s disdain from the first. Then slowly she starts to see behind his eyes to a man in turmoil. Something he has no words for, something that can only be captured in a heart-wrenching kiss… The Brunson Clan The family who will kneel to no one…
‘Why don’t you marry a husband who’ll keep you from roaming the Borders alone?’
Flour still clung to her apron, and he couldn’t help but think she looked ridiculous instead of haughty.
‘I will,’ she said finally. ‘Soon. Someone worthy. Special.’
Special. She said the word as if to insult him. ‘Who is special enough for you?’ The words curdled on his tongue. Why even ask? He didn’t care. Not really.
‘No one you would know. No one the least bit like you.’ She turned away, as if she could choose to end the conversation.
Suddenly he wanted to know who would possess this infuriating woman. ‘He interests me if he will ride to rescue you.’
She looked back at him, eyes wide. He was not skilled with women, but this one was hiding something.
‘Then you will have to wonder at it, won’t you?’
And he did wonder. She was more than of an age to marry, and more than passable to look on. Why was she not yet wed?
And as he looked at her he was also wondering why he had ever thought taking Stella Storwick was a good idea.
About the Author
After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD started writing seriously after a corporate layoff. Ten years and one layoff 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 and www.pinterest.com/BlytheGifford, ‘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_f80a19d7-82aa-50ce-b097-89559fd04b58)
CAPTIVE OF THE BORDER LORD* (#ulink_f80a19d7-82aa-50ce-b097-89559fd04b58)
* (#ulink_72e6fa9d-012a-5916-9598-1a0ee61872ef)The Brunson Clan
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
AUTHOR NOTE
Black Rob Brunson, oldest son and head of the family, brooded silently at me as I wrote the first two books about The Brunson Clan. I began his story with trepidation, not sure I knew what was behind his scowl.
At least I had spent two books with him. Of Stella, I knew no more than Rob did. She was an enemy. And a temptation.
But, ah, the joy of discovery! Is that not the best part of falling in love?
Taken by the Border Rebel
Blythe Gifford
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To all those who face the tyranny of expectations.
Robin, in thanks for many kindnesses
and the occasional kick in the pants.
And in memory of Marley,
a bloodhound much loved by his family,
who helped me understand the character of sleuth-dog Belde.
Left on the field by the rest of his clan
Abandoned for dead was the first Brunson man
Left for dead and found alive
A brown-eyed Viking from the sea
He lived to found a dynasty.
Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars,
Strong as the wind that sweeps Carter’s Bar
Sure-footed and stubborn, ne’re danton nor dun’
That’s what they say of the band Brunson
Every Brunson leader since the first knew his beginnings.
Knew that the blood that coursed through his veins was shared with the First Brunson, a man so strong he refused to die.
That was the strength this clan demanded.
Each head man has to find his own within.
Sometimes it was not what he expected …
Chapter One
The Middle March—April 1529
When Black Rob Brunson took his first waking breath that morning, he inhaled air free of the stink of cinders for the first time since the Storwicks had torched the tower’s buildings scarce two months before.
Yet his waking thought was the same that morning as it had been the one before and the one before and the one before that. They would pay. Every last one of them.
Oh, he had taken retribution quickly. Their roofs had felt flame. Their head man now languished under the eyes of a Scottish guard.
But it wasn’t enough. Not for all they had done.
The ashes had faded with the snow. The kitchen roof had new thatch, but with his second breath, he knew the truth. His nose would never be free of the stench.
Nor would theirs. He’d make sure of that.
He swung his feet over the side of the bed and glanced over his shoulder, still half-expecting his dead father’s ghost to lurk behind him.
Nothing there.
Rob was alone in the head man’s chamber. He was the head man now, as he’d been raised to be for twenty-six summers.
He stretched, scratched an itch on his back and reached for his boots.
Snow and frost had lingered, but this morning, he felt a softness in the air. Spring. Lambing time. Time for him to be a shepherd as well as a warrior, riding the valley to be sure the flock was well tended.
Last year, he had ridden beside his father.
Up and dressed, he foraged the kitchen, searching for a leftover bannock to stuff in his bag. His sister used to do that for him, for all of them. Cooked the food, washed and cleaned, kept everything in order until a few months ago, when she deserted them for that untrustworthy husband of hers.
Soon, they’d be harrying him to find a wife. Some woman who would fuss at him for riding out alone. Danger was not gone with the snow, but he would be back before dark and no one would dare a daylight raid on a sunny spring day.
Besides, he preferred the solitude. Alone, he’d have at least a few moments when no one was looking at him, waiting for his word to be the final one.
He walked through the gate and surveyed the ponies grazing outside the walls, glad to leave the tower behind. He whistled and Felloun trotted over, ready to ride. In truth, Rob felt more at home on the horse than anywhere else. The ground beneath the pony’s hooves, the land itself was home to him. He was part of it—hills, moss, rocks and soil. Kin to the earth, he sometimes thought, and not to men at all.
But that was the way of all Brunsons, since the First. A Brunson was of the land. Of this land.
The other half of him, the half some men found in mates, that half was in these hills. None would force them asunder.
He reached the closest family before the sun was high. Bleating sheep milled about and a well-trained dog tidied the edges of the flock, responding to his master’s whistle.
Rob nodded to the man. ‘All well?’ Not to suggest Fingerless Joe needed help. Simply to be here if he did.
‘Aye.’
A new lamb, wobbly on his legs, stayed close to its mother.
Rob swallowed. ‘The little one. Strong enough to move to high land come June?’
The man shrugged. ‘He will or he won’t.’
Rob looked away, towards hills that blurred before his eyes. It was the way of things. Weakness meant death. For man or beast.
He looked back at Joe, clear-eyed again. ‘Any sign of Storwicks?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Next week, then.’ Rob pushed a knee into his horse’s side and the beast turned, obedient.
No sign of them that Fingerless Joe might see.
Rob would look for himself.
By midday, Rob was high above the valley where a hoof-worn track wound across the hills and over the border, one he knew well.
As did the Storwicks.
He rode across the border and back, looking for fresh horse droppings.
The path was clear, so he returned to his side of the hill, dismounted, stretched out on the ground and gazed down on the valley that was his. Clear, this day. Clear as he’d seldom seen. He could see all the way to the tower, thrusting up strong from the greening grass.
Tempting to a Storwick, aye, but there was no weakness there. Not now.
Something shifted. The wind. A scent. A sound. He stiffened, alert, and turned his head.
Above him and to his left, sat a woman, silent and stiff, eyes fixed on him warily as if he were a Storwick.
He fashed himself for not looking carefully before leaving his horse. What if he’d been surprised by the enemy?
Neither spoke, looking.
Dark hair tumbled across her shoulders, but he would not call her beautiful. At least, not from this angle. Eyes and lips fought for control of her face. Her nose was too strong. Her chin too sharp. She looked vaguely familiar, but he had seen every far-flung Brunson at one time or another. Still, he could not summon which branch of the family was hers.
‘You’re far from home,’ he began, still trying to place her. The Tait cousin lived nearest, but he had no daughters.
She drew herself up into a crouch, like a wary animal ready to run. ‘Nay so far.’
He raised and lowered his shoulders, sorry he had frightened her. He motioned his head uphill, towards the border. ‘Storwicks are no more than five miles away.’
Not taking her eyes from his, she stood slowly and took a step back, as if nearness to the enemy had just occurred to her. The blush on her cheek paled. ‘Have I crossed the border then?’
‘Nay.’ He rose to his feet, uncomfortable that she stood while he was stretched out on the grass. What was the strangeness in her accent? ‘It’s just over there.’
Her eyes widened. She turned to look over her shoulder. Then ran.
