him, Stella waved her hand, as if the dress were of no importance. As if she had hundreds more like it at home.
Wat trailed after them as they left, watching Stella with the same worshipful gaze that used to follow Rob.
Truth was, the boy’s adoration had never been comfortable for him. It held expectations Rob wasn’t sure any man could meet. But he had grown accustomed to it. And it made no sense for the boy to waste his admiration on Stella Storwick.
Wat looked at Rob and smiled. ‘She’s a very pretty dragon.’
Eyes wide, Stella glanced up at Rob, making no apparent effort to hide a smile before she turned to the lad. ‘Why, thank you, Wat.’
‘Go back, boy,’ Rob snarled.
She took the boy’s hand and pulled him closer. ‘The fault is not his.’
That, he knew. He’d like to make it hers, but that would be a lie. ‘We don’t need him with us.’
Her hand touched Wat’s shoulder. ‘He’ll do no harm.’
‘Nor any good, either.’ The boy had few uses. Simple tasks, sometimes, he could do.
‘Of course he can,’ she said, looking at the boy as if he were more than a halfwit. ‘Can’t you, Wat?’
Wat nodded.
‘He’ll agree with anything you say,’ Rob said. Or he used to. Before this woman arrived and the boy developed his own opinions about dragons.
‘But you told me,’ she began, words and eyes sending a warning, ‘that he would be good help with whatever we needed.’ She hugged the boy closer, as if he were a shield, and the child turned his worshipful gaze back to Rob.
He shook his head. The woman might not be able to cook or wash, but she could manoeuvre this boy as skilfully as he deployed men in battle. And, in the process, she gave him no choice but to be cruel or to allow the lad to come.
He crouched before the boy. ‘So you want to fish, do you?’
Wat nodded.
‘Then come along.’ Under the boy’s watchful eyes, he would have to throttle his words. And his temper. Which was, of course, exactly what the woman had intended.
But she was looking at Wat and tugging his hand to draw his attention back to her. ‘You must stay close to me and not go too far into the water. I must bring you safely back to your mother.’
But Wat, excited, wiggled like a pup and tugged at Stella’s hand, trying to hurry her towards the stream.
‘Go, then,’ Stella said. Wat took off running. ‘But don’t go in the water!’
Suddenly alone with her again, Rob missed the boy’s protection. ‘Well, he’s with us. What would you have him do?’
‘He can carry the fish.’
Rob threw Stella a warning look. ‘If we ever catch one.’
Despite her warning, Wat did not wait at the water’s edge, but ran in, stomping and splashing and throwing water in the air.
Stella ran, but Rob was faster. He scooped the wet, wriggling boy from the water and stood him back on the bank. ‘Did you think to scare the fish out of the water? If there was a fish there before, he’s swum for his life now.’
Wat cringed and Rob realised how harsh he must have sounded.
Stella knelt before the boy and hugged him. ‘I told you not to go in yet.’
Wat looked from one to the other and shrugged off her arms, as if bracing for a blow. ‘My fault.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Rob agreed sharply.
Her arms took the boy again and now she was the shield between them. ‘Do not blame him. He’s a …’ She paused, as if not wanting the boy to hear her insult.
‘He’s a fool.’
‘He’s a child, not a man.’
‘On this side of the border, he is a man. Or should be.’ Poor weak creature. Like the baby lamb, destined for an early death.
But her fierce expression brooked no argument.
He put a hand on Wat’s shoulder, gently enough that Stella eased her grip and the boy looked up, hopeful. ‘Go find us small sticks and twigs, Wat, as many as you can, and bring them back here.’
Reprieved, Wat scrambled down the bank towards the bushes.
‘And stay away from the stream,’ Stella called after him. ‘What will we do with the sticks when he brings them?’
‘You know no more of catching fish than you do of the kitchen, do you?’ If she was representative of the rest of her clan, it was no wonder they came raiding. Otherwise, they would starve.
‘Do you?’ She admitted nothing.
He thought for a moment of marching her into Liddel Water to catch the fish alone. She’d be up to those bare ankles in water first. Then, her borrowed skirts would be soaked, clinging to the curve of her hips. And if she were drenched in water the way she had been in flour …
He forced his mind back to the fish. ‘Actually, I do.’
She cast a doubtful gaze at the stream, then looked back at him. ‘What do I do first?’
He waved his hands. ‘Just build a little dam and a place for them to swim in.’
‘You’ve not done this before either, have you?’
‘I watched my mother do it.’ Watched as she set the sticks in place and relished the luxury of the catch.
‘When was that?’
Years. It had been years. ‘A while ago.’
‘Then how do you know how to do it?’
How? He never asked that question. The how of things was passed down in the blood, embedded in the bones. Once the sticks were in his hands, he would remember. ‘So you insisted we come out here and build a weir and you know nothing of fishing?’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘Well, in my family, it’s the women who do it.’
Shock stole her speech.
He had never wondered at it before. His father had taught him of war and sheep and cattle. The rest was left to the women.
‘Well,’ she said, finally, ‘if you at least had a picture of it, that would help.’
‘What do you want?’ he retorted. ‘A book of lessons?’
‘Yes.’
Now
