‘You’re Storwick.’ He did not ask a question.
She opened her eyes. His were brown. And murderous.
‘And you’re Brunson.’ Close now, she knew him, the man she had seen near half a year ago at Truce Day. Fool she was, not to have recognised him immediately.
Not just a Brunson. The Brunson.
A flash of heat crackled through her body. Hatred, no doubt.
He was one of the Black Brunsons. Broad of shoulder and brow, dark of hair and eye. Yes, he had the brown eyes that marked all his cursed clan.
‘You’ll not take me.’ She braced herself, stiff armed and legged, as if that would stop him. ‘I won’t let you.’
He froze, then turned to spit in the dirt in contempt. ‘Brunsons don’t treat women so.’ Disgust now, in his eyes. ‘It’s your kind who do that.’
One villainous kin of hers who had done that.
She knew the truth of the whispers about him, though the man had never dared touch her.
No one dared that.
‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’ A lie, but one she hoped would keep him off guard. She tugged against his hold. An iron manacle would have given way more easily.
He released her hands with a look that warned her to keep them quiet. ‘You’ve heard wrong.’
She pushed herself up on her elbows. ‘Then let me go if you don’t mean to take me.’
He sat back on his heels and crossed his arms, his very silence ominous.
She held her breath to stop her speech. He had not guessed which Storwick she was. Or that she had come to the hills to spy on his precious tower.
‘How far behind are the others?’ He stood, pulling her to her feet, keeping his hand on her wrist while he gazed towards the English side of the border.
‘No others.’ Foolish admission. She had told no one her plan when she left this morning. Perhaps that had been unwise.
He turned back, sweeping her with a glance head to toe. One that said she might be daft, but he wasn’t. ‘You wander the hills alone with no horse?’
She shrugged to hide the shaking. ‘Sun doesn’t often come like this. I wandered too far.’ And had hoped to wander further. A horse would draw attention. ‘Let me go. I’m of no use to you.’
‘Oh, you’re of use to me. You’re going to serve as a hostage for the good behaviour of the rest of your people. If they ride to rescue Hobbes Storwick, you’ll be the one to pay.’
She blanched. Thank God. At least her father was alive.
They had not even been sure of that.
In violation of the Border Laws, the Brunsons had torched her home and captured her father, too ill to travel to the most recent Truce Day gathering.
But never too ill to defend his home.
Since then, there had been no word. None of them would have put it past the Brunsons to have killed him outright, but if he was alive, who held him?
That was why she had come to the hills today. To discover if her father was alive, where and what it might take to rescue him.
At his words, he’d seen a flash of fear disrupt the pride in her eyes. As if she really thought he was no better a man than her own vile kin.
Scarred Willie Storwick had shown no mercy to Johnnie’s Cate. This woman deserved no better.
But Rob Brunson was not a Storwick.
He sighed and eased his grip on her arm. The road to the south was clear and quiet, but he wondered whether to trust his ears and eyes. He’d been so lovesick at the sight of his land, he had not even noticed her before he dismounted.
His father would have never made such a mistake.
Against her skin, his palm heated, but he could not let her go or she would run again, bringing the others if they were not already on the way.
‘You’re a Storwick, that I know.’ He remembered, too late, why she looked familiar. He had seen her on Truce Day, last autumn, and spared one glance too many for her swaying hips. ‘Which one?’
She lifted that pointed chin in his direction, then pursed her lips before she answered. ‘One of the Red Storwicks.’
A Red Storwick without red hair, but she had the green eyes, huge and heavy-lidded. ‘You’re looking at Black Rob Brunson,’ he said.
She nodded, as if the news were old. ‘I know. Head of your clan.’
She could say so, but after eight months, those words still did not come easily to his tongue. ‘What do they call you?’
‘Stella.’ No hesitation this time.
‘What kind of name is that?’ It was no name he had ever heard. Not like Mary or Agnes or Elizabeth.
One she was proud of, judging by the way she held her head. ‘It’s Latin.’
‘Latin! Only churchmen know that.’
‘My mother does.’
Disbelief must have shown clear on his face.
‘Well, she knows a word or two.’
Proud of that, too. This woman seemed proud of everything. ‘So what does it mean, your name?’
‘Star.’
A chill rippled down his back. Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars. Thus began the Ballad of the Brunsons.
Those stars had no connection to this woman. None.
‘Well, Stella Storwick, you’ll have no need for Latin in Brunson Tower.’ He pointed to the pony. ‘Up there. Now.’
Stella kept her head down as they rode through the Brunson gate, hoping he would not see how closely she studied the family stronghold. Would they hold her father on the top floor? Or in the tower’s dark bowels? She searched every slit in the stone wall, hoping to see his face.
Black Rob rode behind her, his arms reaching around her, tight as shackles, to hold the reins. After he dismounted, he helped her down, a greater kindness than she had expected. Men appeared. A few women. A young, round-faced boy stared at the head man as if he were a hero.
Someone led the horse away and Rob told them who she was in few words while she looked around. The Brunsons had made more progress on rebuilding since their last raid than the Storwicks had.
Of course, they’d had more time.
He pushed her ahead of him towards the tower.
‘Where
