jumped and her heart thumped in answer.
The sound came again, on the floor this time, in an irregular rhythm. She opened the heavy wooden door and looked out.
The blond, round-faced boy she had seen in the courtyard ran up and down the hall, kicking a ball. When he saw her, he let the ball roll away.
‘Gudday,’ she said, noticing no one else was in the hall. No guard, then. Perhaps God’s will did extend so far north.
‘Gudein, lady.’ The boy mangled the words, as well as the time of day.
Still, she smiled. Children always made her smile. ‘What do they call you, lad?’
‘Wat,’ he said, his smile widening to meet hers. ‘I be Wat.’
She looked again, more carefully. A simpleton, by the sound of him, perhaps eight or ten. And one who knew the Brunson buildings better than she.
‘And I’m Stella.’ Swallowing her guilt, she knelt down, as if taking the boy into her confidence, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Wat, can you show me the tower? I’m sure I would get lost by myself.’
This might be her only chance to search for her father. And surely even Rob Brunson couldn’t fault a brainless boy for helping her.
Wat threw an uncertain look over his shoulder, as if hoping for reinforcements.
She squeezed his shoulder, driven by her own urgency. ‘I bet you know the best hiding places. Would you show me?’
Silent, he nodded, took her hand and led her up the stairs.
The warm, sunny day must have lured everyone outside, for they seemed to have the tower to themselves. And by the time she had seen everything from the stone flag roof to the entresol stacked with foodstuffs, she knew there could only be one place left.
Is that where you keep Hobbes Storwick?
No, he had said. But with a pause. A moment’s hesitation before a lie?
She looked down the stairs. Somewhere down there, the well’s open maw waited.
‘Wat,’ she said, gripping his hand so that he could not wander into harm’s way. ‘Show me the well room.’
Late in the afternoon, Rob returned home for the second time that day. After he had left the Storwick woman at the tower, he and his men had ridden hard and far, searching for signs that the Storwicks were riding. He found none. In fact, the family had been strangely quiet since their leader had been taken.
Why?
He had expected an attempt at rescue, or at least retaliation. Instead, only the whine of the wind swept over the border from the English side.
And instead of thinking about the potential threat, he was thinking of her.
Only because he must decide how to notify the Storwicks that she had been captured, not because he was remembering the heat of her, trapped between his legs and the ground.
He forced his thoughts to the simple things. Stabling Felloun instead of leaving him to graze. Removing the horse’s saddle and blanket. Fetching his feed. Patting his withers as thanks for another day of service.
With the horse cared for, he pushed open the iron yett that protected the sole door to the tower. Inside, the sound of unfamiliar footsteps echoed from the lower level.
Drawing his dagger, he bent his knees and followed the sound.
‘Show me.’ A woman’s whisper.
Hers.
He stepped more softly.
Back to him, clutching Wat by the hand, she stood peering into the well room. The iron grate had swung open, but she did not step inside. Instead, she leaned in, looking to the corners, as if the threshold itself were a cliff.
He straightened and released a breath, without sheathing his dagger. Well, now he knew he would have to waste a man to guard her door. ‘Did you change your mind, then?’
She jumped, gasping, and grabbed the boy close with both hands.
What was she looking for?
He stepped closer, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling. In the cramped space, his shadow loomed over them. Small, high window holes let in scant late daylight.
‘Don’t hurt the boy.’ Yet she clutched his head to her skirt, tight enough to smother the lad.
‘Hurt him?’ No more than he would hurt a dumb animal. ‘What do you take me for?’
‘A Brunson.’
What she thought an insult, he found a compliment. Yet he needed no halfwit, open-mouthed boy under foot right now. ‘Wat. Find your mother.’
The lad smiled at Stella Storwick and then ran up the stairs.
Rob moved closer, close enough that it seemed he must take her arm and turn her to look again into the small, dark room. In the centre, a covered well waited patiently for time of siege. Most days, they drew their water from the stream outside the walls.
‘So do you favour this instead of the “barren” room upstairs?’ The anger in his voice was for himself, but she would not know that.
Shoulders hunched, she shook her head without taking her eyes from the well. Even her silence angered him, making him speak as roughly as she expected. ‘Speak to me,’ he ordered. ‘Do you?’
At that, she stood straight and tall again. ‘No.’
One pride-filled word. But had he seen fear, too?
He pushed her ahead of him up the stairs. ‘Then stay where I put you.’ Her hair swung to one side, exposing the pale skin at the curve of her neck and releasing a scent faint as bluebells. ‘Next time, I’ll let you stay in the cellar.’
She threw a look over her shoulders, but it was too dark to read her eyes.
They walked the stairs in silence. Already, he regretted the impulse that had made him grab her and bring her home this morning. Once she had crossed into Brunson land, he had no choice, but then he had taken pity on her. Spared her the cell and put her in a room fit for honoured guests, a weakness he would not show again.
He pushed the heavy wooden door open. ‘Inside.’
She searched his eyes, then, not answering.
Uneasy under her gaze, he motioned her in. ‘Go on, now.’
‘Do you hold Hobbes Storwick here?’
Looking for the man. That’s what she had been doing. ‘I told you he was not down there. Did you not believe me?’
‘Does he still live?’
He opened his mouth to reassure her and thought better of it. The truth would be good enough.
