brother laughed with the easy joy of a man just wed. ‘This Brunson does. Here.’ He reached out a hand. ‘I’ll show you how they dance at court.’
She waved him off, suddenly conscious of Carwell’s eyes on her. That man, too, had the courtliness Johnnie had acquired living beside the King in distant castles in places she had never seen.
And she had no desire to look like a country fool in front of them. ‘Dance with your bride, Johnnie.’
And then, before she knew it, Carwell was beside her, his hand on her waist. ‘I’ll show you.’
He did not wait for her protest, but swung her on to the floor, facing him.
‘It’s called the galliard and there are only five steps. Right, left, right, left, and then …’ He jumped off one foot and landed squarely on two. ‘Now you.’
She stared down at his feet and followed his lead. For just a moment, wearing her best dress, with her hair fresh washed, the ache slid off her shoulders. This must be how it felt to be a lady at court, light on your feet, dancing before the King …
Her eyes met his—his damnable, changeable eyes. He had no doubt danced with ladies like that. Ladies who knew all the steps.
She stumbled and tripped over Carwell’s feet.
Her forehead knocked his chin, her cheeks turned hot and she pulled away, feeling like the lout she was. ‘I do not dance. Let me be.’
She left the floor to lean against the wall and he turned to the other wives and sisters, making each of them giggle and smile in turn as they stumbled through the steps. Had she looked that way when she was beside him?
She bit her lip and turned away. Silly women.
The last honey-flavoured oat cake disappeared into Odd Jock’s maw and she pushed herself away from the wall, scooped up the empty platter and started down the stairs to fetch more. Let the other women enjoy the dance. She would fill the platters and mugs.
Carwell followed her out of the hall and down the stairs. He’d drunk enough to need a piss, no doubt.
‘There’s a garderobe in the corner,’ she called, over her shoulder, pointing. ‘No need to go outside.’
Opening the door a crack, she wished she, too, could stay within the tower’s walls instead of braving the courtyard to reach the kitchen. A cold mist hung in the night air, threatening to dissolve into rain.
Carwell joined her by the door. ‘Do you feel unwell?’
A strange question. She was as healthy as a Galloway nag, her mother had always said. ‘Of course not.’
‘Then perhaps you need some help.’
‘Help?’ How was it that a man, a stranger, noticed what her brothers did not?
She turned to face him, certain she must have misheard, but he was so close that she bumped against him. So close, she caught the scent of leather and the sea.
‘Yes.’ One word, too close to her ear. Close enough that she could have turned her head, touched her lips to his …
And then he was safely, smoothly, a step away, the awkward moment gone so quickly she thought she had imagined it.
An errant wind whistled through the open door and she tightened the plaid around her shoulders. Thomas Carwell, she was certain, never made an offer that wasn’t calculated. She wondered what he meant by this one.
Well, let him spy on the kitchen if he liked. ‘Come.’ She pulled the shawl over her head and darted into the damp darkness without looking back to see if he followed.
It was only a dozen steps across the courtyard, but by the time they stood inside again, the fog had settled on her shoulders and clung to his brown hair. She studied him in the fire’s light, hoping to see a hint of discomfort.
There was none.
His smile seemed as unmovable as a rock. His eyes, on the other hand, changed in every light. Were they brown or green or hazel?
Turning her back on him, Bessie shook off the question. The man’s eyes could be as brown as a Brunson’s and it would not change her opinion of him.
She had left the youngest Tait girl here, with instructions to watch the fire, but the poor girl had fallen asleep, snoring on the grain sack, leaving them a moment alone.
‘You didn’t really want to help me,’ she began, facing him again, ‘Just as you didn’t really come to make merry at John and Cate’s wedding. So before you upset the happiest occasion the Brunsons have enjoyed in months, why don’t you tell me why you are here?’
Carwell kept a smile clamped on his lips. He was learning not to underestimate Bessie Brunson, but it was hard to keep that in mind when he looked at the woman. Red hair tumbled over her shoulders, her brown eyes sparked with suspicion and her lips were full and soft and ready …
He stopped his thoughts. ‘Leave this night for celebration. I’ll speak to your brothers tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? When Rob’s head is double its size because of the wine he’s drunk this night and Johnnie is comfortably abed enjoying his new bride?’
He swallowed a sour retort. ‘They’ll be ready to listen when they hear why I’ve come. It’s a matter for men’s ears.’
She looked to Heaven before she met his eyes again. ‘You’ve no women in your household.’
He blinked. He hadn’t. Not for years. ‘No. Not … now.’
The memory cramped his heart. He would never take a woman for granted again. A twinge, a weary sigh—these could signal the threat of something worse.
He set the thought aside. That was not to be shared with anyone, least of all with this woman. Yet for a moment, he had imagined she would understand.
‘If you had,’ she said, ‘you would know that we do not need to be protected from the truth.’
Looking at this woman, he doubted that her family had protected her from anything at all. ‘Then you’ll know it when they do. And it will be tomorrow.’ The King had no more patience than that.
Despite his offer of help, she asked for nothing as she moved around the room, effortlessly scooping up oat cakes and putting another batch near the hearth. When she finished her sweep through the kitchen, she shook the girl awake and told her to watch that the fire did not burn the kitchen down.
Finally, she joined him at the door.
‘You wanted to help.’ She set down her cakes, filled two flagons with ale from the barrel, and shoved them at him, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘Carry these.’
Silent, he followed her into the cold, proud that he had refrained from pouring her precious ale into the dirt. The woman was as stubborn as the rest of her kin. Maybe more so.
But as he watched the sway of her walk, he remembered the way she had leaned towards him
