Captive of the Border Lord. Blythe Gifford

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      They glared at each other and he wasn’t sure whether it was anger or desire that raised his temperature.

      He tried to keep his eyes on her face, but the linen clung to curves he had only imagined before. She was lean, like her brother Johnnie, but no one would ever mistake her for anything but a woman. Her breasts, now pushing through the wet strands of red hair, were high and proud and full. Her legs long. And between her legs, where the wet cloth clung …

      He swallowed.

      She had followed his gaze and there was no question now. She had seen his desire. Been touched by it. Her lips parted. She crossed her arms over her breasts. Her knees sagged, as if weak with some kind of hunger … as if she might fall back into the water any minute.

      He waded into the river, lifted her up, walked back to the bank and set her down. His arms lingered on her shoulders. He looked down into her face, thinking again how full and ripe her lips—

      She thumped his chest with both fists and broke his hold, stepping back. ‘Is this how you save my reputation?’

      He looked down, realising he had walked into a river wearing leather boots. The woman had scrambled his thinking. He had thought only to protect her and then she was too close, too tempting …

      ‘It was not your reputation that was in danger. It was your health.’

      ‘I’ve not been sick a day in my life. Now step away and turn around.’

      He shook his head. ‘Last time I turned my head, you jumped into the river. Now I’m taking you back to your tent and sitting there until you are dressed and ready. We’ve miles to go today.’

      And his clothes were soaked from the waist down. It was going to be a long, cold ride.

      Embarrassment, and something even more dangerous, warmed Bessie as she stomped back to her tent.

      Treacherous man.

      She had ignored the feelings he had raised that night he had arrived at the tower. Hand on hers in the dance. Standing too close. She had neither time nor inclination for such foolishness, particularly with this man who, no doubt, had betrayed her family once and might do so again.

      She ignored the fact that she had, on a foolish whim, marched right into the river after he told her not to. After she had no intention of doing so.

      She didn’t even like water.

      One night away from home and she was no longer herself.

      Her jaw trembled and her teeth clattered together. She clamped them tight, angry. It was as if she had left Bessie behind when she left the valley. All her life she had been the one bundled in blankets, layered in hose and gloves. So why had she marched into a frigid river in the middle of November?

      The man had scrambled her thinking.

      She was a sensible woman. Steady. Solid. Dependable. But with this man, steps that should have been simple became awkward. There was something about him that threw her … off.

      Inside the tent, she stripped off her wet sark, wrung the water from her dripping hair and donned clean linen with shaking fingers. Shivering, she sneezed.

      She was never ill and damned if she would be now. She would not give him the satisfaction.

      No. Now she would do her duty, and that duty did not include swooning in any man’s arms, particularly those of a man who had likely betrayed her family. She had promised her brothers she would discover proof of that. Time to be about it.

      She rolled up the rest of her things and stuffed them back into the travel bag. She would question him. She would uncover the truth.

      But as she emerged from the tent and mounted her pony for the day’s ride, she glanced at Carwell and discovered she could not look at the man without a catch in her breath.

      Without remembering …

      Well, then, she would keep her shoulders square and her eyes straight ahead. Just a few days and she would be herself again. Just a few miles and she would be able to act as if their river meeting had never happened.

      At least, she hoped so.

      He was grateful, in the end, for the plunge into cold water. It kept his tarse from rearing its head when he looked at Elizabeth Brunson and remembered the feel of her in his arms.

      But as the days wore on and the miles passed under the ponies’ hooves, the memory moved through him again. Aye. There was a reason he had not wanted Bessie Brunson to be the one to come on this trip. He had memories to forget. Memories to hide. And having her close made it that much more difficult.

      Soon, they would reach Stirling Castle, where she would be put in a bed far away from him and where no loch or river would provide temptation.

      For he must think of why he had come and what he might face. A new king. Grown, yes, but more than ten years younger than he. Younger even than Elizabeth Brunson.

      He hoped the boy he only partly knew would be wise. Scotland could not afford war with England right now. But at least he and the King shared one goal.

      The Earl of Angus would be caught and punished. The man must not slip through their hands, cross the border, and into the protection of his friend and ally, King James’s uncle, the English King Henry VIII.

       Chapter Five

      She was not prepared for Stirling Castle.

      The Brunsons were the most powerful family in the March. She was unaccustomed to meeting families more powerful than her own. But as they rode up the steep, winding path to the castle, looming high on a cliff above them, she felt as if she were approaching Heaven.

      And once inside, she was even more confused. Buildings, courtyards, all teeming with people. More than she had ever seen in one place, except for the times that Brunsons were riding a raid.

      Carwell left her with the men for a few minutes, then returned with the steward.

      ‘It seems,’ Carwell said, as the steward took charge of the horses and men, ‘that when the King abandoned the siege against Angus, he brought the men here. There’s to be a tournament. Jousting and celebration.’ His voice did not sound celebratory.

      ‘What is it like, a tournament?’ Bessie asked. She might as well have been in France. They had tournaments there, she had heard.

      ‘It means we dress up and fight each other.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘For glory.’

      She raised her eyebrows. ‘Clearly, the King is a man who doesn’t have enough fighting to do in his everyday life.’

      His expression echoed hers. ‘Or he wants a battle he can win.’ He leaned closer to whisper. ‘He is still smarting from his defeat by Angus.’

      The defeat he blamed on the Brunsons.

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