Captive of the Border Lord

Create the illusion of the dance. Was this one of the lessons in how to survive at court?

There were things she admired about this man. The patient care he had taken to teach her the dance. The way he had risked the King’s wrath to protect her.

It was only the dance that made her warm. Only the relief that she could do it, that she would not be embarrassed next time, that made her smile. Only the habit of being in tune with his body that made her sway closer …

His arms had taken her before he realised it. Last time his armour and their audience had protected him. And her. This time the cloth between them seemed all too flimsy.

This time they were alone. This time there was no one to see what they did. She was happy and easy with him at last. He had dreamed of those lips, and now they beckoned to him …

When I began to write this, the second in The Brunson Clan trilogy, all I knew of the story was that ‘the sister goes to court’. The next hint only seemed to confuse things. ‘Cinderella …’ whispered my Muse. She also said, ‘Rebecca …’ the perfect first wife of the Daphne du Maurier tale.

But the strongest message I received was an image of dancing in a castle by the sea. It seemed like something out of a fairytale—much too fanciful for the plain-spoken and practical sister of a rough and ready band of Border warriors.

Which was, of course, exactly the point.

After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD started writing seriously after a corporate lay-off. Ten years and one more lay-off later, she became an overnight success when she sold her Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist manuscript to Harlequin Mills & Boon. She has since written medieval romances featuring characters born on the wrong side of the royal blanket. Now she’s exploring the turbulent Scottish Borders.

The Chicago Tribune has called her work ‘the perfect balance between history and romance’. She lives and works along Chicago’s lakefront, and juggles writing with a consulting career. She loves to have visitors at www.blythegifford.com, ‘thumbs-up’ at www.facebook.com/BlytheGifford, and ‘tweets’ at www.twitter.com/BlytheGifford

Previous novels by the same author:

*The Brunson Clan

Look for Black Rob’s story in The Brunson Clan trilogy coming soon

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To all those who have forgotten what they want.

Or are afraid to claim it.

Thanks to Michelle Prima and Pat White,

who help keep me sane, and to Pam Hopkins, who continues to believe in me.

Women sing the ballads. The ballads do not sing of women.

—Geordie Brunson

But the women’s voices sang strong and clear. Strong enough to carry the stories down through the ages.

Left on the field by the rest of his clan

Abandoned for dead was the First Brunson man.

Every Brunson knew the Ballad of the First Brunson. Yet the song still held secrets.

Secrets for each Brunson to discover in his—or her—own way.

The Middle March, Scottish Borders— November 1528

Bessie Brunson took a deep breath and prepared to climb a flight of stairs for what seemed like the hundredth time since sunrise.

It was not yet noon.

The steps that faced her now led to the top of the barmkin wall, where her brothers had taken the watch, all the better to keep them from under her feet while she made final preparations for the wedding celebration. But two grown men needed food, so she raised her skirt in one hand, balanced the bag of oat cakes in the other, and started up the stairs.

Thunder rumbled and she looked up at the November sky, startled. Grey, windswept, but …

Not thunder. Hooves.

She hurried the last few steps to reach the wall walk, then stood between her brothers and looked west over the valley that was theirs. ‘Who comes?’

Black Rob shook his head. ‘No one I want to see.’

She squinted against the wind, as the banner’s green and gold became clear. The colours of Lord Thomas Carwell, Warden of the Scottish March.

I’ll hold you responsible, if something happens. Bessie had told him that, right before Willie Storwick escaped. And the warden had never proven he wasn’t.

Not to her satisfaction.

She turned to her brother John. ‘We did not invite him to your wedding.’

‘No,’ Johnnie answered. ‘But he was courteous enough to send a man ahead to announce his coming.’

‘Only because he knew he’d be shot from his horse if he arrived without warning,’ Rob said.

She sighed. Neither one of them had thought to tell her the guest list might swell. ‘Will you let him in?’

On her left, Black Rob, now head of the family, fingered his crossbow. ‘I’d rather shoot him.’

Johnnie, taller, with hair red as her own, shook his head. ‘We’ve done enough to anger the King. Let’s at least see what Carwell has to say.’