âWhy donât you marry a husband whoâll keep you from roaming the Borders alone?â
Flour still clung to her apron, and he couldnât help but think she looked ridiculous instead of haughty.
âI will,â she said finally. âSoon. Someone worthy. Special.â
Special. She said the word as if to insult him. âWho is special enough for you?â The words curdled on his tongue. Why even ask? He didnât care. Not really.
âNo one you would know. No one the least bit like you.â She turned away, as if she could choose to end the conversation.
Suddenly he wanted to know who would possess this infuriating woman. âHe interests me if he will ride to rescue you.â
She looked back at him, eyes wide. He was not skilled with women, but this one was hiding something.
âThen you will have to wonder at it, wonât you?â
And he did wonder. She was more than of an age to marry, and more than passable to look on. Why was she not yet wed?
And as he looked at her he was also wondering why he had ever thought taking Stella Storwick was a good idea.
After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD started writing seriously after a corporate layoff. Ten years and one layoff 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 sheâs exploring the turbulent Scottish Borders. The Chicago Tribune has called her work âthe perfect balance between history and romanceâ. She lives and works along Chicagoâs lakefront, and juggles writing with a consulting career.
She loves to have visitors at www.blythegifford.com and www.pinterest.com/BlytheGifford, âthumbs-upâ at www.facebook.com/BlytheGifford, and âtweetsâ at www.twitter.com/BlytheGifford
Previous novels by the same author:
THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN
THE HARLOTâS DAUGHTER
INNOCENCE UNVEILED
IN THE MASTERâS BED
HIS BORDER BRIDE
RETURN OF THE BORDER WARRIOR*
CAPTIVE OF THE BORDER LORD*
*The Brunson Clan
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Black Rob Brunson, oldest son and head of the family, brooded silently at me as I wrote the first two books about The Brunson Clan. I began his story with trepidation, not sure I knew what was behind his scowl.
At least I had spent two books with him. Of Stella, I knew no more than Rob did. She was an enemy. And a temptation.
But, ah, the joy of discovery! Is that not the best part of falling in love?
To all those who face the tyranny of expectations.
Robin, in thanks for many kindnesses
and the occasional kick in the pants.
And in memory of Marley,
a bloodhound much loved by his family, who helped me understand the character of sleuth-dog Belde.
Left on the field by the rest of his clan
Abandoned for dead was the first Brunson man
Left for dead and found alive
A brown-eyed Viking from the sea
He lived to found a dynasty.
Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars,
Strong as the wind that sweeps Carterâs Bar
Sure-footed and stubborn, neâre danton nor dunâ
Thatâs what they say of the band Brunson
Every Brunson leader since the first knew his beginnings.
Knew that the blood that coursed through his veins was shared with the First Brunson, a man so strong he refused to die.
That was the strength this clan demanded.
Each head man has to find his own within.
Sometimes it was not what he expected â¦
The Middle MarchâApril 1529
When Black Rob Brunson took his first waking breath that morning, he inhaled air free of the stink of cinders for the first time since the Storwicks had torched the towerâs buildings scarce two months before.
Yet his waking thought was the same that morning as it had been the one before and the one before and the one before that. They would pay. Every last one of them.
Oh, he had taken retribution quickly. Their roofs had felt flame. Their head man now languished under the eyes of a Scottish guard.
But it wasnât enough. Not for all they had done.
The ashes had faded with the snow. The kitchen roof had new thatch, but with his second breath, he knew the truth. His nose would never be free of the stench.
Nor would theirs. Heâd make sure of that.
He swung his feet over the side of the bed and glanced over his shoulder, still half-expecting his dead fatherâs ghost to lurk behind him.
Nothing there.
Rob was alone in the head manâs chamber. He was the head man now, as heâd been raised to be for twenty-six summers.
He stretched, scratched an itch on his back and reached for his boots.
Snow and frost had lingered, but this morning, he felt a softness in the air. Spring. Lambing time. Time for him to be a shepherd as well as a warrior, riding the valley to be sure the flock was well tended.
Last year, he had ridden beside his father.
Up and dressed, he foraged the kitchen, searching for a leftover bannock to stuff in his bag. His sister used to do that for him, for all of them. Cooked the food, washed and cleaned, kept everything in order until a few months ago, when she deserted them for that untrustworthy husband of hers.