Flanders' gaze shifted to her and his voice softened. "How do ye fare?"
She wanted to reach for him, to feel his arms around her as she had the night before. To let him make her feel safe again, to give her hope. But she held back. He'd done enough. More than enough.
"I'm well," she said stiffly.
A flicker of hurt crossed his face before he masked it. "Good. That's...good."
Gerts looked between them and rolled her eyes. "Saints preserve us from stubborn fools."
Flanders stood. "I should return to the war council. Gerts, if ye think of anything else that might help us guess his plan, find me."
"I will."
He hesitated, his eyes finding Brigid's once more. "Will ye join us for the evening meal?"
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
With a final bow, he left, his broad shoulders filling the doorway before he disappeared from view, and she was left, once again, to watch his backside moving away from her.
Gerts rolled her eyes. "Ye're a fool, girl."
"Am I?"
"That man would move mountains for ye, and ye push him away because he tried to keep ye safe?"
"It's not so simple," Brigid protested again.
"It never is," Gerts agreed. "But sometimes, it is not so complicated."
19
THE BUILDING STORM
* * *
Days passed with maddening slowness. Flanders spent his waking hours on the walls, overseeing the preparations for an attack that never came. Stephan's men remained camped outside Todlaw's walls, neither advancing, multiplying, nor retreating, simply...waiting.
Brigid watched the Viking-like laird from afar, noting the deepening lines of worry on his face whenever their paths crossed. Which was less and less often.
* * *
At the eveningmeal on the third day, Brigid found herself seated at the high table beside Gerts with an empty chair between them where Flanders should have been. The hall buzzed with conversation, but a tension hung in the air like a cloud of smoke.
"He's been on the wall since midday," Gerts said, following Brigid's gaze to the empty seat. "Counting arrows, I believe."
"Again?" Brigid tore her bread into small pieces, not really hungry. "He counted them yesterday."
"Aye, and he'll count them tomorrow too, I reckon. " Gerts smiled knowingly. "Men need to feel useful when they're worried."
Robert Duncan appeared at the table, his face flushed from exertion, his clothes smeared with something dark. His stench was nearly enough to put them off their meal.
He nodded to both women before taking his seat. "My apologies for the delay. We’ve been moving the last of the oil barrels to the east wall.” He reached for a cup of ale. "We're more than ready. From all sides."
"And yet Laird Stephan makes no move," Brigid said.
Robert shrugged. "That's what troubles us. Near three hundred men don't sit idle without purpose."
"Perhaps his purpose is to starve us out," Gerts suggested.
