Page 18 of Blood of the Thistle

Bram tore his gaze from her, his scowl returning at once.

The light was fading now, turning the valley below into muted shades of gray and green. Through the gathering evening mist, tiny orange pinpricks appeared one by one.

“Is it a town?”

“Nae,” he answered grimly. “‘Tis an English force.”

One fire might have belonged to a shepherd, two perhaps to travelers or even the transport team searching for him, but there were far more than two.

Bram watched another fire flicker to life in the distance. It seemed he had escaped one hunt only to stumble upon another altogether.

God willing, come the morn, they’d choose a different route than he intended to take.

Chapter Six

The day’s exhaustion had been a mercy, a physical wall against the rising panic. The trek, the climb, the sheer terror—it had all been a distraction from the larger, impossible truth. But sitting now, in the quiet, the questions returned. She’d eaten and had some water. And with the stillness came the gnawing, terrifying thought: she still had no idea what had happened to her.

“What were ye doing in the forest, lass?” he asked quietly.

She huffed a small laugh for his perfect timing. “I was just wondering the same exact thing.”

He turned a quizzical frown her way.

“Like I said—I think I said this earlier, I can’t remember now—I was in York, in town, on Museum Street. I was... talking with this guy I’d just met, was standing next to a bookstore and then... and then I wasn’t. I was standing in the woods, and you were running toward me.”

“But why are ye garbed as ye are?”

Garbed? “Do you mean why am I dressed like this? These are my clothes—I... well, my sister did once tell me this skirt was kind of matronly, but I like it. It’s comfortable.”

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions. He watched the darkened valley, his profile like something carved from stone. She took a breath, marshaling the courage to ask again, to find an answer that made sense.

“So, you said you were imprisoned because you fought for Scotland, but what does that mean? Fought for Scotland... how? In what capacity?” Or was fought for Scotland prison slang for some felony assault?

He considered her for a long moment. “Which of the words dinna ye comprehend?”

Her startled gaze swung sharply toward him at her side, not sure if he were trying to be humorous—he didn’t strike her as the type—or if condescension simply came naturally to him.

“All of them. Any of them.”

“Ye ken there’s a war?”

“A war?”

“Scotland is at war with England—surely, ye have been made aware.”

“I was not made aware—but that certainly seems like something I would have known. You’re just...” she paused, wondering if he were joking. “What are you talking about? Scotland and England have been... united, I guess, for what, hundreds of years, right?”

He stared at her, a hard, incredulous expression darkening his features.

“Ye said ye came to England—when was that?”

“Three days ago.”

“And yer... A-mer-i-ca—this place is far away?”

“What? America—United States.” What, like he’d never heard of it? “Yes, across the ocean, thousands of miles away.”

Bram nodded slowly, as though something had finally begun to make sense. “Then word hasnae reached yer homeland.”