Page 35 of Blood of the Thistle

He shook his head. “Nae, but I was the only one who survived the last three months.” A frown settled over his features, but she could not see that. “I ken the ones in captivity who died, but I have nae knowledge how many perished in total at the time of the skirmish.”

“That’s awful. Do you... does that happen often? I mean, that Scottish people are betrayed by their own countrymen?”

“Enough to be disheartening,” he answered.

“I would think...” she began, and then shook her head, dismissing her own thought.

“What would ye ken?”

“Well, actually, I don’t know what to think—this is all so... surreal. And I’m not saying I know you well, obviously, but I guess I would think you would get angry, more so than disheartened. Like, I would think you would want vengeance.”

“Aye, and it shall be mine.”

“So, you’re going home, to some place called Craig na Coille, but you don’t plan on staying there, do you? You’re going to assemble an army, or whatever men like you do in this century, and go get the guy who betrayed you?”

“I will.”

“But... aren’t you ever afraid? When those men caught up to us, you didn’t look scared. Just... resigned. Like you knew you had to fight.” She paused. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll die?”

“Every man fears death.”

“But how can you be so calm? Is everyone in this time... like that?”

“Courage has little to do with whether a man fears.”

“So it’s acting in spite of the fear?”

“Aye.” He bit the inside of his cheek, recalling something from his youth. “My da was fond of saying, ‘the brave man is nae he who fears least, but he who obeys fear least’.”

“That sounds very... medieval,” she said.

Whatever men like you do in this century, she’d said. She’d actually used the term in this century more than once.

“And now I will ask ye, when ye speak of this other time, what is it ye truly believe?”

A small scoff of laughter erupted from her. “I guess that answers whether or not you believe what I’ve said. But that’s fair—it does seem impossible. And yet, if what you say is true, that it’s really thirteen-o-five, then I believe—actually, I know—that I was born seven hundred years in the future. Or rather,” she corrected, her voice even, “I was living seven hundred and twenty-one years from now when I was... whatever, sent back here.”

“Born centuries beyond now and yet here ye sit,” he remarked, his chin nearly resting above her head as the gelding moved beneath them.

“Yep. Here I sit.”

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her shoulders lifting in a small shrug he felt more than saw.

“Who brought ye here?”

“I don’t know.” She paused. “I realize how ridiculous it sounds.”

“Aye.”

She nodded to herself, her hair shifting against his chest. “I don’t blame you for not believing. I’m living it and I still can’t understand it.”

“And yet, I dinna imagine ye are a liar.”

“What makes you so sure?” she asked.

“Liars labor to persuade.”