Page 68 of Blood of the Thistle

As they approached, her eyes looked everywhere, taking it all in. Bundles of firewood stood neatly stacked beneath overhanging eaves, protected from the weather. An elderly woman sat upon a low stool peeling vegetables into a wooden bowl balanced in her lap. Two men worked together to right an overturned cart, pausing now and again to wipe their brows before lifting once more. A young mother stood in an open doorway bouncing a baby upon one hip while speaking to another woman across the lane, their conversation so ordinary that Anna found herself listening simply because it sounded comforting, though she understood only fragments.

No one had noticed them yet.

The smell of woodsmoke and something faintly sour—vinegar, maybe, or old leather—hung in the still afternoon air as voices murmured somewhere nearby. Ahead, a steady clink of metal—so regular and unhurried that Anna guessed someone was hammering something heavy, though she had no idea what tool he held or what he was shaping. From just beyond a squat stone cottage came the sharp, delighted peal of a child’s laughter, instantly cut off by a stern reprimand in a language she couldn’t place.

The echo of laughter still sounded in the lane when a small boy came skidding around the corner. He looked no older than six, all elbows and scuffed knees, gripping a crooked branch between his legs that served as an imaginary horse. He dashed straight toward them, brought himself to a skidding halt only yards from the gelding, and stared. Anna felt the horse shift beneath her and slid a hand down its mane for balance. The boy’s eyes widened, his mouth opened in a single sharp cry—an odd, foreign word—then his face lit up like sunrise.

A woman appeared at the same corner, her bare feet dusty. She opened her mouth to call him in, but her eyes landed on Bram and the words died. Confusion flickered across her face, then astonishment. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sob, and she stumbled back into the cottage, her voice a sharp cry for someone within.

Within moments, a second woman hurried out, her cheeks flushed with work, and stood silent as she too watched Bram. Then the word raced along the lane from door to door, carried on exclamations Anna didn’t understand.

One by one, villagers appeared. An older man dropped a length of fencing, straightened carefully, and squared his shoulders. Two girls halted mid-step, buckets dangling from their arms.

The first boy scrambled forward, telling Bram something in rapid-fire speech she couldn’t understand. He swayed with excitement, his grin stretching ear to ear. Bram’s reply was soft and melodic, the foreign words falling in gentle waves, accompanied by the slightest nod. Whatever he said set the boy off again, and he darted back to join the others, jabbering at top speed.

More faces spilled into the sunlight. An elderly woman grasped Bram’s rough hands between her own lined, trembling ones while tears glistened on her cheeks. Another crossed herself, tracing the sign in the air above him with solemn reverence.

All the while, Anna sat forward on the horse, gripping the pommel, entirely ignored by these villagers who clearly saw only Bram. A handful glanced her way with mild curiosity, but no one whispered, and no one scowled or speculated as far as she knew. Her legs, bared as they were from the knee down to her sandals, were occasionally given a second glance, but that was all. In truth, she faded effortlessly into the background, a neutral presence at this joyous reunion.

Anna turned to look at Bram. He was bent toward a young man walking alongside the horse, listening intently. As the man spoke, the hard lines around Bram’s eyes softened. He laughed at something the man said—a quick, open sound she’d never heard before. For a moment, she didn’t recognize him. The guarded fugitive was gone, replaced by someone else entirely.

For days she’d convinced herself he was simply another man either unwilling to bridge the gulf between them or simply uninterested in her. But despite that, a wistful ache bloomed in her chest now to see him so well received by these people who greeted him with tears and laughter and undeniable relief.

Bram MacCailin had come home. Despite the ache in her chest, she felt an unexpected pang of gladness for him, witnessing the sheer relief that rippled through the crowd. This was the man they knew—not the battered fugitive who’d dragged her through the forest, but a leader whose absence had left a wound in this place. And now, he was back.

Then, from somewhere high above, a blaring noise sounded—a single, mournful note that rolled over the village and bounced off the surrounding hills. Anna startled, stiffening.

“ʼTis only the horn,” Bram said, his voice low. “The sentries have seen us.” He nodded toward the gatehouse looming over them.

Anna followed his direction and watched as men appeared along the ramparts. Others hurried across the courtyard beyond the open gates. Farther off, workers straightened from plows and shovels, then set off at a brisk walk, some quickening into a run.

As the horn's echo faded, she finally saw the sea beyond the castle. Craig na Coille rose from a rocky cliff overlooking the water, its walls following the uneven shape of the land. It wasn’t graceful like a castle in a brochure. It was a fortress, its sections sitting at different heights where newer stone met old, its walls worn pale in places by centuries of wind and sea salt.

She felt herself stiffen unconsciously in the saddle.

Bram must have noticed, as he tightened his arm around her with more solicitation than he’d shown in days.

“Dinna be anxious, lass,” he said.

“No,” Anna answered absently, her voice thin.

***

By the time Bram and Anastasia finally passed beneath the outer gate of Craig na Coille, the courtyard teemed with people.

He reined in near the stables and dismounted swiftly before reaching for Anastasia, taking her by the waist and lowering her to the ground beside him. She steadied herself with one hand against his shoulder, and Bram studied her pale façade briefly, aware that the welcome awaiting him must appear more than a little daunting to a woman who understood scarcely a word being shouted around them. He might have offered some reassurance had his attention not been seized by the sight of his mother and sister bearing down upon him, neither having waited patiently or decorously near the keep.

His mother led the charge. Outfitted in dark blue wool, one hand gathered her skirts as she crossed the yard with the unmistakable force of a woman entirely accustomed to everyone moving aside before her. Lady Mairead Mac Cailin, it had long been rumored, had once been strikingly beautiful in the sort of way songs exaggerated for generations afterward, and enough of it remained still that strangers occasionally lost good sense under the force of her blue-eyed stare. Her dark hair now carried broad streaks of silver beneath her veil, though nothing about her presence suggested that either gentleness or age had softened her particularly.

“Sweet Mother of God,” she cried in their native tongue, opening her arms while several yards still separated them.

Bram smiled despite himself. Though he knew he would be away at the first opportunity to seek his vengeance against the man who had betrayed him, there was always comfort in returning home to this. He gathered his mother into a fierce embrace, and she clung to him while offering thanks to every saint she could name for bringing him safely back.

Behind his mother, his sister Etta approached with considerably less dignity, crying openly, and then apparently decided she could wait no longer before throwing herself against both him and their mother until the three of them became one ungainly embracing entity.

It was entirely overdone, the weeping and joyous wailing, yet Bram reveled in it nonetheless. By sunset one of them would almost certainly have tested his patience beyond endurance, but at that moment he loved them dearly.

“Saints be praised,” crowed his mother, finally pushing away from him just far enough to rake an anxious gaze over him from head to toe, her lean fingers digging into his forearms. “Oh, and what have they done to ye, luv?”