Page 77 of Blood of the Thistle

Did Anastasia have a large family? Siblings older or younger? Was she married? Betrothed? Did she ride? Did she enjoy needlework?

Mairead MacCailin, seated on Bram’s left, had listened to much of this without inserting herself too often, though Anna had occasionally caught Bram’s mother studying her with that same thoughtful, faintly wary expression she’d directed at Anna for most of the day. She was not unkind, but Anna hadn’t mistaken hospitality for friendliness. Anna sensed Mairead MacCailin had welcomed her only because her son had brought her here. The woman’s careful reserve—the way she’d shared the thistle story as both warning and welcome—left Anna uncertain whether she was truly wanted beneath this roof.

She stared toward the narrow window again.

Somewhere beyond those walls lay a country she’d never seen beyond the path she’d taken with Bram, filled with people whose language she often couldn’t understand and customs she didn’t know. Beyond that lay England, York, and the exact patch of pavement where her life had split in two. Seven hundred years away were her parents, her sister, the smell of coffee before work, the weight of her phone in her pocket.

The tears returned more quietly this time, and she let them. She lay curled beneath the blankets until the memories became almost painful in their ordinariness.

She could not spend years only waiting for the air to change again. And she couldn’t remain attached to a man who’d already told her he wasn’t interested in her.

Tomorrow she would begin figuring out how to exist at Craig na Coille, and more importantly how to leave here—and Bram—to get home.

Sometime after that bleak resolution took shape, exhaustion began to blur its sharp edges. The fire settled lower, the unfamiliar sounds beyond her chamber softened, and the strange bed gradually felt less hostile beneath her.

For tonight, at least, she was warm, fed and safe.

It wasn’t home, and Bram wasn’t hers—never would be.

Apparently those were two truths she would simply have to learn how to survive.

Chapter Twenty

Two mornings after his return to Craig na Coille, Bram walked the southern fields with Harsain, Fearchar, and two men newly elevated to fill places left vacant by the ambush, leading their horses rather than riding them as they followed the shallow burn away from the village.

Bram had slept more deeply the last two nights beneath his own roof than he had in months, had eaten almost to the point of indulgence each day, and had awakened that morning with no expectation of violence or any life-threatening pursuit. He felt more himself now in so many ways, most notably with a sword of his own at his hip once more. Of course, here it was more familiar than necessary, though he had every intention of christening it with Raghnall Hay’s blood. Avenging his men was the first order of business—once he knew where to strike. He would not leave that unfinished, not with so much blood unanswered for, and each hour spent settling back into the ordinary concerns of Craig na Coille only sharpened his impatience to learn where Hay had gone after betraying six score Scots into English hands.

Fearchar had insisted that Bram first see the work completed in his absence, and Bram had submitted with less complaint than his steward appeared to expect. As it was, he had no idea presently of Hay’s whereabouts and would not jeopardize his men or his recently won freedom without more information first about the traitor.

Fearchar pointed out a newly cut drainage channel, explaining how it had saved the lower meadow from spring floods. Bram saw clear water running where stagnant pools had stood. Men had labored here while he’d hung in English chains. Cattle grazed on land he’d thought he would never walk again. When a tenant stopped to report the field had remained dry through the last rains, Bram listened with an attention that surprised the man. He hadn’t realized a complaint about drainage could feel like a luxury, a welcome weight after months when his only concerns had been pain, hunger, and the prospect of his own execution.

“Another fortnight and we’ll begin bringing in what hay there is,” Fearchar informed him as they continued along the edge of the meadow. “Nae as much as last year, but enough if winter doesnae come early. The north pasture suffered less, and we’ve half a dozen more calves than I expected after the spring.”

Bram nodded, looking across the fields toward several distant figures working near a low stone wall. “And the tenants whose roofs were damaged?”

“Seen to before June.”

“The widow MacNair?”

“Hasnae changed—still nae delightful.”

Bram glanced sideways at him.

Fearchar’s mouth twitched. “But quite well, all things considered.”

That earned Bram’s first grin of the morning, brief though genuine. He shook his head as they continued walking, comforted by the familiar, dry competence of his steward. While he’d been absent, life here had been managed efficiently and effectively. He had forgotten how easily Fearchar could strip a year’s worth of trouble down to a handful of observations.

Harsain, who’d thus far displayed considerably less interest in drainage than in the business that had brought him walking beside Bram, waited until they had put several hundred yards between themselves and the tenant before saying, “Fearchar said ye sent riders out yesterday.”

“Aye.”

“To whom?”

“MacLaren first. Another east to Dougal Kerr, and one south toward Dumfries. None carried Hay’s name in writing.” Bram stopped beside the burn and crouched briefly to examine where the newly cut channel emptied into it before straightening again. “I seek word of his whereabouts, and I want to ken who he’s been fraternizing with.” He exchanged a long and wordless look with Harsain.

His captain held his gaze for a long moment before giving a slow, thoughtful nod. The matter of Raghnall Hay’s treachery, and what came next, would remain between them for now.

Niall, who had taken command of one of the companies after its former captain died in the ambush, frowned. He was thirty perhaps, old enough to have fought beside Bram for years but young enough that the new responsibility still seemed to sit uneasily upon him. “Why nae name him outright for what he is? If the bastard sold us to the English, every Scot between here and Berwick should ken it.”