Page 79 of Blood of the Thistle

“Wait,” Anna interrupted, trying to follow the story through Etta’s heavily accented English. “They’re arguing over whose sheep it is?”

“Aye. Mòr says the ewe bears her mark, while Beitris says the mark was poorly made and has faded enough that it might belong to either of them.”

“But surely they recognize their own sheep.”

Etta gave her a funny look. “They all look the same, dinna they?”

Anna laughed. “I guess so. But how long has this been going on?”

“Since yesterday morn, though Fearchar sent them both away after Mòr called Beitris a thieving old—” Etta stopped herself, her blue eyes dancing. “I canna say—Mam would slap me for repeating.”

Anna frowned unhappily. “Your mother’s not here,” she reminded her, “Lean over and whisper, why don’t you?”

Etta laughed outright and did just that, curving her hand near Anna’s ear. She said something, presumably in Gaelic, which Anna could not understand, and thus the fun was lost.

“You’re going to need to translate—”

She paused as the doors at the far end of the hall opened, and her attention shifted instinctively toward them.

Bram entered with another man—named Harsain, she’d since learned, the longtime captain of Brma’s army, the one who’d brought word to Craig na Coille that Bram had been captured months ago.

She immediately dropped her gaze to the bread on her trencher, her fingers tightening around her cup at the same time. Three days at his home, and her eyes still sought him out. She really needed to work on that.

“Madainn mhath,” Etta called past her.

Anna looked up then because pretending she wasn’t even aware of his presence would have been childish, and watched him stride across the hall toward the table.

Even the way the man walked was attractive, which particularly annoyed her.

There was nothing lazy or awkward in his gait, no slouch to his shoulders or unevenness to his stride. Bram moved with the same easy athleticism she’d noticed in nearly everything else he did, his back straight, his steps long and certain without appearing hurried. He didn’t swagger, either, which might at least have given her something to dislike. He simply crossed the hall with the unconscious confidence of a man perfectly comfortable in his own body and perhaps equally comfortable knowing that eyes watched him.

But seriously? Was there nothing physically unattractive about Bram MacCailin she could seize upon?

Bram answered his sister in Gaelic before turning his attention to Anna and repeating the incomprehensible words to her.

Anna couldn’t help smiling a little. “Yeah, I haven’t picked up the language yet,” she said, not unkindly.

His mouth shifted at one corner. “Forgive me. I failed to recall—”

“No worries—your sister had kindly promised to correct that,” she allowed. “Good morning.”

“And to ye.”

There. Perfectly civil. She turned her gaze back to Etta, refusing to grant him a moment more of her attention or herself the hope that always seemed to follow.

She turned back to Etta. “So what happens if Fearchar can’t figure out who owns the sheep?”

Etta said, not quite dismissively, “Fearchar will sort it. He always does.” She sipped from her cup and spent the next half a minute picking out a certain dark seed from the bread in front of her.

Unlike the formal supper, breakfast was a fluid affair. People came and went as their work demanded, and servants moved between the half-occupied tables with bread, cheese, and ale.

“So what exactly does Fearchar do?” Anna asked. “I know you said he’s Bram’s steward, but what does that actually mean?”

Anna had already learned that Bram’s younger sister required very little encouragement once launched upon a subject, and Anna was happy to learn and be distracted all at once. She liked Etta. The girl was sweet and curious and possessed none of the wariness Anna had initially feared she might encounter here. Better still, Etta seemed genuinely interested in Anna rather than merely suspicious of her strangeness, and Anna found herself relaxing around her with surprising ease.

“He sees to the running of Craig na Coille.”

“Which means...?”