Page 19 of Blood of the Thistle

“What word?”

“About the war.”

“I feel like we’re talking about two different things—or talking in circles. There is no war between England and Scotland—I would have heard of it, obviously. It would have been all over the news. I probably wouldn’t have been able to fly into London, would I?”

“Fly to London?”

“Oh, my God, why are you doing this? Pretending you don’t know what or where America is, pretending you’ve never seen a granola bar or a plastic water bottle or that you don’t know what fly means?”

“I dinna pretend to nae understand.”

“Are you like...” she paused and winced, but couldn’t stop from asking, “do you have some disability?—I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude, but how do you not know these things? And for that matter, why are you dressed like Robinson Crusoe and why are those handcuffs so ancient looking? I mean, your clothes are tattered, you’re barefoot, you have this long beard and this ridiculous chain—were you shipwrecked on a deserted island, and just... washed ashore in England today?” Her tone strongly suggested sarcasm, but truthfully, she was beyond frustrated, since he seemed to be trying to annoy her. “It’s like we’re having two completely different conversations,” she grumbled.

To which the man, after thinking about it for a moment, said quietly, “Aye.”

Anna scoffed her annoyance. “At least we agree on something.”

“I dinna understand half of what ye say,” he remarked next.

“I don’t understand half of what you say!” She sighed, blowing out a breath with some volume. “This is maddening.”

“Mayhap start at the beginning.”

“The beginning? Of what? Before today? Before I came to England? Before that? In ‘98 when I was born?”

“Born in ‘98?” he questioned and then decided, “Ye were nae born in ninety-eight.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was born in ninety-eight and why would you question that?”

He said with great skepticism, “That would mean ye’ve seen naught but seven summers?”

She stared, aghast. “What?” How could he—what was wrong with him? “That doesn’t even make sense. Oh, my God—were you marooned somewhere? Do you not even know what year it is?”

“I ken the year well enough—”

She spoke at exactly the same time. “It’s 2026. I was born in 1998. I’m twenty-eight.”

“—the Lord’s year, thirteen hundred and five.”

Anna froze, the impossible year hanging in the twilight between them. His blue eyes glittered, his certainty absolute. A wave of pity washed over her—the poor man was clearly unwell. But a cold unease followed close behind. She was alone with him, miles from anywhere. Was he dangerous? The thought, which she’d pushed aside all day, now screamed for attention. Or worse, was this some cruel, elaborate joke?

“What did you say?” she asked at last.

He repeated the same impossible year, slowly enough that there could be no question she had misheard him.

“Right,” Anna murmured, her voice sounding oddly small. She tightened her grip on the long strap of her crossbody bag and rose quickly to her feet. “Um, you know what? I have to—I should probably make use of um. nature’s privy,” she stammered, stepping out from beneath the shelter of the rock ledge. “I’ll be right back.”

“Dinna stray too far in the dark, lass,” he cautioned.

“Yep,” she called over her shoulder as she carefully stepped off the rock and onto the wet grass of the hillside. “Gotcha.”

She scrambled down the rain-softened slope, her feet slipping as her mind raced. Thirteen-oh-five. The number was absurd, a historical date from a textbook. He had to be delusional. But how could a man so clearly competent—so aware of his surroundings, so logical in his choices—be so completely detached from reality? He navigated the wilderness with certainty, reacted to every sound, yet he believed he was living seven hundred years in the past. It didn’t fit. Nothing fit.

She moved farther down the slope until the overhang and the man—Bram, she kept having to remind herself, but now had to wonder if that was even his actual name—were hidden from view, then stopped beside a scrubby patch of brush, using the private moment less for its intended purpose than to gather herself. She pressed a hand against her forehead and closed her eyes, trying to force the scattered pieces into some order.

Almost without thinking, Anna dug into her bag and pulled out her phone. She held the power button down and waited, but nothing happened.

“Come on,” she whispered, pressing it again and holding it longer this time.