Page 48 of Blood of the Thistle

That was a lie, of course.

If she ever managed to get back home, how could she explain this? These strange, impossible little pictures would be her only proof. Proof of this impossible journey, and of the man who’d become its center. It wasn’t just about proof, though. It was about memory. She wanted to capture the things time might steal—the shocking competence of his hands, both with a sword and a simple thorn, the brutal story etched into his wrists, the sheer solidness of him that made this wild century feel real.

She regretted now having discarded the photograph she’d taken of the two of them at the collier’s hut. At the time she’d been hurt and angry and had wanted nothing to do with him or the stupid picture. Now she wished she’d kept it. It was the only likeness she’d taken of Bram's face.

Well, she would remedy that. Anna intended to get at least one proper picture of Bram MacCailin. If she returned to 2026 with nothing else from this impossible detour through history, she knew she’d want to remember him..

She slipped the photograph into the box with the other and returned the camera to her bag. Bram reached around her for it without being asked, and she handed it back to him, feeling him shift behind her as he secured it once more to the saddle.

Then Bram said, “What did ye mean earlier?”

“About what?”

“That the betrayals of yer own time seem unimportant now.”

“Oh.” She leaned back against him again, her voice softening with a rueful laugh. “I’ve been burned by men—in relationships, I mean. But it’s not life or death. My problems seem so petty compared to a betrayal that led to actual death, to what the English did to you.”

“How is burning nae life or death?”

She smiled lazily. “Oh, no, not literal burning. I mean, like burned, as in, I don’t know, like my emotions were scorched by their betrayal.”

“I dinna follow.”

She let out a long sigh, rocking slightly with the horse’s gait. “Like this guy Aaron—I thought I was in love, you know? I suspected he was cheating—er, unfaithful—but he lied so convincingly I believed him for months. Then I found out he’d been sleeping with my best friend the whole time.”

“Yer heart was burned?”

Anna shrugged, eyes fixed on the gloomy trail ahead. “Well, yeah—figuratively, not literally. But then, it was fine. It’s a lot easier to get over someone when they’ve been hurtful and disrespectful, when you realize everything they ever said was all lies.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “Sometimes I think you don’t understand half of what I say for all the modern idioms and expressions.”

“I imagine I grasp the gist of it, by context.”

“Does your wrist feel naked now, without the cuff?” she thought to ask a few minutes later.

“Lighter,” he answered after a moment. “I keep expecting to feel it there.”

Anna glanced down at his now-bare wrist where it rested upon the reins, comparing one set of scars to the others on his right hand.

“But it wasn’t the handcuff that did that, was it?”

Bram was silent long enough that she wondered if he hadn’t heard her.

“Nae.” A long pause settled before he said, “The English had plenty of methods to persuade a man to answer questions.”

Anna’s stomach tightened.

“They bound my wrists with rope and hoisted me from a beam above the prison floor,” he explained. “They’d leave me there till my shoulders felt fit to tear from their sockets, then lower me long enough to ask their questions.” His voice was flat, almost detached. “When I refused to answer, they’d haul me up again. They were convinced I knew where Wallace meant to gather his supporters, where messages were carried, which lairds had secretly pledged themselves to him. They believed pain would loosen my tongue.”

Anna’s fingers curled tighter around the pommel. She’d imagined beatings, of course, almost from the first moment they’d met, having noticed his bruises immediately.

But to hear him describe being hung by his wrists until his own weight threatened to tear him apart—and in such an indifferent voice—sent a fresh wave of horror through her.

Her stomach clenched, saliva flooding her mouth. She swallowed it back, and forced herself to see the barely noticeable path winding through the trees, and the moss-covered stones and still-dripping branches. If she allowed herself to picture what he described, she’d see him, suspended helplessly, perhaps beyond hope but somehow managing to survive anyway.

She didn’t want him to know what the image did to her. Pity was the last thing Bram MacCailin would ever welcome, she somehow understood that instinctively. So she kept her silence, though she found it suddenly difficult to draw a full breath, and after a long moment merely laid one hand lightly over the arm that circled her waist.

After a time, Bram’s voice, low and rough, finally broke the silence. He did not speak of the English, but of her.

“This man, Aaron. Ye said ye suspected he was false to ye, yet ye believed his lies.”