Page 61 of Blood of the Thistle

The old man regarded her with a thoughtful narrowing of his eyes, while his wife looked briefly to him before returning her gaze to Anastasia, her expression suddenly nervous. The children, however, possessed no such restraint. Their solemn expressions lasted only a heartbeat before the youngest giggled, and within moments all three children had dissolved into laughter.

Anastasia relaxed and smiled more openly at them.

The moment passed almost as quickly as it had come, silenced by the latch upon the door being lifted.

A younger man entered, the same one Bram had seen with the kindling. He stopped short at the sight of strangers at the table, his eyes immediately finding the old man’s. A flicker of understanding passed between them—so brief Bram might have missed it. Without a word, the younger man moved not toward the table, but to a shadowy corner near the hearth, where he remained standing, watchful.

Bram’s hand, resting on his thigh, drifted closer to the hilt of his hidden dagger. The meal he’d just eaten sat like a stone in his gut.

Bram emptied his bowl in rather fewer mouthfuls than good manners probably allowed and accepted the wooden cup of warm ale with appreciation. Next to him, Anastasia proved considerably less enthusiastic. She took only a tentative sip before lowering the cup again, her nose wrinkling ever so slightly as she swallowed.

A few minutes later the door was pushed open again.

The young man returned, this time accompanied by two others, each near Bram’s own age though leaner of build. One accepted a bowl from the older girl without so much as glancing toward the strangers, while the other remained standing near the door. His eyes passed over Bram almost dismissively before settling upon Anastasia with quiet, unmistakable interest.

It was not the additional numbers that initially troubled him. Men returned from evening work all the time. It was the lengthening silence of the group. The old man, who by all rights ought to have questioned weary travelers seated at his table, had asked nothing of them. No one inquired where they had come from, where they traveled, or whether they had news to share from elsewhere in the kingdom. The room had become strangely watchful, and the frequent, short exchange of glances between the old man and the younger ones was beginning to raise the hair on the back of Bram’s neck.

The looks lasted scarcely longer than a heartbeat, subtle enough that another man might never have marked them at all, but Bram had spent too many years reading the silent language exchanged between soldiers before a battle not to recognize that something unspoken had already passed between them.

Anastasia remained entirely absorbed in the children, leaning forward with her elbows on the table as one of the little girls screwed her face into an exaggerated grimace, demanding her full attention.

Without drawing attention to the movement, Bram eased one hand beneath the table, drew the dagger from where it rested beneath his tunic, and cupped it in his hand, the blade laying against his wrist and forearm.

“We appreciate the guid food,” he said, his tone pleasant. “But we’ll take our leave now and trouble ye nae more.” He placed his hands on the table and rose smoothly from the bench. Instead of leaving, he took a single step to position himself directly behind Anastasia. He felt her shift in surprise, her face turning up toward his, her expression clearly questioning his sudden rudeness.

The old man idly rubbed his thumb against the tips of his forefinger and middle finger, brushing away a few lingering crumbs before lifting his eyes to Bram at last.

“Ye’ll leave the lass,” he instructed.

Anastasia became unnaturally still. Only her hand moved, slowly setting down what remained of the bread.

The woman—wife or mother, whatever she was—hadn’t moved. Her head and gaze were lowered to the table, her posture so rigid that veins stood out in her neck.

“I will nae,” Bram assured him, his tone as casual as the man’s.

“Then ye’ll nae leave yerself, nae alive.”

Bram sighed, his suspicions having been confirmed. “Will we do this here, then?” he asked, his gaze moving between the three younger men on the opposite side of the table, all of them between him and the door. “Or will we take it outside, away from the bairns?”

“Naught they havenae seen before,” one of the younger men said, seeming almost pleased to relate as much.

The fellow nearest the door stepped quietly aside, leaving the doorway suddenly, conspicuously unobstructed, as though extending Bram the courtesy of walking outside to meet his death. The other two remained where they were, neither reaching for a weapon nor speaking, but watching him with the easy confidence of men who believed the outcome already decided.

Bram’s gaze dropped to Anastasia.

She had gone white beneath the evening’s firelight. Though she fought admirably to conceal it, fear had widened her eyes.

“Come,” he said quietly to her even as his attention returned to the men in the house.

Anna had scarcely risen an inch when the old man’s arm shot across the table, his hand seizing her wrist.

“I said she stays,” he growled.

That was the mistake Bram had been waiting for. In a single, fluid motion, he clamped his own hand over the man’s wrist, breaking his grip on Anna. Using the man’s forward momentum against him, Bram hauled him from the bench, spinning behind him to create a human shield. The man cried out in pained surprise as Bram’s other arm came up, the hidden dagger suddenly appearing, its point pressed hard into the soft flesh beneath his jaw.

The room erupted. Anastasia stumbled backward with a startled cry, and scurried to her feet. The woman gasped but remained seated, one hand flying to her mouth. Somewhere to Bram’s right a child screamed, setting off another, until frightened cries echoed through the cottage.

But Bram’s gaze was on the three younger men, who froze exactly where they stood, awaiting instruction from the old man as none likely had ideas of his own.