Page 78 of Blood of the Thistle

“Because every Scot between here and Berwick includes men who’ll sell the information back to him before sunset,” Bram replied. “Raghnall saw me at Richmond in chains. If word reached him after that, it would have been that I was taken toward York for hanging. Let him believe the English finished what he began.”

Harsain gave a slow nod and explained further, “A dead man isnae likely to come hunting him.”

Tòmas, the youngest of the officers and elevated only because the man he’d followed since boyhood had not survived the rout, shifted his grip upon his horse’s reins. “And if or when ye learn of his location?”

Bram looked at him, his lips pursed. The question was simple, but he saw the answer in Tòmas’s eyes—the same raw anger that burned in every survivor. They hadn’t just lost a battle; they had lost brothers, cousins, friends they’d shared fires with for years. All of them had been betrayed for English coin, and that debt was personal.

“When I find him, we learn what he sold and to whom,” Bram said. “I saw him at Richmond, walking free among the English. That’s proof enough for me, but it isnae for others. Before I ride into a man’s hall crying treason, I need more than my own word against his. Find out who he spoke with. What secrets he passed. I need to ken if we were the only company he betrayed, or just the first to learn of it.”

“And then we’ll move on him,” Harsain predicted.

Bram’s expression remained level as he nodded. “Aye.”

As they walked, Bram asked how many men they could gather. “Forty within two days,” Harsain estimated. “Twice that in a week, though some families have already lost too many sons. I’ll nae ask more of them.” He went on, accounting for the scattered forces, and with each name, Bram felt the wound of their losses deepen. More than once, Harsain referred to a company by its dead captain’s name before catching himself.

They had nearly reached the lane leading back toward the village when movement between two cottages caught Bram's attention. He looked without particular interest at first, expecting to see women carrying washing or a child running an errand, but something in the way the figure moved—a particular straightness of the back—made his gaze return almost at once.

It was Anastasia, walking beside Etta.

His sister had her arm linked comfortably through Anastasia's, and whatever conversation passed between them evidently amused them both. Etta spoke with her free hand moving animatedly, while Anastasia listened with her head tilted toward her and a smile upon her face.

Bram stopped listening to Harsain, and laid the fault of that entirely at Anastasia's feet.

He still wasn't accustomed to seeing her dressed as she was now. The first night in the hall had nearly undone him—bathed and rested, her pale hair shining nearly gold beneath the firelight, looking less like the strange apparition from the rain and more like a woman who might have walked through the doors of Craig na Coille any day of his life. The realization had been unsettling. Her peculiar clothing had always separated her visibly from everything around her, made it easier to remember that she claimed another world. Remove that difference, dress her in wool and linen, set her beneath his roof among his kin, and suddenly there was very little to mark her as impossible at all.

Now the gown she wore was simpler than the blue one of her first night beneath the keep’s roof, a soft brown wool over a pale linen léine, her hair braided loosely down her back. Beauty aside, there was nothing about her appearance that should have commanded attention among the dozen women moving through the village, and yet his eye found her so easily, and stayed with her so resolutely.

“Laird?”

Bram turned. Harsain had stopped speaking, one bushy brow raised.

Bram set his jaw while Harsain's mouth curved but, to his credit, he said nothing.

Bram resumed walking, annoyed at being caught and more annoyed that he couldn’t stop looking. On the road, there had been only one goal: get home. After the abnormal storm failed to return her, he’d brought her here because no other choice existed. He’d told himself he would decide the rest later.

Later had arrived, he realized now.

She had no kin, no property, no name. By every measure his world understood, she was entirely dependent on him.

An obvious solution entered his thoughts and was rejected so violently he nearly cursed aloud.

Marriage.

There were men at Craig na Coille he trusted with his life—men of decent character and respectable holdings who would consider a bonny woman under Bram’s protection no poor prospect. Harsain was unmarried, though Bram dismissed that before the thought had fully formed. Niall had land and a good family. There were others. And yet the thought of any of them touching Anastasia made something primitive rise inside him. Another man’s hand at the small of her back. Another man lifting her onto a horse, drawing out the soft laughter that had once been offered to him. Another man kissing her—

Bram’s jaw tightened hard enough that he felt the muscle jump beneath his cheek.

Jesu. That would not do.

He’d spent considerable effort convincing Anastasia their kiss had meant nothing. The lie had worked better than he’d expected—which was exactly what he’d wanted, he reminded himself, even as he was beginning to doubt that entirely.

Another glance showed Anastasia and Etta paused by Dearbhail's cottage. The older woman emerged, speaking to Anastasia, who turned to his sister with a questioning look. Etta must have translated, because a moment later Anastasia smiled at Dearbhail, who reached out and touched the pale braid hanging over her shoulder with open curiosity, from which Anastasia did not recoil.

Bram watched the quiet interaction and was confronted by another uncomfortable truth: Anastasia was not keeping Craig na Coille at a distance. The castle walls were making a place for her. The thought sent a confusing surge of pleasure through him, followed by a sharp, juvenile resentment as he watched her smile at Etta. He hadn't seen a smile like that, not directed at him, since the night before he'd sent her away with his lies.

He’d thought returning home would restore order to his life. He’d find the traitor, gather his men, seek his vengeance, and resume his duties. Instead, he’d brought home a problem he couldn't solve with a sword. Every argument he'd made for keeping his distance from Anastasia was dissolving, leaving him with a truth he was not yet ready to face.

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