Page 82 of Blood of the Thistle

Anna glanced toward her, realizing only then what Etta found so remarkable. “Women are learned, too, where I come from. Girls go to school just like boys do. I went to school for years, and then to college so I could become a teacher.”

Etta absorbed that slowly, looking at Anna seemingly in an entirely new light. “Ye are a learned woman.”

The description sounded so grand that Anna laughed. “Oh, gosh, no. I mean, yes, I’ve learned. But... well, I’m discovering that most of what I know isn't going to be particularly useful here.” She finally turned again in Bram’s direction. “Your brother can tell you. I can’t ride a horse—can’t even get on a horse or walk one down a steep hill.”

Bram held her gaze, and something in his blue eyes told her he remembered that particular disaster every bit as well as she did, but not with frustration now.

Anna felt the beginning of a smile tug at her mouth. “I can’t build a fire,” she continued, still looking at him, “and I don’t know when people mean to do harm. I wouldn’t know an edible mushroom from a deadly one and I’m not too good with an axe.”

His brow lifted at that last one.

“Oh, don’t,” she warned, though she was smiling now. “You know perfectly well how miserable I was trying to break that shackle off your wrist. Have I forgotten anything?”

His mouth shifted faintly. “Aye. A few things.”

Harsain, seated beyond Bram, who had apparently been following the exchange with some interest, observed, “Ye arrived in one piece, lass. Canna be entirely hopeless.”

Anna laughed fully now. “Thank you, Harsain, for the vote of confidence.” She faced Etta again. “But still, as you can see, I’ve spent the last two weeks feeling considerably more ignorant than learned.”

They finished their breakfast and soon Etta was dragging Anna away from the table and outside the keep, and Anna kept her eyes fixed on the stone archway ahead, refusing to let them drift back toward the high table where Bram sat.

That was the discipline required, she realized as they stepped into the yard. Not how to dislike him, because she suspected she would fail miserably at that, and not even how to stop wanting him, because apparently her common sense had very little authority over that particular problem.

She simply had to stop hoping.

Bram could be kind to her without it meaning anything more. He could watch her, smile at her, pursue conversation with her, or call her Anastasia in that low voice that made her stomach swell with butterflies, and none of it had to become something larger simply because she wished it would.

She’d learned that lesson once.

She certainly didn’t want Bram to have to teach it to her again.

Chapter Twenty-One

Two days later, Bram found Anastasia standing near the edge of the courtyard, waiting beside the low stone wall that separated the stable yard from the broader sweep of buildings beyond. The afternoon sun caught in her hair, turning the loose strands around her face almost white against the muted green of the gown she wore. She stood with one hand resting upon the wall, the other shading her eyes as she looked across the yard, and there was something about seeing her there, dressed now as any woman of Craig na Coille might be dressed and framed by the familiar stone and timber of his home, that continued to unsettle him.

She noticed him approaching and straightened.

“I’m waiting for Etta,” she said quickly, as if she felt she had to defend her presence or her position.

“Aye.”

“Yes. She said she’d meet me here after she finished helping your mother with something.”

Bram glanced toward the keep. “That could mean five minutes or mayhap the remainder of the day.”

Anna’s mouth curved briefly, more reflex than feeling, he decided.

“I was just wondering about that.”

Her tone was pleasant, but held the same cool distance as her gaze. A sensible man would have continued on his way. Bram stayed, leaning a hip against the wall, determined to wait for something more.

Her attention shifted to a stone building across the yard, smoke rising from its chimney. “What is that building?” she asked, a concession to the silence.

“The bakehouse.”

“Oh,” she said, a small frown appearing. “What goes on in there?”

Bram bit back a grin. “Baking.”