Page 93 of Blood of the Thistle

“Aye,” he said finally. “I ken.”

Anastasia bent her head, resting her chin upon her knees. “Nothing against you personally,” she was kind enough to qualify. “Or Craig na Coille. Your family has been wonderful to me, Etta especially. And this is the first place where I actually feel safe.” She paused and rubbed her knuckle against the bottom of her nose. ”But they’re not my family.”

“Nae.”

“And this isn’t my life. My parents cannot possibly know... anything.” Her voice thinned, and she paused before continuing. “That’s the part I keep trying not to think about. They don’t know I’m alive. My mom will imagine the worst—she’ll think I’m dead, and it breaks my heart to imagine her grief.”

She stared at the sand again, blinking more often than necessary, and something twisted painfully inside him. Somehow this quiet sadness was harder to witness than any other emotion he’d seen from her.

“I am sorry, Anastasia.”

Her eyes shone, though she managed a small shrug. “It’s not your fault.”

“Nae, but I would give ye the answers ye desired if I could.”

Something in her face softened. “I know,” she said quietly.

Bram held her gaze another moment, then pushed himself to his feet. The sun had sunk considerably while they talked, leaving the beach in the long shadow of the cliffs, and somewhere above them Craig na Coille would already be stirring toward the evening meal.

“Come,” he said, brushing the sand from his hands. “We should go up. Supper will be soon.”

Anastasia nodded and accepted the hand Bram extended to her.

He closed his fingers around hers and drew her smoothly to her feet. Anastasia came upright close to him, then released his hand and turned slightly away to brush the sand from her skirts, sweeping both palms several times over her hips and backside before giving the hem a brisk shake. When she straightened again, the wind caught several strands that had escaped her braid and blew them across her cheek and mouth.

A pale strand lay caught against the corner of her lips, another fluttering across her cheek beneath one eye. He lifted his hand and caught them gently with his fingers, drawing them away from her face. Rather than release them at once, he carried them back toward her temple and tucked them behind her ear, the backs of his fingers grazing the warm softness of her cheek.

Anastasia went very still, indeed seemed to hold her breath.

His hand lingered beside her face, and she made no effort to retreat from it. Her eyes remained fixed upon his, wide and quiet, the sadness of moments ago still lingering there but something else rising now beneath it.

His gaze fell to her mouth.

He remembered it too well, the softness of her lips beneath his, the startled breath she’d drawn the first time he’d kissed her, and then the way she’d answered him. He remembered the taste of her and the feel of her body in his arms and with the memories came a swift and powerful desire to know all of it again.

When he raised his gaze, Anastasia was watching him.

She’d seen where he’d looked—there could be no mistaking it, nor, Bram imagined, the intent that must be plain upon his face now. Her lips parted slightly upon a shallow breath, but she did not step away.

Bram moved his thumb once across her cheek and still she did not retreat.

So Bram bent his head and kissed her.

It wasn’t born of pity. He didn’t touch his lips softly to hers because her eyes shone with tears or because she looked so forlorn, nor did he imagine a kiss might somehow ease the ache of all she had lost. Selfishly, he kissed her for no reason save that he wanted to.

God, how he wanted to!

For one suspended moment Anastasia remained perfectly still beneath his mouth, and Bram wondered if he had misread her after all. Then she drew a sharp breath through her nose and her lips moved beneath his.

The response was small at first, almost cautious, but it was enough.

Bram slipped his hand from her cheek to the nape of her neck as he deepened the kiss, and whatever hesitation had fleetingly held Anastasia still vanished. Her hands rose to his chest, clutching at the wool of his tunic. She rose slightly onto her toes and kissed him back with a suddenness and hunger that sent a fierce surge of satisfaction through him.

There she was. Not the maddeningly polite woman who wished him good morning as though they were barely acquainted. Not the distant creature who spoke with so little inflection in the last several days. This was the Anastasia he remembered, warm and impulsive and incapable of concealing anything she felt when she forgot to guard herself.

Bram tightened his arm around her.

She came willingly, fitting herself against him as his arm circled her waist, and the kiss lost all restraint. He remembered her mouth, but memory had done it poor justice. He remembered the taste of her, the way her breathing had changed as his kiss grew deeper and more demanding, but not the startling pleasure of having her answer him with equal fervor, nor how swiftly the rest of the world seemed to recede when she did.