Chapter Sixteen #2
Bram swung down from the saddle and wordlessly assisted Anastasia before stepping away almost at once, taking the reins with him.
He tethered the gelding where it might graze quietly before crossing to a nearby oak and leaning one shoulder against its rough trunk, deliberately placing several yards between himself and the woman who had occupied far too many of his thoughts these past three days.
She settled herself against the slender trunk of a young ash, drawing her knees close while she watched the farmstead in silence, and though she remained several paces away, Bram found himself conscious of her every movement.
The kiss three days ago had been a betrayal of his own vigilance.
In that moment by the lochan, Anastasia had stripped him of all awareness, leaving him deaf and blind to everything but her.
An English patrol could have ridden them down, and he’d have died without ever drawing his sword.
That lapse alone was a chilling indictment.
But it was compounded by the faces of the men he’d lost to Raghnall Hay’s ambush—men who would never feel a woman’s touch again.
He had survived, and for what? To forget his duty in the arms of a stranger?
He had no right to such comfort while the traitor lived.
He’d intended for her to feel his withdrawal, to believe him cold or regretful.
It was a necessary cruelty. Letting her think the kiss meant nothing was a far lesser sin than admitting how deeply it had scarred him to pull away.
His frustration lay not with Anastasia, but entirely with himself.
And he was at all unaware of what she’d attempted with her near-constant chatter these past three days.
She wanted to draw him into conversation again, and when his answers failed to encourage her, she simply filled the silence herself.
He’d heard a great deal about her sister Mallory—her children, her many tattoos, her troubles and questionable choices—and despite that rather remarkable accounting of the woman’s faults, there was no mistaking how dearly Anastasia loved her, or how deeply she missed her.
There was a certain charm to her prattle that he had been careful never to reveal he enjoyed.
Her thoughts wandered down scattered paths, one subject leading inexplicably into another, and even as he struggled to believe half of what she told him, he liked listening to her tell it.
Her voice was sweet and expressive, changing with every story, and Bram had discovered to his considerable annoyance that he could have listened to it from dawn until nightfall without tiring of it.
But now, Bram watched the little farmstead for the better part of an hour before deciding to approach.
The place appeared unremarkable enough. Two modest stone dwellings stood a short distance apart, a weathered barn between them and a handful of fenced gardens stretching toward the fields beyond.
During that time he’d seen only an older man tending to chores about the barn, a younger fellow returning over the western rise carrying an armful of kindling with a large hound trotting faithfully at his heels, and one woman who emerged briefly to empty a slop bucket before disappearing once more inside.
Through the open doorway he’d caught the faint sound of a child’s laughter, but little else.
Nothing about the farmstead troubled him. There were no horses saddled for travel, the men he’d noticed hadn’t been armed, and there was no sign that English soldiers had lately or regularly passed this way. The quiet seemed genuine rather than contrived.
They were exhausted and beyond hungry, and possibly still more than a day’s ride from Scotland.
A few adults and at least one child presented little cause for concern. Should matters turn unfriendly, he had no doubt he could see Anastasia safely away before any real harm came to either of them.
At length he pushed himself away from the tree against which he’d been standing.
“We’ll ask after a meal,” he said to Anastasia, offering his hand to pull her to her feet.
“We will?” She asked when he released her hand, while she swiped at dust and dirt from the back of her skirt. “We’re not going to steal apples?”
“Mayhap we dinna have to,” he told her, removing the sword belt and the axe from his person and securing the dagger under his tunic, in his waistband.
Leaving the gelding concealed within the shelter of the little stand of trees, Bram and Anastasia made their way across the meadow at an unhurried pace.
There was little point in skulking toward the farmstead like thieves when his intention was to seek honest hospitality.
Even so, habit refused to loosen its grip upon him.
His eyes moved constantly over the two cottages and their surrounding buildings, noting the low stone walls, the placement of the barn, the narrow lane winding past the property, and the open ground that lay between each structure.
Nothing struck him as untoward. It was precisely the sort of modest holding one might expect to find so far removed from any town, inhabited by folk who worked hard enough that the day’s labor left little energy for mischief once evening settled upon the land.
As they drew nearer, the comforting scents of woodsmoke and a meal cooking over the hearth reached them upon the cooling air, causing Bram to realize anew just how many days had passed since either of them had eaten a proper meal.
His stomach tightened involuntarily, in expectation, at the rich aroma drifting from the nearer cottage.
He stopped when he was within ten feet of the door, close enough to be heard without appearing threatening.
“Guid e’en to the house,” he called evenly.
Silence answered him at first.
A few moments later, the heavy door opened a crack. A woman peered out, her expression guarded as she wiped her hands on a linen apron. Her eyes flicked from Bram’s sword to Anastasia’s strange clothes before she turned from the opening and spoke quietly to someone inside.
The older man Bram had seen earlier took her place, pushing the door fully open but blocking the way with his body.
Age had stooped his shoulders, but his forearms were thick, his hands scarred from a lifetime of labor.
He studied Bram with a flat, unreadable stare, his gaze lingering on Anastasia only briefly before returning to Bram.
There was no welcome in his eyes, only a hard appraisal.
“We seek only food,” Bram replied. “We’ve traveled far and ask only a meal for two weary travelers. We’ve little to offer, but can work in exchange if work’s needed.” He didn’t mind giving a few hours this evening if it meant his belly and Anastasia’s would be filled.
The old man’s eyes drifted over Anastasia with thoughtful scrutiny before he gave his regard to Bram once more.
“There’ll be little enough left for strangers.”
“We ask nae more than what ye can spare.”
Again the old man remained silent for several moments, appearing to weigh the inconvenience against whatever hospitality still survived within him.
“Come then,” he said at last with something approaching resignation. “The pottage is hot enough.”
Bram inclined his head in thanks before following the man inside, taking Anna’s hand and escorting her within.
The cottage proved no different than a hundred others he had entered throughout his life.
A peat fire burned steadily upon the hearth beneath an iron pot suspended over the flames, while the comforting smell of onions and barley filled the single room.
A sturdy table occupied the center of the cottage, already crowded by three children ranging perhaps from five years to early adolescence.
Another young woman, little more than a girl herself, moved quietly between hearth and table carrying wooden bowls, her eyes downcast, while the woman who had answered the door returned to slicing coarse brown bread into generous pieces.
“Sit,” invited the old man as he slipped into a chair at the head of the table. He waved his hand vaguely toward the benches on either side of the table.
Bram strode to the far side of the table, and waited until Anastasia had seated herself before taking the bench beside her.
From there he could observe both the door and the single shuttered window while still keeping the room itself comfortably within view.
It was an old habit born of too many uncertain nights beneath unfamiliar roofs, one he’d long ago ceased thinking about.
The meal was placed before them without ceremony.
Thick vegetable pottage steamed invitingly from the wooden bowl, accompanied by a heel of dark bread still warm enough that Bram suspected it had been baked that very afternoon.
Hunger overcame any temptation toward conversation, and for several minutes only the scrape of bowls and the not-so-quiet chewing of the children disturbed the silence.
It was Anastasia who first altered the unnaturally quiet mood of the room.
She smiled sweetly at the youngest child, who stared at her openly from across the table, his fascination evident, before lifting her gaze to the lad’s mother.
“This is very good,” she said to the woman, indicating her pottage with the chunk of bread in her hand, “and thank you for sharing your meal with us.”
Perhaps it was the unfamiliar cadence of her speech, or simply the sound of a voice unlike any they’d ever heard, but every face around the table turned toward her.
Anastasia immediately shrank a little beneath the sudden attention.
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.