Chapter Sixteen #3
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.
“Tell them to back away,” Bram commanded, his voice low in the old man’s ear. To Anna, he said, “Get behind me. Now.”
He pressed the dagger deeper, forcing a pained grunt from his captive. His eyes locked on the one younger man who hadn’t moved, whose hand was inching toward an axe by the hearth.
“She and I walk out that door,” Bram said, his voice cold. “If anyone follows, this one bleeds. Then you.” He let the blade prick the skin, drawing a bead of blood. “Doubt me.”
“Get out, ye eejit!” the old man choked out, his voice a panicked rasp.
Bram spared one brief glance toward the woman and children, none of whom had moved.
The woman’s eyes met his. There was fear there, certainly, but not for the man whose life rested beneath Bram’s dagger.
It was an older fear, long practiced and deeply familiar, and beneath it flickered something else so fleeting Bram almost believed he’d imagined it—a fragile hope that, for once, the balance of power in the room had shifted.
He shoved the old man toward the open door. “Stay on my heels,” he told Anastasia without looking back. He stopped his hostage just on the threshold, using his body to shield Anna as he scanned the darkness.
“Show yourselves,” he called into the yard. “All of you.”
Silence answered. Then, a man stepped from the shadows by the barn. Another emerged from beside the cottage. Then two more appeared near the well, their shapes hardening out of the twilight. Five of them. All young, all strong.
Bluidy hell.
With the dagger still locked under the old man’s jaw, Bram backed into the yard, pulling Anna with him. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his tunic as they moved as one into the open, surrounded.
“There’s a gelding tethered yonder,” Bram said to the young man who’d brought wood home earlier, jerking his head toward the thicket. “Fetch him.”
After the briefest hesitation, the fellow obeyed, disappearing into the darkness toward the trees.
Bram never took his eyes from the others, but directed them toward the structure while he, the old man, and Anastasia moved further away from it.
He didn’t believe they possessed horses of their own.
They looked the sort who seldom ventured farther than their own little corner of the countryside, and once he and Anastasia were mounted, he doubted any man afoot would catch them before the night swallowed them whole.
Several long moments passed before the gelding emerged from the darkness, led by the reins. The lad stopped well short of Bram.
“Closer.” Bram waited until the horse stood only a few paces away before speaking again. “Now back away,” he said and when he did, he said, “Take the reins, Anastasia.”
She stepped forward immediately.
“Climb in the saddle,” he directed, hoping she could, recalling her previous struggle and how since them, he’d lifted her into the saddle on every occasion.
She gathered the reins, caught hold of the pommel, and to her credit, looked confident.
With considerably more determination than grace, she managed to scramble into the saddle.
Her heeled shoe slipped once inside the stirrup, but a heartbeat later she had settled herself astride and shifted forward until she sat snugly against the pommel, leaving room behind her.
Bram turned and moved at the same time, maneuvering himself and the old man to stand directly beside Anastasia and the horse, his back to her.
“Back away,” he repeated, his voice quieter than before. “Further.”
They yielded but a cautious, reluctant pace but it was enough, the closest being more than ten feet away.
Bram thrust the old man violently away from him, onto the ground and before any could react, Bram had turned and vaulted into the saddle behind her.
As if he’d commanded her in advance to do so, she handed him the reins almost instantly, and in the next second, the gelding sprang forward beneath the sharp pressure of Bram’s heels.
Only when they cleared the yard did the tightness leave his chest.