Chapter Twenty
Two mornings after his return to Craig na Coille, Bram walked the southern fields with Harsain, Fearchar, and two men newly elevated to fill places left vacant by the ambush, leading their horses rather than riding them as they followed the shallow burn away from the village.
Bram had slept more deeply the last two nights beneath his own roof than he had in months, had eaten almost to the point of indulgence each day, and had awakened that morning with no expectation of violence or any life-threatening pursuit.
He felt more himself now in so many ways, most notably with a sword of his own at his hip once more.
Of course, here it was more familiar than necessary, though he had every intention of christening it with Raghnall Hay’s blood.
Avenging his men was the first order of business—once he knew where to strike.
He would not leave that unfinished, not with so much blood unanswered for, and each hour spent settling back into the ordinary concerns of Craig na Coille only sharpened his impatience to learn where Hay had gone after betraying six score Scots into English hands.
Fearchar had insisted that Bram first see the work completed in his absence, and Bram had submitted with less complaint than his steward appeared to expect.
As it was, he had no idea presently of Hay’s whereabouts and would not jeopardize his men or his recently won freedom without more information first about the traitor.
Fearchar pointed out a newly cut drainage channel, explaining how it had saved the lower meadow from spring floods.
Bram saw clear water running where stagnant pools had stood.
Men had labored here while he’d hung in English chains.
Cattle grazed on land he’d thought he would never walk again.
When a tenant stopped to report the field had remained dry through the last rains, Bram listened with an attention that surprised the man.
He hadn’t realized a complaint about drainage could feel like a luxury, a welcome weight after months when his only concerns had been pain, hunger, and the prospect of his own execution.
“Another fortnight and we’ll begin bringing in what hay there is,” Fearchar informed him as they continued along the edge of the meadow.
“Nae as much as last year, but enough if winter doesnae come early. The north pasture suffered less, and we’ve half a dozen more calves than I expected after the spring. ”
Bram nodded, looking across the fields toward several distant figures working near a low stone wall. “And the tenants whose roofs were damaged?”
“Seen to before June.”
“The widow MacNair?”
“Hasnae changed—still nae delightful.”
Bram glanced sideways at him.
Fearchar’s mouth twitched. “But quite well, all things considered.”
That earned Bram’s first grin of the morning, brief though genuine.
He shook his head as they continued walking, comforted by the familiar, dry competence of his steward.
While he’d been absent, life here had been managed efficiently and effectively.
He had forgotten how easily Fearchar could strip a year’s worth of trouble down to a handful of observations.
Harsain, who’d thus far displayed considerably less interest in drainage than in the business that had brought him walking beside Bram, waited until they had put several hundred yards between themselves and the tenant before saying, “Fearchar said ye sent riders out yesterday.”
“Aye.”
“To whom?”
“MacLaren first. Another east to Dougal Kerr, and one south toward Dumfries. None carried Hay’s name in writing.
” Bram stopped beside the burn and crouched briefly to examine where the newly cut channel emptied into it before straightening again.
“I seek word of his whereabouts, and I want to ken who he’s been fraternizing with.
” He exchanged a long and wordless look with Harsain.
His captain held his gaze for a long moment before giving a slow, thoughtful nod. The matter of Raghnall Hay’s treachery, and what came next, would remain between them for now.
Niall, who had taken command of one of the companies after its former captain died in the ambush, frowned.
He was thirty perhaps, old enough to have fought beside Bram for years but young enough that the new responsibility still seemed to sit uneasily upon him.
“Why nae name him outright for what he is? If the bastard sold us to the English, every Scot between here and Berwick should ken it.”
“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.