Chapter Twenty-Three #3
Her smile faded into something more thoughtful. “But no, I’m not scared anymore. Not here.”
Bram was glad of that, though the qualification did not escape him. Not here. Craig na Coille had given her that much, at least.
“And you?” she asked.
His brows rose. “Am I frightened?”
Another smile came. “No. Are you still all the things you were three weeks ago?”
Bram smiled faintly. “I suspect ye are about to tell me.”
“Actually...” Her expression changed, the playful challenge fading as she considered him.
“I probably don’t need to. You’re happy.
At peace. And good for you. I’m really glad you made it, Bram,” she said softly.
“After everything they did to you, and all those months when you didn’t know if you ever would...
” She paused, her eyes shining with a warmth he felt rather than merely saw. “I’m glad you got back home.”
Bram swallowed, finding himself curiously bereft of anything to say.
There was no pity in her expression, which might have made the sentiment easier to withstand.
She was simply happy for him. Anastasia, who had lost her own home in a way he could scarcely comprehend and still did not know whether she would ever see it again, could sit beside him and take uncomplicated pleasure in the fact that he had regained his.
It twisted something inside him.
“Thank ye, lass,” he said finally, his voice quiet.
Her smile was small. “You’re welcome.”
He’d known Anastasia was kind almost from the beginning. But he did, admittedly, sometimes fail to appreciate how little her kindness depended upon what she herself was given in return.
Bram held her gaze for another moment before looking away, needing some respite from the warmth in her expression. It was then that he noticed how quiet the hall had become.
He glanced toward the tables, finding most of them empty, the benches abandoned and the rushlights extinguished along one wall.
Harsain and the others had gone, as had Margaret, and even Etta was nowhere to be seen.
Only two servants remained at the far end of the hall, clearing the last cups and trenchers from the tables.
He hadn’t even noticed that Seumas had departed, taking the music with him.
Anastasia followed his gaze and straightened in surprise. “Oh, where’d everyone go?”
“To bed, I presume. ?Tis late.”
“Apparently.” She pushed away from the timber pillar. “I should probably go up.”
Bram cleared his throat. “I’ll escort ye.” He ushered her toward the far passage and back, twisting stair.
Their conversation did not end so much as quiet as they climbed the stairs.
Anastasia confessed she’d never used this staircase, but had always used the one at the far end of the great hall.
Bram recalled a tale about Etta locking herself inside a closet they passed, which Anastasia naturally demanded to hear.
By the time he finished, they had reached the second floor, where she suspected him of possessing an alarming number of humiliating stories about his sister while conveniently revealing very few about himself.
“?Tis the way of older brothers and lairds, I’m sure,”
Her laugh followed them up the final turn of the stair, softer now in the sleeping keep, and Bram found himself slowing his steps as they approached the passage leading to her chamber.
Her door came into view entirely too soon.
They stopped before it, and for the first time all evening, conversation failed them.
Anastasia turned toward him, one hand resting upon the iron latch behind her. “Well.”
“Aye.”
“Thank you for walking me up.”
“?Twas a perilous journey,” he said, his gaze dropping to her lips.
“Three whole flights.”
“In darkness.”
“Good thing I had you.”
“Aye.”
She smiled, but instead of opening the door, she remained where she was.
Torch flame from a wall sconce nearby moved faintly between them, disturbed by some draft creeping along the passage, and one of the loose strands around Anastasia’s face stirred against her cheek.
Bram had watched her or been near her for much of the evening, he’d held her hand for a time while they talked, not caring who might have seen, yet standing here felt altogether different.
There were no voices surrounding them now, no music or laughter, no Etta sitting several feet away.
There was only Anastasia, watching him with an uncertainty that seemed to mirror his own, mayhap even having the same thought as he, that he wasn’t ready to say good night.
“I had a nice time tonight,” she said.
“Aye. So did I.”
“It was nice talking to you again.”
Bram understood what she meant by again—before the storm, before he’d decided distance was necessary and accomplished it with infuriating and astounding success.
Neither moved, save for Bram shifting his weight on his hip.
“I want to kiss ye again, lass—Jesu, how I want to kiss ye—but I willna if ye—”
Anastasia pushed away from the door, closed the small distance between them, and rose on her toes to press her mouth against his, rendering the rest of his cautious preamble entirely unnecessary.