“Should we ride faster?” she ventured.
There came no reply. He was staring straight ahead, as if caught in a trance. “Bram?” she asked again.
“There are only two of them. And if they threaten you, they answer to me.” The flat emotionless tone frightened her as much as the soldiers, for she suspected he would kill without any remorse. Nairna prayed it wouldn’t be necessary.
She risked a glance behind at the mounted soldiers. They wore chainmail armor and both carried spears. Lower-ranking soldiers, she realized. Likely sent to question them.
Bram maintained their pace and as the men came closer, her nerves wound tighter. The men surrounded them, keeping an even pace with the wagon. One sent her a slow smile that made her skin crawl.
Bram hadn’t moved, not wavering from his course. If it weren’t for his tight knuckles, she’d have wondered if he had even noticed the soldiers. His gaze remained focused upon the road ahead of them.
“Aren’t you going to stop?” one taunted her. “Lord Harkirk would want to offer his . . . hospitality.”
Nairna gave no reply, for it would only goad them on. She moved closer to Bram, not making eye contact with the soldiers. Silently, she prayed that the men would leave them alone. But instead, they continued riding, one on each side of the wagon.
“I’d like a piece of the woman,” came the voice of the other soldier. He smirked, and Nairna shrank away.
At that, Bram raised up the claymore. His arm muscles strained as he pointed it at the soldier who had threatened her. In his other hand, he held a dirk.
Nairna took the reins from him and held her breath, for she hadn’t known he possessed the strength to hold the weight of the claymore with only one hand.
“If you touch my wife, I’ll remove your hand.” He sent them a dark smile. “Or your head. And I’ll enjoy doing it.”
The soldiers eyed one another, as if they weren’t certain whether he would follow through with the threat. In the end, they fell back. “Go on your way.”
Bram never tore his gaze from the men until they were far in the distance. The interaction had affected him somehow, the shadow of his past crossing over his face. Every muscle in his body was taut, like a tightly strung bow, before he lowered the claymore and dirk, taking the reins back.
Only when several miles lay between them and the garrison did Nairna start to breathe again. Too much could have gone wrong. They could have questioned Bram or taken him into custody.
Her father had been right. They needed to get far away from Ballaloch. Only at Glen Arrin, among Bram’s family, would they be safe.
When the sun had begun to descend, she asked Bram, “Where do you want to stop for the night?” Though she wasn’t quite ready to sleep, she was growing hungry.
Nothing. It was as if she’d spoken to empty air. “Bram?” she prompted again. He didn’t turn, didn’t move, except to keep his gaze fixated upon the road ahead. It was then that she noticed his hands were shaking. Though his posture remained perfectly upright, something wasn’t right.
His eyes were unseeing, as if he were caught within a dream. Was he even aware of anything?
“What is it?”
Bram didn’t speak, so she pulled against the reins, ordering the horse to stop. He didn’t seem to notice that they were no longer moving. His brown eyes were vacant and she reached out to take his hands in hers. His flesh was icy cold.
“Tell me,” she whispered, suddenly frightened. The sky was darkening, the wind shifting around them. Bram appeared lost in a world of his own thoughts, and she suspected he didn’t hear her at all.
She reached out to touch his cheek, hoping that the gesture would awaken him from the spell he was under. Gently, she slid her fingertips down his skin to his throat. When her touch grazed against his scar, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Madness brewed in his eyes and he stared hard at her, as though she were an enemy trying to slay him.
The pain made her gasp and she closed her eyes, wondering how in God’s name she would break through to him. Though he’d lost a great deal of strength, she didn’t doubt he could snap her wrist in half.
“Bram, it’s Nairna,” she insisted. “Look at me. It’s your—“ she let out a shuddering breath ”—your wife,” she managed. “Please let go of my wrist.”
When he didn’t, she fought back against the harsh pain. “You’re hurting me, Bram.”
Agonizing minutes stretched on while she spoke quietly to him, praying that he would somehow see her.
And then, abruptly, he let go. He blinked at her, his eyes suddenly narrowing. When he saw her clutching at her wrist and her reddened skin, he let out a tortured breath. “What did I do to you, Nairna?”
She shook her head, not knowing what to say. Her heart shook within her chest, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, trying to examine her hand, but she kept it far away from him. “I was dreaming. I must have fallen asleep.”
