He nodded. “Oh. Well, that I quite understand. My mother is the queen of chores.”
Sitting on a mountaintop alone with a strange boy should have felt odd. I’d never spent any time alone with a boy, if you didn’t count my snot-nosed cousins. My mother thought dating a bigger waste of time than having friends.
Not that the opportunity had ever come up.
Still, I felt strangely comfortable sitting there next to Bran, like we’d known each other for a very long time.
“You know,” I told him, “before I got here, the only thing I knew about Scotland was from crusty old history books. Oh, and from Braveheart, of course. My dad loves that movie, though Mom hated it.”
“Oh yes. Most Scots detest it. Makes their national hero look like a bloody outlaw. William Wallace was actually a very educated man. More of a politician than a grimy rebel. No murdered wife, either.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Had a pretty mistress, though. Does that count?”
I scrunched my nose. “Disappointing. The dead-wife story is way more romantic.”
The breeze whipped around us, playing backdrop to the symphony of crying birds and the soprano tinkle of sheep bells in the meadow below. I closed my eyes, letting the peace of it flow around me.
“So,” Bran said, “what kind of duties does an American girl such as yourself perform all day, down there in that big house?”
My serenity flattened.
Oh, not much. Just what any normal sixteen-year-old girl does. Memorize a million books about the twelfth century. Practice speaking with a medieval accent. Learn to stab people.
And then, of course, there’s the whole traveling-through-time thing.
On the way up the mountainside, Bran told me he was out of school for the summer, and on holiday with his London-dwelling mother. He hadn’t offered anything further. I was okay with that. Of all people, I understood that everyone had their secrets.
“Not much,” I finally said, staring down at the sheep. “This and that. My aunt likes projects. What about you? What does Bran Cameron do when he’s not out stalking?”
Twirling a twig of heather between the palms of his fine-boned hands, he huffed. Instead of answering, he said, “And what is your view on knees?”
“Knees.”
“Yes, knees.”
He grinned so wide the crooked eyetooth showed. A glowing warmth started to fill me when I saw that smile.
“Absolutely. On Saturday, you see, there is a festival a couple of villages from here. It’s a small event to be sure, but the lads throw huge stones about, and there will be plenty of greasy food. Plus, bonus . . .” He waggled slim eyebrows. “I always wear a kilt to these events and thought it best to ascertain your opinion on knees. Just in case you feel unable to restrain yourself when you see mine.”
Never had a boy asked me to go anywhere with him. Ever. I’d figured this ride would be it. Just his way of paying me back for saving his life. But now, maybe . . . possibly . . . this almost-beautiful boy was actually asking me out. I had no precedent. No idea what one said in this type of situation. So, like the loser-nerd I was, I found myself blurting, “Y-you mean like a date?”
“No, Hope,” he said, tucking back a grin. “I don’t mean like a date.”
“Oh.” Disappointment. Embarrassment. By the cartload. “Sorry. I—”
I started to turn away, but he grabbed my hand. My skin felt like it was melting as I stared down at the inch of ground between us.
“I don’t mean like a date,” he said. “I mean exactly a date. You. Me. Greasy food. Knees.”
One adorable sideways smile later, and my heart started doing klutzy somersaults inside my chest.
Then, like some celestial being had judged my happiness undeserved, his words penetrated, and my grin smeared away. “Wait,” I said. “Did you say Saturday?”
At his nod, I continued, trying to hide my misery. “I can’t. I’ll be, um . . . away that day. For a few days, actually.”
His hand sprang open, releasing mine. For an instant, his gaze sharpened before he shrugged and turned back toward the view. “I see. Well, if you’re busy, you’re busy. More knees for me, then.”
“I’d love to go. Really. It’s just that—”
“It’s quite all right.” He threw a rock off the ledge, watching it tumble end over end into the valley below. “Actually, now that you mention it, my mother likely has some things for me to attend to this weekend.”
“Not fun things, I’m guessing.”
He laughed, though now it sounded flat and humorless. “No.”
“Maybe when we both get back?” I suggested.
“I’d like to think that would still be possible,” he said.
I blinked at the phrasing, and at the way his features had turned solemn. I knew the chances were pretty slim. If I even survived all this, and if we found my mother still alive, we’d likely leave as soon as possible. How that would go over back home I didn’t want to think about. Not yet.