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“Come here!” Amice ordered. “You are fortunate I did not march into that circle and pull you away, kicking and screaming in front of all those people!”

“Grandmother—!”

“Hush! Broderick is not for you! You are too young for him. You chase after him like a bitch in heat and make a fool of yourself! I will not have any more of this!”

“You know very well he can hear you!” Veronique hissed.

“He can hear you now, so stop your whispering.”

Veronique stomped up the caravan steps and slammed the door behind her.

Broderick faced Amice and crossed his arms. “That was unnecessary,” he told her, his thoughts pushing over her mind.

Amice’s glare hardened. “She needs to know where she stands. You do not tell her that. Your gentle rejections only make her more determined.”

“But humiliatin’ her will only deepen her resolve,” he counteredwith a sigh. “She has a childish infatuation. It’ll fade. One day she’ll find a lad her own age an’ forget about me.”

Amice shook her head slowly. “No, my son. That is where you are wrong. She has too much of her mother in her. I have seen that fierce heart before—and I know how it ends.”

Broderick looked away, jaw clenched. He remembered well how that story ended. Amice’s daughter had loved like wildfire—and been left in ashes.

“You may be wrong about her,” he thought. “Give her time.”

A heavy sigh deflated the old woman’s frame. She spoke aloud this time, her French soft and worn. “Think what you wish, my son, but I know different.”

She turned and climbed the caravan steps with careful precision. The door creaked open just a crack.

“Fetch my basket of herbs and come with me.”

Amice descended, collecting her heavier shawl from the little table fashioned from a tree stump. “One of the villagers needs a healer,” she told Broderick. “Petro will accompany us. We should not be gone long.”

“Aye, lass. I’ll watch over the camp.”

The caravan door slammed again, Veronique emerging with her grandmother’s basket in hand. She avoided Broderick’s gaze, her shoulders tense, expression dark.

Pouting, she followed Amice toward the edge of the camp, where a broad-shouldered chap waited in the shadow of the buildings, staff in hand and expression grim.

The night swallowed them one step at a time.

Broderick shook his head. Embarrassing the lass in front of him might’ve been meant as a lesson, but Broderick doubted the tactic would work. If anything, the public reprimand might only drive Veronique to pursue him harder, out of sheer rebellion.

A burst of laughter rose from the edge of the camp, where a group of young men had gathered. Their easy banter wove through the crackle of fire and the pulse of music. One among them—clearly the youngest—was being nudged forward by the others, their jabs full of mischief.

“Go on, Jamie,” one of them urged, clapping the lad on the back. “What’s the worst that could happen? He’ll read yer future and tell ye how many sheep ye’ll marry.”

Another barked out a laugh. “Or tell ye when ye’ll finally grow a beard.”

Jamie flushed but stood his ground, caught between annoyance and uncertainty. Still, he squared his shoulders and stepped forward.

Broderick watched, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and his gaze softened. Mischievous lads reminded him of his younger brothers—long lost but never forgotten.

“Come along, lad,” Broderick said, tone easy and inviting as he swept an arm toward the tent. “I dinnae bite—unless ye ask nicely.”

That earned a roar of laughter. Jamie groaned as his friends doubled over with glee.

Broderick held open the tent flap with a mock flourish. “Well? Ye’ve come this far.”

With a martyred sigh, Jamie shot his friends a withering glare, then ducked inside.