Page 37 of Blood of the Thistle

Bram went first, taking a careful step, planting his foot just below the ridge, testing the ground. He did that for the first few steps, until he was apparently satisfied it was both solid and not overly slippery due to the rain, before he walked more confidently, coaxing the horse they’d ridden along after him. He kept the gelding close, the reins drawn short and slightly out to his left, refusing to allow the horse to crowd him or hurry the descent. The gelding seemed eager to descend more swiftly, but Bram checked it gently whenever it tried to move ahead, insisting instead that it match his careful pace.

Watching him, Anna tightened her own grip on the mare’s reins, leaving only a couple of feet of slack between them, just as he had done. She stepped onto the slope several yards to his left, reasoning that if anything went terribly wrong, she preferred not to send either herself or the mare crashing directly into Bram.

The first few steps proved easier than expected. The wet grass was slippery, but the rock beneath allowed her to get good footholds. But it was uneven enough that she believed removing her shoes had been exactly the right decision.

They moved slowly, almost painfully so—knowing she wouldn’t be able to relax until they reached the distant bottom—zigzagging down the hillside where the narrow path had long ago been worn into the slope by perhaps hundreds or thousands of people taking the same route as they did now. Rainwater streamed along the deeper ruts, while patches of exposed stone forced the horses to pick their footing with care.

Every few yards Bram seemed to pause briefly, and she guessed he was searching for the safest course downward. The gelding followed obediently beside him, lowering its head from time to time to inspect the ground before placing each hoof.

The mare Anna guided proved rather less patient. Twice she tried to crowd past Anna, only for Anna to check her with a firm, rather desperate tug upon the reins.

“Wait,” Anna insisted, gripping the reins tighter as the horse shifted beneath her, one wrong step away from sending them both sliding down the wet hillside. Rain dripped steadily from the end of her nose, and she regularly brushed it away with the back of her hand. The trek did not get easier; in fact, Anna became convinced that the hillside grew steeper.

The grass gave way to scattered rock and clusters of thistle, the purple flowers long since battered flat by the rain. Here and there low shrubs clung stubbornly to the slope, their branches snagging at her damp skirt as she passed. She had just decided she might be halfway down already when something sharp drove deep into the ball of her foot.

Her eyes widened and her mouth yawned in pain, and instinctively she jerked her foot upward, hopping awkwardly on the other. The movement pulled hard against the reins in her hands.

Startled, the mare threw up her head with a frightened snort.

Anna’s arms windmilled for a moment, trying to prevent a fall, but her good foot landed on slick mud and shot out beneath her, sending her sprawling backward with all the grace of someone slipping on ice.

She hit the ground hard, the corner of a buried rock catching her squarely beneath one hip while her elbow slammed into the earth as well, and the reins fled her grasp. She cried out anew with the fresh pain. Only then did she realize the mare, frightened by her fall and shriek, was already taking off across the hillside. At first she bounded sharply sideways, then, finding open ground beneath her, she plunged downhill, gathering speed with every stride, well beyond Bram’s reach so that he never even attempted to seize the trailing reins.

Wincing still, Anna watched in mounting dismay as the mare raced effortlessly toward the valley floor. Once she reached the gentler ground below, she never so much as hesitated, but stretched into a full gallop across the meadow beyond.

“Oh... crap,” Anna groaned.

Only then did she wrench her gaze from the fleeing horse to Bram.

He’d stopped at the commotion, one hand still firmly upon the gelding’s reins, watching the mare disappear into the rain. For several long seconds he remained unmoving, watching. When at last he turned his attention upon Anna, his mouth flattened into a hard line, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he ground his teeth together.

“I’m... oh, my God.” Heat rushed into her cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” she called. “She’ll come back, right? She won’t go far...?”

“Nae,” he answered at last, his nostrils flaring, his voice carrying easily through the steady rain. “She is frightened, riderless, and loose. She’ll run until she sees fit to stop.”

Anna’s stomach dropped. “I’m sorry.”

“Ye’ve loosed a good horse,” he called out, “our food, the blankets, and near all we possessed.”

Anna realized then, or was reminded of the items that horse had carried. She swallowed, her dismay growing rapidly, even as she was relieved that only her own bag was attached to the gelding.

Just as she opened her mouth to give another wretched apology, Bram gave the gelding’s reins a firm tug, and barked, “Come.” Without waiting to see whether she followed, Bram turned and resumed the careful descent, leading the gelding after him.

Anna huffed out a breath she’d been holding. Fine. If he intended to be angry, she allowed that it was certainly justified. Muttering a decidedly unladylike curse beneath her breath, she shifted onto one hip and reached for the foot that had started the whole miserable affair.

What she found there made her features twist in greater alarm. Embedded deep in the ball of her foot was a long, wicked black thorn, its point buried so completely that only a short length remained visible above her skin.

“Oh, good God.” Grimacing, she pinched it between trembling fingers and gave it a careful tug, but it didn’t move.

She squeezed her eyes shut, braced herself, and pulled again. A low whine escaped her lips as the thorn slid free. She opened her eyes to stare at the thing—nearly half an inch of it had been buried in her flesh. A single drop of blood welled from the wound before the rain washed it into a pale red stain against her skin.

Anna examined the menacing thorn. The end that had been buried in her flesh was blunted, which made her wonder if it had broken off inside her foot. Gingerly, she pressed her thumb to the tiny hole in her foot and winced immediately, deciding that yes, something still remained inside. She tried digging for a moment with her fingernails, to no avail. She squeezed the skin around the hole, which managed to produce another drop of blood, but failed to bring the rest of the thorn to the surface.

It would have to wait, since Bram apparently would not.

She sighed, wanting very badly to remain where she was and indulge in a proper fit of self-pity, but Bram was still descending, and she had no intention of irritating him even further. Losing one horse was enough for a single afternoon.

With considerable reluctance and a great expectation of pain, she planted her good foot beneath her and rose. She touched the injured one to the ground and slowly shifted her weight onto it. Pain shot through the ball of her foot so fiercely that her knee buckled almost at once.