Page 39 of Blood of the Thistle

“I understand why you’re upset about the horse running off—and about my part in that—I just don’t understand why you have to be so mean about it.”

“Two days ago, I possessed naught but the clothes upon my back and an English shackle upon my wrist. By some rare turn of fortune, I had relieved the scouts of horses, food, blankets, and water, only to have all of it squandered before the day was out.”

“Okay, well first, I wouldn’t call having to commit murder a rare turn of fortune—”

“Jesu, lass, leave it, will ye?”

Aye, he was angry about her carelessness—and his own for assuming she could manage the horse—but the memory tormenting him wasn’t of the animal disappearing from view. Instead, it was the sight of her seated upon the hillside with her skirts bunched carelessly upward from all her awkward scooting. He had seen more of her legs than any honorable man ought to have seen of a woman not his wife, pale and shapely against the rain-darkened earth, the skin fair and soft enough to beg a man’s touch.

He scowled at the memory, even as he understood it was his reaction to so tempting a view that caused fury to rise. He’d been three months among English soldiers and prisoners, wasting away day by day, surrounded by filth, iron, rats, and endless pain. Longer still, he knew, since he’d last enjoyed the company of a woman. The war had consumed the better part of his adult life, leaving precious little room for thoughts of marriage or softer pursuits, and he seized readily upon the explanation that war and captivity had simply sharpened an appetite long neglected. Mayhap any reasonably comely woman would have had the same effect after so long a deprivation. He preferred that answer, because the alternative was far more troublesome.

He refused to be distracted by Anastasia.

She might indeed be touched in the mind. She might be entirely truthful in believing herself to be a traveler from another age, but belief alone did not make such madness reality. Whatever strange fate had brought her into his company, she remained an impossible mystery, and as such, she made a poor companion for him, already burdened with too much. His concern belonged to Scotland, to the traitor, and to the men who had died because of Raghnall Hay.

He fixed his attention upon the valley stretching before them and lengthened his stride as best he could, wondering if he should be reciting his childhood Latin to keep his attention from fixing on the feel of those same soft legs in his hands and wrapped around his back and hips.

He glanced heavenward and scoffed silently, Any other ridiculous distractions You want to lay in my path?

“I just wanted you to know that I was sorry,” she continued, “and that I didn’t mean to let him go, but—”

“Aye, but a guid intention dinna keep the horse, nor will it recover the beast.” Had one of his own men surrendered the reins so easily, Bram would have judged him just as harshly. Leadership demanded it. Men died when small mistakes were excused simply because they had not been made maliciously.

“And still,” she persisted, stiffening along his back, “there’s no reason for you to be a jerk.”

He gritted his teeth and let the matter drop, hoping she did so as well.

When they finally reached the waiting gelding, Anastasia slid awkwardly from his back before he might have lowered her more carefully.

Bram turned toward her, his brow heavy.

“I think,” she said, not meeting his gaze, “maybe now is a good time to... part ways. I don’t want to cause you any more trouble. I get it; I might be more of a hindrance than a help.”

He rolled his eyes and fetched the gelding, unlooping the reins, before walking it over to where she stood with her one foot extended so the heel bore her weight.

“Get on the horse, Anastasia,” he said impatiently. “Aye, I’m angry, and so I’ll be for some time. But I’m nae without honor that I would abandon ye here, in the middle of nowhere.”

Tears glistened in her eyes, and she shook her head. “No. I want to go home anyway, and you’re going in the wrong direction—”

“Ye bluidy told me home lies seven hundred years away,” he shot back. “What matter then a few hundred miles when centuries stand between ye and it?”

“But maybe I need to be where I was—in York—to be, I don’t know, put back where I was taken from,” she suggested.

“Ye canna go to York, lass,” he informed her coldly. “Naught but trouble waiting on ye there, looking as ye do.”

She let out a half gasp. “Looking as—oh, you mean because of the way I’m dressed?”

“ʼTis only half of it.”

“What’s wrong with—?”

“Ye canna go to York,” he ground out.

“But I can’t stay with you,” she returned, with just as much heat. “What if I make another mistake? One that costs you your freedom? What if—?”

“Cease,” he commanded. “There will be nae more mistakes. I’ll nae... entrust ye with anything of import.”

Her shoulders slumped. “See? You know I’m not... cut out for this—anything in this century.”