Page 40 of Blood of the Thistle

He drew a slow breath, forcing some measure of patience into his voice. “Lass, ye just said it. Ye are ill-equipped to make any journey alone. Ye ken you’re safer with me.”

She looked thoroughly wretched. “But maybe you’re not safer with me.”

In all probability, he was not, but he still wasn’t about to abandon her.

“Get on the horse, Anastasia,” he directed again, knowing full well that it would be easier if she possessed some fault beyond simple inexperience. Had that been the case, he was certain he could easily dismiss her, that he could better recall that she was only a burden. When she still didn’t move, he goaded her, “Will ye let a wee conflict cause ye to behave absurdly?”

An incredulous scoff sounded from her. “Oh, my God, will you stop with the manipulation crap already!”

He lifted a brow, silently asking if she would, indeed, abandon safety over a mere quarrel.

“Fine,” she huffed and hobbled closer to the horse, reaching up to grab the pommel and the back of the saddle, and saying as she hauled herself up—not without difficulty, “but that’s on you and not me if I cause some other disruption or—Christ, how am I supposed to get up here when it’s so tall?” she asked, one foot in the stirrup and struggling to swing her leg over the gelding’s back.

“Ye could make some dedicated effort to cause nae disruption,” he suggested dryly.

“I’m making a dedicated effort right now,” she muttered with ill-concealed frustration, unable still to gain the saddle. “It’s just not going especially—”

Before she could finish, Bram stepped forward and settled one large hand firmly beneath her bottom, and with little more than a single effortless push, he lifted her high enough that she tumbled rather unceremoniously into the saddle.

She gasped more from surprise than indignation, hastily clutching the pommel with both hands before she might have slid straight off the opposite side. Once she found her balance, she twisted in the saddle to throw him a thoroughly affronted glare.

Whether her cheeks burned now from the awkward and unsuccessful attempt to mount the horse herself or the altogether familiar manner in which he had chosen to provide assistance, he couldn’t say.

Bram met the look without apology, but then came face to face yet again with her bare legs.

In settling herself astride the gelding, Anastasia’s skirt had ridden high once more, exposing again a generous length of her thighs where the damp fabric had gathered. He looked away at once—much quicker than he had previously—annoyed that so much willpower was required to remove his gaze from her soft flesh.

“Are ye quite settled now?” he asked curtly, refusing to let his expression betray what truly occupied his thoughts at the moment.

“I am,” she said pertly, her back ramrod straight.

Bram climbed into the saddle behind her, gathered the reins, and nudged the gelding forward once more.

The rain showed no inclination of relenting.

It trickled from Bram’s hair into his eyes often enough to become tiresome and ran beneath the collar of his tunic in icy rivulets. He was fairly certain he’d damaged the wound in his shoulder. The pitiful scraps of bandages she’d used would never have held in this rain. It would be bleeding anew, he had little doubt of it.

The horse plodded steadily onward through the rain, ears flicking now and then as droplets pattered against them. Anastasia had grown uncharacteristically quiet before him. Whether she sulked over their quarrel or merely endured the miserable weather, Bram neither knew nor particularly cared to ask. Her silence suited him well enough.

They continued northward for what he judged another hour and more, keeping as much to the shelter of the woodland as the country allowed. The rain seemed sometimes heavier beneath the trees than outside of them, collecting upon the leaves until the slightest breeze loosed whole showers upon their heads. At no point did they come upon the runaway mare, nor did they find any sign that they were on her trail in their steady northward trek.

It was late in the afternoon, the rain continuing to hound them inside a dense stretch of woodland where Bram first noticed signs of life where trees had been cut in large numbers. It hadn’t been done recently, he noticed, mayhap years ago. Great oak stumps, weathered silver with age, rose here and there among younger, greener growth. He picked up a slim and overgrown trail and eventually encountered a broad patch of earth blackened as though fire had once scorched it so thoroughly that even time had failed to erase the mark. The clearing itself formed an almost perfect circle, unnaturally regular amid the surrounding woods, and several low grassy mounds stood nearby where nothing heartier than bracken seemed able to grow.

He slowed the gelding as they walked around the blackened earth.

“What is it?” Anastasia asked, following his gaze.

“A collier worked here,” was his guess.

“What’s a collier?”

“A man who burns timber for charcoal.”

“That’s a... profession?”

“Aye. Virtually every blacksmith, armorer, ironworker, and many households depend on it. Ordinary firewood doesnae burn hot enough to smelt iron or produce quality steel. Charcoal does. Smiths pay well for it.”

“Oh, and they do this alone in the forest?”