Page 51 of Blood of the Thistle

Even the greatest portraits he could recall had never captured a person’s likeness with such astonishing precision. Every strand of his dark hair, every crease and strain upon his face, even the threads of gray scattered through his beard had somehow been preserved upon the little square. More remarkable still, it had not merely captured their appearance, but a single moment in time, complete with the expressions they had worn at that precise moment. Had he not watched the blank surface slowly reveal itself before his own eyes, he wasn’t sure he would trust its existence.

Yet for all the wonder inspired by the object itself, it was Anastasia’s face inside the image that had held his attention so rapt this morning.

She’d been smiling. And aye, the smile had been contrived, but still her eyes were bright, her cheeks slightly flushed, and the smile itself transformed a face he had already thought pleasing into one that was, in truth, remarkably bonny.

He’d felt then, as he’d studied the smooth canvas this morning, that she was looking directly at him, smiling at him or for him, and aye, he was not unmoved by it.

He told himself he’d taken the picture to return it to her, but that was a lie. She’d said she wanted nothing to do with it. The truth was simpler: he’d tucked it into his waistband because he meant to keep it for himself.

The woodland gradually began to thin as they continued north, the towering oaks giving way to scattered birch and alder. Before long Bram became aware of another sound beneath the quiet clip-clop of the gelding’s hooves and the frequent birdsong. At first it was little more than a distant murmur carried upon the damp afternoon air, but with every hundred paces it grew steadily louder until it became a deep, unbroken roar echoing through the trees.

Bram recognized the sound as water, and found himself hoping before he spied the source that the recent rains wouldn’t have made crossing impossible. The small hope vanished the moment they emerged at the edge of a steep wooded bank overlooking a broad river surging through its channel with tremendous force. Brown water roiled around half-submerged boulders before racing onward in a torrent powerful enough to sweep entire trees from its path. More than one great trunk had already surrendered to the current, stripped branches twisting helplessly as they disappeared downstream.

He drew the gelding beneath the shelter of the trees and studied the river for several moments without speaking. There would be no possibility of fording. Even a strong swimmer would struggle against water moving with such violence, and attempting the crossing with the gelding would amount to little more than deliberate suicide.

His gaze followed the river upstream, searching instinctively for some narrower point or shallower stretch that might offer another means across. Instead, the river bent gradually westward before disappearing behind another stand of trees, and it was there, perhaps half a mile distant, that he caught sight of a line of heavy timbers spanning the water.

“Is that a bridge?” Anastasia asked quietly, evidently having seen it as well, her gaze perusing the same spot.

“Aye.”

He tugged on the reins, turning the gelding around, and guided him back into the trees. They moved steadily west, closing in on the bridge while they remained concealed in the trees. When they were close enough, Bram dismounted and placed the gelding’s reins into Anastasia’s hands.

Her eyes grew noticeably wider. “What am I supposed to do? Where are you—?”

He took her hand and gently closed her fingers around the leather reins, stilling her at once. “Ye need only wait, lass. I mean to scout the bridge. I willna be gone long. If anyone should come upon ye before I return, take the horse and ride east as fast as ye can.”

She stared at him as though he’d just suggested she fly. “You know I can’t drive this thing, right? I don’t know how to ride a horse.”

“I dinna expect ye’ll meet another soul.” He gave the reins a reassuring pat. “But if ye do, hold fast to these and strike his flanks with your heels. He’ll do the rest.”

She nodded jerkily and tried—for his benefit, he was certain—to look as if she knew no fear at the prospect of riding alone. “Okay. But Bram, please be careful.”

The request gave him pause. He frowned slightly, uncertain why she should say such a thing, and whatever confusion crossed his face seemed to prompt her to explain herself.

“I don’t want to worry about you. Or...” She let out a nervous little laugh. “I can’t worry about you and riding a horse for the first time all at once.”

He studied her, still a wee baffled. The notion of someone worrying over him struck him as oddly unfamiliar.

Whatever puzzlement he felt must have shown upon his face, for Anastasia shifted awkwardly and said, more abruptly this time, “Just... come back, okay?”

“Aye, lass,” he replied, concluding her fear was a tangled thing—for him, for herself, for the horse she could not ride, and for being left alone in this unfamiliar land.

“And don’t get stabbed again,” she added quickly. “Or injured in any other way.”

A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as he turned toward the trees. That last admonition seemed directed entirely at him, and though he still could not understand why she should concern herself with his welfare, the thought that she did settled somewhere quiet in his chest.

He moved some distance from Anastasia to avoid revealing her position if he were discovered. He walked quietly toward a narrow opening between two great beeches, from which he could observe the bridge without exposing himself.

Movement farther along the bridge drew his attention. Two more English soldiers strolled slowly toward the northern bank, one maintaining a reasonably vigilant watch as his helmed head swept frequently from side to side. His companion appeared considerably less diligent, having stopped midway across the bridge to lean upon the timber rail while gazing down into the churning river below, seemingly captivated by the violence of the swollen current.

Bram watched for quite some time, wanting to know the exact number of guards on patrol at any given time, but he never saw more than those four. He noted when the guards changed places, how often they glanced toward the open road, and how easily conversation distracted them—all useful, but predictable.

His thoughts turned to the knife at his belt, the English sword hanging at his side, and the axe tucked through his waistband. Should it come to a fight, they would have to suffice. Even without the iron cuff still fastened about his wrist, he would never pass for an ordinary traveler. He could not simply stroll onto the bridge without being stopped and questioned; the guards would soon discover he was neither English nor harmless.

And he didn’t suppose that Anastasia’s presence would lessen their suspicions. If anything, a lone Englishwoman—or whatever the soldiers took her to be—traveling beside a barefoot Highlander would invite even greater scrutiny than either of them alone.

If he were alone, he would walk onto that bridge and settle the matter with cold steel. Four soldiers were a risk, but a familiar one. He’d faced worse odds and walked away with little more than another stain on his blade. But he was not alone. He had grown accustomed to risking only his own neck, a wager he’d made countless times without a second thought. Now the stakes were different. A sudden vision seized him— a blade slipping past his guard, finding its mark. His body falling. And Anastasia, left alone and defenseless before the men whose comrades he’d just slain. The thought of her terror—the sheer vulnerability in her eyes—was enough to quell the familiar battle-lust rising in his chest. Her safety was worth more than any victory.