Page 54 of Blood of the Thistle

She lifted her face to him and gave a nervous laugh and then shook her head. “They’re just... my legs feel like they’re made of jelly.”

He answered with a nod, making no immediate effort to step away. While Anastasia seemed oddly intent upon the front of his tunic, waiting for the weakness to leave her legs, Bram found himself studying her face. Fatigue had softened her features, loose strands of pale hair clung untidily to her cheeks, and worry still lingered faintly in her eyes. Yet he found her no less bonny. There was something about seeing her in this regard, weary and anxious, that held his attention all the more. He became aware, not without some annoyance at himself, that he’d been staring at her entirely too long, and promptly pulled one hand from her waist, only leaving the other so that she didn’t actually crumble to the ground.

At the same time, Anastasia became aware of how close they stood, or was simply made anxious by his prolonged gaze, which surely had not escaped her attention. Color warmed her cheeks, and she quickly lowered her hands from his arms, taking an awkward half-step backward.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

Bram answered with a single nod.

Anastasia glanced toward the trees bordering the wee lochan, pointed vaguely into the woods, and offered an unnecessarily explanation, “I’ll be right back.”

He watched her disappear between the pines before turning his attention to the gelding, loosening the girth another notch and allowing the weary horse to lower his head to the water’s edge. The animal drank greedily, blowing ripples across the otherwise still surface.

Bram regarded the lochan himself, suddenly aware of the grime that coated nearly every inch of him. Sweat, soot from the collier’s hut, dried blood—both his own and that of English soldiers—and the filth of three months’ captivity clung stubbornly to his skin. Even though they’d been soaked by rain the day before, he felt no cleaner than he had when he’d escaped.

He surveyed the secluded hollow once more, his gaze lingering upon the narrow opening through which they had entered. Satisfied they remained well hidden and that no movement betrayed another soul in the surrounding woodland, he stripped off his tunic and unbuckled the stolen sword belt. The English blade, the axe, and the knife he placed carefully within easy reach of the water, habit refusing to let him stray more than a few paces from his weapons. His breeches followed, and he laid those and the tunic beside the weapons, being careful to tuck the image of himself and Anastasia into the folds of the cloth.

Wearing only his braies, he stepped into the water, which was far less refreshing than merely outright cold, but welcome all the same. It had been more than three months since he’d submerged himself fully in water. He waded further, the pebbled bottom giving way beneath his feet to soft silt as the water climbed over his ankles, his knees, then his thighs. Another few paces and it reached his waist, the cold settling deep into muscles that had not known true relief in months.

He drew one slow breath before he pushed off from the bottom and sliced cleanly into the water.

The icy water closed over his head, carrying away the sounds of the forest and replacing them with utter silence. For one suspended moment he remained there, opening his eyes to the green murk as strands of his dark hair drifted weightlessly about his face. When he surfaced again, he dragged a deep breath into his lungs and swept both hands back through his hair, water streaming from his beard and shoulders.

It was not a bath by any civilized measure. He had neither soap nor cloth, and the water would do little to erase the scars the English had left upon him. Yet as he scrubbed at his face, his neck, and the grime embedded in his arms, he could not deny the satisfaction of watching the dark ribbons of dirt drift away across the lochan’s otherwise pristine surface.

He dove again, swimming through the dark, clouded water before breaking the surface near the center of the lochan. The water was still cold enough to discourage any lengthy indulgence, yet he found himself floating upon his back for another few moments, content to let the silence and weightlessness linger before duty reclaimed him.

Only then did he become aware that Anastasia had returned.

She stood a short distance away at the edge of the lochan, the little contraption—a camera, she’d called it—in one hand and, in the other, one of the white rectangles it produced. Bram assumed she had made another likeness while he’d been in the water.

His gaze moved from the small paper in her hand to her face.

She made no effort to hide the fact that she’d been watching him, nor did she appear embarrassed to have been caught at it. Her expression was quieter than that, almost thoughtful, and there was a softness in her eyes he could not readily interpret.

When their eyes met, she stepped forward and kept her gaze locked with his. The corners of her mouth lifted, though not quite into a smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so...” she paused, as if searching for the word she wanted, and settled finally on, “at peace.”

He knew for certain he’d not been so for a long time.

Anastasia, perhaps, didn’t expect a response. She came close to the water and chewed her bottom lip while she considered the depths beneath her, seeming to be indecisive.

“It looks refreshing—and oh, my God, I would love to wash the grime off me, but...”

“ʼTis safe at the moment,” he encouraged idly, waving his hands and arms against the surface while he swayed his feet back and forth to keep himself above water.

“Actually, I was more worried about my clothes being wet all evening and maybe overnight,” she said, glancing down at the short pile of his garments. She smiled fully now and met his gaze again. “I guess I don’t think like you—safety was not my concern at all.”

And so it didn’t need to be. That was his duty.

“I’ll nae look, lass, if ye want to discard yer clothes.”

She looked tempted, looked like she was considering it. She set down the camera and the newest image.

“Is it very cold?”

“It’s nae warm,” he said honestly, “but it does feel guid.”