Page 62 of Blood of the Thistle

“Tell them to back away,” Bram commanded, his voice low in the old man’s ear. To Anna, he said, “Get behind me. Now.”

He pressed the dagger deeper, forcing a pained grunt from his captive. His eyes locked on the one younger man who hadn’t moved, whose hand was inching toward an axe by the hearth.

“She and I walk out that door,” Bram said, his voice cold. “If anyone follows, this one bleeds. Then you.” He let the blade prick the skin, drawing a bead of blood. “Doubt me.”

“Get out, ye eejit!” the old man choked out, his voice a panicked rasp.

Bram spared one brief glance toward the woman and children, none of whom had moved. The woman’s eyes met his. There was fear there, certainly, but not for the man whose life rested beneath Bram’s dagger. It was an older fear, long practiced and deeply familiar, and beneath it flickered something else so fleeting Bram almost believed he’d imagined it—a fragile hope that, for once, the balance of power in the room had shifted.

He shoved the old man toward the open door. “Stay on my heels,” he told Anastasia without looking back. He stopped his hostage just on the threshold, using his body to shield Anna as he scanned the darkness.

“Show yourselves,” he called into the yard. “All of you.”

Silence answered. Then, a man stepped from the shadows by the barn. Another emerged from beside the cottage. Then two more appeared near the well, their shapes hardening out of the twilight. Five of them. All young, all strong.

Bluidy hell.

With the dagger still locked under the old man’s jaw, Bram backed into the yard, pulling Anna with him. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his tunic as they moved as one into the open, surrounded.

“There’s a gelding tethered yonder,” Bram said to the young man who’d brought wood home earlier, jerking his head toward the thicket. “Fetch him.”

After the briefest hesitation, the fellow obeyed, disappearing into the darkness toward the trees.

Bram never took his eyes from the others, but directed them toward the structure while he, the old man, and Anastasia moved further away from it. He didn’t believe they possessed horses of their own. They looked the sort who seldom ventured farther than their own little corner of the countryside, and once he and Anastasia were mounted, he doubted any man afoot would catch them before the night swallowed them whole.

Several long moments passed before the gelding emerged from the darkness, led by the reins. The lad stopped well short of Bram.

“Closer.” Bram waited until the horse stood only a few paces away before speaking again. “Now back away,” he said and when he did, he said, “Take the reins, Anastasia.”

She stepped forward immediately.

“Climb in the saddle,” he directed, hoping she could, recalling her previous struggle and how since them, he’d lifted her into the saddle on every occasion.

She gathered the reins, caught hold of the pommel, and to her credit, looked confident. With considerably more determination than grace, she managed to scramble into the saddle. Her heeled shoe slipped once inside the stirrup, but a heartbeat later she had settled herself astride and shifted forward until she sat snugly against the pommel, leaving room behind her.

Bram turned and moved at the same time, maneuvering himself and the old man to stand directly beside Anastasia and the horse, his back to her.

“Back away,” he repeated, his voice quieter than before. “Further.”

They yielded but a cautious, reluctant pace but it was enough, the closest being more than ten feet away.

Bram thrust the old man violently away from him, onto the ground and before any could react, Bram had turned and vaulted into the saddle behind her. As if he’d commanded her in advance to do so, she handed him the reins almost instantly, and in the next second, the gelding sprang forward beneath the sharp pressure of Bram’s heels.

Only when they cleared the yard did the tightness leave his chest.

Chapter Seventeen

“I have to tell you,” Anna said, the words coming out in a shaky rush once Bram had finally reined the horse in from its frantic gallop. The farmstead, with its deceptively peaceful, thatched roof and curling hearth-smoke, was a good ten minutes behind them now, lost to the dense weave of trees. She tried for a light tone, a weak joke to mask the tremor in her voice. “This century isn’t exactly winning me over.” But the attempt fell flat.

The horse’s sides still heaved beneath her legs, its sweat-damp hide warm against her skin, and her own heart hadn’t yet gotten the message to slow down. It hammered against her ribs, a wild, frightened drum keeping time with the animal’s slowing breaths.

“Nae doubt,” Bram said after a moment, sounding indifferent.

“You, um, seemed irrationally calm back there,” she said next.

“Calm?”

“Yes, like you were more upset—showed more anger, anyway—when you saw that my skirt had been cut—”