Page 114 of Blood of the Thistle

Crossing the wall walk as quickly as she dared, Anna reached the front battlement and went straight to the parapet. The road beyond the village lay empty except for one rider coming toward Craig na Coille at a gallop.

Bram.

Relief struck first, so powerfully that tears came instantly. He was alive. He was safe.

Then confusion followed—he was alone.

Anna searched the road behind him, expecting to see the rest of the men he'd taken in pursuit, but there was no one. No MacCailin riders followed him, and there was no sign of Raghnall's retreating force in the distance. There was only Bram, bent low over his horse as he drove the animal through the abandoned village toward the open gates.

He looked up.

Even across the distance separating them, Anna knew the instant he saw her. Bram straightened abruptly in the saddle, his gaze lifting to the wall where she stood with the wind tearing at her hair and clothing.

“Anastasia!”

His voice barely carried above the wind.

She leaned farther over the parapet. “Bram!”

He was close enough now that she could see his face, and the alarm there was so open, so unguarded, that Anna spun from the parapet and ran for the stairs.

She took them quickly, one hand skimming the stone for balance, and reached the bailey just as Bram swung down from his horse. He had scarcely turned before she collided with him.

Bram caught her against him, his arms closing fiercely around her as Anna threw hers about his neck. She pressed her face against him, breathing him in, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath her hands and the violent pounding of his heart against her own. He smelled of horse and sweat and smoke, his clothing damp beneath her cheek, and she clung to him with a relief so overwhelming that nothing else seemed to matter.

“You’re all right,” she breathed.

“Aye.”

“God, Bram.”

He pressed his mouth hard against her temple, his hand tangled in her hair. The wind tore at them, whipping her skirt and sending straw skittering across the bailey like frantic insects. It was stronger now, that impossible pressure gathering around them, a charge in the air that hummed with the energy of York.

Anna drew back as the question she had forgotten in the relief of seeing him returned suddenly to her. “Why are you here? What happened with Raghnall?”

“Domnall is still on his trail, I expect.”

“You expect?” Her brows drew together. “Why aren’t you going after him?”

Bram’s hands tightened on her waist. Now that she could see him properly, Anna realized the fierceness in his eyes wasn’t the remnant of battle—it was desperation. His hair blew wildly around a face streaked with another man’s blood, his chest heaving.

“The wind came—I couldnae let ye go.”

“Bram—you had him! They said you had him on the run! You’ve wanted this for months!”

“He doesnae matter. Only ye.”

He released her with one hand and reached beneath his tunic, fumbling briefly at the pouch secured beneath his belt. When his hand emerged again, Anna stared at the small white rectangle caught between his fingers.

A photograph—the one she'd taken of the two of them inside the collier’s hut, when Bram had regarded the miraculous appearance of their likenesses upon a piece of paper with considerably more suspicion than wonder.

“How did you—why do you have that?” Anna shouted, looking from the photograph to him.

“I kept it, lass.” Bram raised his voice against the wind, his fingers tightening carefully around its edges. “Even then, I wanted something of ye with me.”

Anna’s throat tightened.

Another gust tore through the bailey, hard enough that she staggered, and Bram caught her arm and drew her closer. He glanced toward the sky before his gaze returned immediately to her, and Anna saw then what she had somehow failed to understand. He was afraid.