Page 38 of Blood of the Thistle

“Oh...no.”

She tried again, more carefully this time, trying to keep the ball of her foot and her toes off the ground. But the descent made that awkward and nearly impossible, and she feared she’d end up falling again before she made it all the way down.

Bram had yet to look back, and she was arrested by a new worry—that he might simply keep going without her if he were that upset about her losing the horse.

She drew a long breath and tried limping again, but after three miserable steps she gave up.

Grumbling again, Anna lowered herself carefully to the wet hillside, extending her injured foot before her, and planting both hands behind her. Slowly, she began easing herself down the slope a foot or two at a time, scooting awkwardly over the slick grass and patches of exposed stone on her butt. It was awkward work. The rain-soaked grass offered little purchase, forcing her to brace herself against rocks and clumps of thistle while she scooted from one relatively level patch to the next. More than once she slid farther than intended, stopping herself only by digging both hands into the muddy ground.

It was humiliating, and sadly, the progress was considerably slower than walking, but at least she was moving.

Far below, Bram reached the valley floor a moment later. He turned almost at once, presumably to see where she was, and though he was more distant now, she was still pretty sure that another fierce scowl twisted his features upon seeing that she still had a third of the way to go. For a long moment he merely watched, rain dripping steadily from his hair and beard, before he secured the gelding beneath the shelter of a broad oak, winding the reins twice around a low, sturdy branch, and giving them what appeared to be a firm tug before turning back toward her.

“I’m fine!” she called out when he began to march with angry strides back up the hill, toward her. “Honestly,” Anna muttered under her breath, “I’m perfectly capable of embarrassing myself without an audience.”

Still she continued scooting downward, determined that by the time he reached her she’d at least have covered another several yards. She managed perhaps only another six feet or so.

Bram climbed the hillside with long, economical strides, hardly seeming to notice either the mud beneath his feet or the rain still falling steadily upon them.

Anna looked up with what dignity she could muster while sitting rather inelegantly in the mud.

“I don’t need help,” she said, a bit breathlessly.

His angry eyes dropped to her legs.

Her skirt, soaked through hours ago, had ridden scandalously high from all the awkward scooting, exposing all of her calves and much of her thighs. She felt the warmth rush immediately into her cheeks as his gaze lingered there, not boldly, nor exactly appreciatively, but with the unmistakable attention of a man who had just realized how much of her he was seeing.

She tugged the damp fabric down at once, accomplishing very little since it was mostly caught beneath her.

“Don’t,” she gritted, though she wasn’t entirely sure whether she meant don’t look or don’t notice.

His gaze finally lifted to hers. There remained irritation in his expression, certainly, but something else now as well—something that didn’t seem to be connected to anger.

He presented his back to her and tapped at his own shoulder. “Up.”

Anna blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Upon my back.”

“Omigod no,” she said emphatically. “I can manage—”

“Today?” he challenged, all ill-humor returned. “Before the mare gets too far, mayhap beyond our ability to reclaim her?”

Anna opened her mouth and then closed it again, and almost instantly gave in to his very unsubtle manipulation—as if she didn’t already feel guilty enough!

With a huff, she scrambled to her feet, reaching for his broad back to steady herself and keep weight off the ball of her foot. She tried as well to keep as much of her own weight as possible upon her good leg while slipping her arms around his shoulders, but the effort proved futile. The moment Bram rose, lifting her as though she weighed little more than one of the wet blankets they’d lost with the mare, she had no choice but to cling to him.

Heat enveloped her almost immediately. His linen shirt was soaked through, yet the man beneath it seemed impervious to the cold, the warmth of his broad back and shoulders radiating through the rain-chilled linen. She became acutely aware of the powerful muscles moving beneath her forearms, of the strength with which he carried her down the hillside. He bore her weight as if the wound in his shoulder was a memory and the heavy iron shackle on his wrist was nothing but a grim ornament.

Anna rested her chin, only for a moment, against the back of his shoulder, and told herself she hated how comforting it felt. More troubling still, a small, treacherous part of her wished the hill were steeper, the valley floor much farther away.

Chapter Eleven

“I’m sorry about the horse. I stepped on a thorn and fell,” she explained, her voice small.

In truth, it sounded as if she were crying—or about to. The thought twisted his mouth with displeasure. Tears were a demand for sympathy, and sympathy was a weakness he could not afford. He fought the urge to resent her for it.

“Sorry will nae return the horse.”