Page 53 of Blood of the Thistle

Anna obeyed instantly, burying her face against his back just as the gelding’s hooves struck the bridge with a thunderous clatter.

After that, she saw almost nothing clearly. Grey stone rushed beneath them. Someone shouted. Scarlet cloth flashed at the edge of her vision, followed by the brief, startled glimpse of a man's face. Bram's body twisted violently against her arms and his boot struck something—or someone—with enough force that the impact jarred through them both.

The gelding broke stride, and Anna’s stomach lurched as the horse swerved sharply, hooves scrambling upon stone before Bram hauled him straight again.

“Hold fast!”

She was!

Steel crashed against steel somewhere terrifyingly close to her head. Bram shifted again, one arm driving forward, and the force of the movement nearly dragged Anna sideways with him. She clung harder, her cheek pressed against his back, smelling wool and horse and sweat.

Another shout. Another violent movement beneath her hands.

Then pain burned suddenly along the outside of her thigh. Anna gasped and flinched. It felt like a thorn or branch dragged sharply across her skin, startling more than painful, but before she could look down, the gelding swerved again and nearly pitched her from the saddle.

Bram caught the horse and redirected him. Then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, the pounding echo of hooves upon stone gave way to the softer rhythm of earth beneath them. The shouts behind them grew fainter, swallowed by the river and the sound of their own escape, and Anna released a burst of breath—they’d made it.

Bram didn’t ease the gelding’s pace. His body remained taut beneath her hands as he urged the horse onward, likely wanting to put as much distance as possible between them and the bridge.

Anna dared to turn her head, and though it was hard to see detail while bouncing along, she thought that two men were down while another leaned heavily against the stone railing as if wounded as well, and the fourth stood directly in the center, his thin blade lowered to the ground as he watched them ride away.

“They’re not chasing us,” she said with no small amount of wonder.

“They’ll want to pretend they never saw us,” Bram supposed.

Anna thought he meant, they’d never mention to any superior the strange pair evading their checkpoint and crossing the bridge, the four of them unable to stop the man atop the stolen gelding. “Thank God.”

***

Having some suspicion that the bridge they’d crossed most likely spanned the River Tees, Bram reckoned Scotland lay little more than a day’s hard ride ahead if fortune continued to favor them. He intended to press on for as long as the gelding could manage.

His bare foot had not escaped the crossing entirely unscathed. The point of an English blade had found its mark as they thundered across the bridge, but only just. His own sword had turned what would have been a crippling blow into little more than a shallow cut across the top of his foot. The wound bled freely enough, though it caused him scant discomfort and didn’t require attention.

Once again they rode hard across open country, the land mercifully level beneath the gelding’s hooves. With no pursuit immediately behind them, every stride carried them farther from the bridge until the better part of an hour’s hard riding lay between themselves and the English patrol. Bram resisted every temptation to glance over his shoulder. Whether the soldiers had given chase or abandoned the effort altogether mattered little now.

Only when the open ground gradually yielded once more to woodland did he finally ease the gelding’s pace. Anastasia’s grip around his waist loosened as the horse settled into a walk, the trees closing about them once again and offering welcome concealment.

Bram lifted his gaze through the canopy, judging the lowering afternoon sun against the direction of their travel. So long as he kept it upon his right shoulder for another hour or two, they would continue steadily north. Satisfied they had not wandered from their course, he allowed the gelding to pick his way through the trees at an easier pace.

They’d ridden nearly another mile before Anastasia finally spoke.

“I hate to sound like a five-year-old on a road trip,” she said, “but I have to pee.”

As with so many things that she said, Bram was forced to rely upon context to suss out her meaning.

“Aye, but I’d like to be deeper within the trees ere we stop.”

The gelding needed the respite almost as much as Anastasia. White foam had dried in streaks along the horse’s neck and shoulders, and though the sturdy beast had answered every demand placed upon him since acquiring him, even the finest mount had its limits. If they were to pause, Bram wanted the shelter of thicker woodland surrounding them before granting horse and riders alike a brief rest. His preference remained to travel until darkness made further progress unwise, but he could not deny a measure of satisfaction with the ground they had covered since leaving the bridge behind.

They continued another quarter of an hour before the woodland began to change. The ground rose gradually beneath the gelding’s hooves, great outcroppings of weathered stone emerging from the earth as jagged obstacles in an otherwise clean forest. Silver birch gave way to taller Scots pines, their fragrant boughs filtering the late afternoon sunlight into shifting ribbons of gold that danced across the forest floor.

Bram slowed still further, his gaze sweeping the trees ahead. Between two slabs of grey stone that were flanked by massive firs, he caught the glimmer of water in an opening scarcely wider than a cart path. He urged the horse through the narrow space, until the woodland suddenly opened into a small, hidden basin. A quiet lochan rested at its center, its dark, still waters reflecting the green canopy above so perfectly that it seemed almost impossible to distinguish where the trees ended and their reflection began. Sheer walls of granite, worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain, rose around much of the little pool, sheltering it from every direction save the narrow entrance through which they’d come and one at the far side, the space there a bit wider. Moss blanketed the scattered boulders surrounding the water’s edge, while thick ferns and foxglove crowded the shaded banks. Save for the gentle trickle of water spilling over a shelf of stone at the far end of the lochan, the place lay wrapped in remarkable silence.

“This will do,” he announced, satisfied that there was an outlet at the far side, that they would not be trapped in the secluded spot if discovered.

He swung down from the saddle before turning to Anastasia, settling both hands about her waist, lifting her easily from the horse.

The instant her feet touched the ground, her knees buckled. She caught herself against his forearms with a startled breath at the same time his fingers tightened instinctively around her. For the briefest moment she remained there, leaning into him with her head bowed.