Chapter Four #3
Christ, why hadn’t he let her remain a mystery for another to solve?
Instead, every beat of his heart insisted she was now his responsibility. It was madness.
Utter, bluidy madness, he reckoned.
Yet as another rider passed close enough that Bram heard the leather of the saddle creak above them, he found himself tightening his hold upon her once more, every muscle in his body poised to rise and stand between her and the danger above them.
He had spent three months fighting to preserve his own life. Now, to his growing irritation, he realized he was ready to surrender his own freedom to protect the bewildering woman beneath him.
After another minute, he assumed the last of the horses had cleared the ravine.
He’d counted twenty-one horsemen, which seemed a reasonable number to have sent in pursuit, leaving the remainder to guard the prisoners still shackled together, bound for York and a hangman’s noose.
And yet, he didn’t move, in no hurry to give up what had proven an effective hiding place.
He told himself caution alone held him there.
The English were patient when they chose to be, and more than one Scot had been taken after foolishly believing danger had passed.
It had nothing to do with the woman lying beneath him, nor the bewildering awareness that had plagued him since he’d turned back for her.
He was simply allowing another few moments to pass before daring to risk discovery.
Yet he remained acutely conscious of her all the same. After three months of damp stone, filth, and English cruelty, her presence was the first pleasant thing he’d known in far too long. That realization irritated him as much as the inexplicable need that had compelled him to return for her.
Bram remained where he was another several minutes, listening until the forest settled once more into its natural quietness.
One by one the sounds of pursuit faded, the pounding of hooves swallowed by distance until only the gentle patter of rain upon leaves remained.
Somewhere farther away a stream hurried over stone, and closer, a lone thrush ventured an uncertain call, as though testing whether danger had truly passed.
Only then did he ease himself upright.
The woman followed his example, pushing herself shakily to her feet.
For a long moment, she simply stared at her hands, streaked with black mud, as if trying to comprehend how she’d gotten here.
Then, with a frantic energy, she began brushing at her skirt, flicking away soaked leaves.
She pulled a fern frond from her hair and grimaced at the smear it left on her fingers, wiping them instinctively on her strange skirt.
She finally looked up and caught him watching, allowing Bram to see her clearly, properly, up close.
She was younger than he’d first supposed, perhaps five-and-twenty.
Her hair, the color of ripe wheat, fell in damp waves over her shoulders, framing a face unlike any he’d ever seen.
Her skin was so fair she might never have spent a day in the sun.
As she met his gaze, he saw her eyes were a mix of brown and green, clouded with a confusion that had replaced her fear.
Her mouth was soft and pink-tinted, a distracting detail.
There was nothing coarse about her, and for some reason, that irritated him greatly.
Without another word, he climbed from the ravine and paused upon its edge, studying the woods.
The riders had continued south and east, and Bram turned his face north, toward the darker, thicker timber where the forest climbed into the hills, toward Scotland.
If fortune remained with him—as it had not for months—he could put several miles between himself and the English before darkness fell.
He tried to reason with himself. The woman would do well enough alone; whatever had placed her in his path was not his concern.
He could point her toward the nearest village and continue north.
The thought was logical, sensible. He owed her nothing—not an explanation, and certainly not his protection. It was the only sane course of action.
He looked at her again, the simple logic of it crumbling before he could even speak.
Jaw tightening, he extended his hand to her when she struggled to find secure footing upon the muddy bank, and drew her onto level ground beside him.
“I don’t understand what is happening,” she said, seeming more mystified than afraid.
Bram stared at her face, saying nothing. She was confused?
Leave her, was his next thought. Tell her to walk directly south, to avoid the roads until tomorrow.
Instead, he found himself increasingly irritated by the now familiar resistance rising within him. It settled low in his chest with the same unshakable certainty that had turned him back in the forest, allowing no room for argument and offering no explanation in return.
His nostrils flared. “Bluidy madness,” he muttered. At last, he jerked his head toward the north. “Come.”