Everyone who’d ever cared about her was right there, in the little graveyard. All except…
She shook her head, willing away the tears which prickled behind her eyes at the thought of her sister. It did no good to dwell. If she had no choice but to get on with her life, that was all there was to it.
The only question was how to go about that.
She was deliberate in turning her attention to the cowslips and bluebells which lined the fields on either side of the road home. How long had they grown there? Had they been planted and tended to and loved by someone long before she was born, or had they naturally taken over the land and turned it to a profusion of deep blue and yellow?
Their sight normally cheered her, when she wasn’t in such a dark mood. They were enough to give flight to her imagination, and she’d spent many long walks and rides to and from the church deep in thought about the men and women who had once called Thrushwood home—long before it was ever called Thrushwood. Perhaps that was how old the flowers were, just as old as the towering trees with their thick trunks, thick enough to crush a man or even a cottage if they were to fall.
But the flowers renewed themselves every year. That was the difference. They were never the same, just as the leaves which grew then fell from the trees changed from year to year. Whatever kept the flowers coming back was deep beneath the grass and soil, just as the trees were what kept the leaves budding into life after winter passed.
The trees had watched her over the years as they had watched so many others, keeping silent vigil over the road and its travelers. How many had they seen? And what difference had any of those lives made?
Were people meant to only live and die? To eat and sleep and do chores until they were too old to do them anymore? Was that the entire purpose of life?
She didn’t think so. Neither had her sister. That was why they had dreamed. That was why Margery had left, so the two of them might build a better life elsewhere.
Look where it had gotten them. Perhaps it was better to be one of the nameless, faceless people the trees had outlived.
“Whoa, Cecil.” She pulled in the reins, halting the horse. He wasn’t walking at a very fast pace and she doubted he even could at this stage of his life.
There was a thick patch of grass, studded with clover, at the edge of the road. She left him there to chew to his heart’s content while she wandered off to pick a handful of flowers for her table. Anything to bring a little life to the otherwise empty, sad little house.
It had never been empty and sad when Margery was there, even while their mother was alive and demanding so much of their time. They had been each other’s consolation for so long, sometimes thinking as one. They even used to finish each other’s sentences.
The tears came up again, and this time Beatrice allowed them to flow unfettered. What difference did it make? She had already cried against Cecil’s neck more times than she could count, sorrowful to the point where she had needed to rely on an old, mute horse for comfort. Just to have something to hold onto.
“Do you feel this is a wise decision?”
Her head snapped up at the sound of the strident male voice. An unfamiliar one, she knew so few men, and one of them had been buried that very day. It certainly wasn’t Deacon Eddard who called out to her from the road.
She might not have known his voice, but she knew him by sight. And she was hardly impressed. Lord Geoffrey Randall sat astride an enormous beast of a horse, black as soot and shining in the midday sun. Lord Randall shone, too, from his golden hair to the sleek fur-trimmed cape about his shoulders all the way down to his polished leather shoes.
He smiled, and she knew he thought he was being chivalrous and charming. Had anyone ever found the nerve to tell him he wasn’t? That he looked for all the world like a wolf about to pounce on his prey?
She swallowed back her tears, ashamed that he’d found her in such a state. “What decision would that be, Lord Randall?”
“To leave your noble steed unhobbled, on his own, while you pick flowers.”
She forced a smile. “I assure you, old Cecil is far past the age of running away, especially when there’s clover to be enjoyed.”
His laugh was deep, rich, and strangely out of place. Mirthless, as well. His blue eyes were cold and empty, as he favored her with another smile. “Pardon my intrusion, then. I felt it my place to assist a young lady when I saw the possibility of her being stranded so far from home.”
She blinked. “You know how far I am from home?”
It seemed unlikely. The only explanation was his desire to seem helpful, to engage her in conversation though she had no idea why he’d deign to converse with her. He was at least fifteen years her senior and a far more important personage than she could ever hope to be.
His eyebrows arched. “Why, naturally, Beatrice, daughter of Erich Woodson. I know where your farm is located. It shares a border with my own land.”
“Yes. That is correct.” The Lord’s land stretched over many leagues, including forests and a lake. His family had been purchasing parcels and expanding for as long as she could remember.
It was only upon the death of Geoffrey’s brother, who’d been the oldest son, that the expansion had ceased. Once Lord Randall had taken over the title and with it the land, he’d stopped expanding. No one knew why, but then again, now one had known why his older brother had been obsessed with buying up every bit of land in the vicinity, either.
“And yet we have never met before now,” he marveled, shaking his head. His hair seemed to glow. She had never seen hair so lustrous before, not even her sister’s. Margery’s hair had always been so beautiful…
No. Not was beautiful. Not past tense. Margery was still alive. She had to be.
Beatrice struggled to remain in the conversation, rather than allowing her thoughts to get away from her. “This is true. But you’re a very important person, and I…”
“You flatter me.” His smile was genuine this time.
Good thing she’d chosen her words carefully, for she might otherwise have accused him of caring nothing for his neighbors. Never once had he paid them a call, not even on their deaths of her parents.
But he’d been through enough tragedy of his own. It was uncharitable to hold a grudge against him.
He looked down the road, in the direction from which she’d come and in which he headed. “I was passing through with the intention of paying respects at the church. I understand old Cedric Miller has passed on. The Randall family milled their grain with him for as long as I can remember, and with his father before that.”
This was a surprise, the idea that a nobleman would attend the services of a lowly man such as the miller. “Yes, the family might still be present.”
Winifred would never allow anyone to forget the fact that Lord Randall had come to pay his respects to her father’s memory. She would take it as a personal compliment.
There’s another prayer this Sunday, if not more, Beatrice reminded herself. Ever since Margery’s departure, she’d been far less charitable. And much less patient.
“I ought to be on my way, then, before I miss them.” He touched his heels to the horse’s sides and took off at a trot. “Until we meet again, Beatrice, daughter of Erich Woodson.”
She nodded mutely, lacking anything of substance to offer in reply. Why would they meet again when they’d never once met in her entire life up to that moment? She had seen him several times, normally in the village on Market Day. He seemed to like riding through the throngs of villagers, pretending not to notice as they admired his beautiful horse and fine clothing.
Perhaps she was being uncharitable again. As she mounted Cecil and clicked her tongue, signaling him to continue on, she reflected on the fact that he was paying his respects to the miller’s family. He didn’t have to do any such thing.
And he’d experienced great loss in his life, too. She hadn’t heard many of the details in the murder of his nephew several years earlier—it wasn’t
the sort of thing a young woman should discuss—but she knew it led to the decline and eventual death of his older brother, too. Those two deaths, coming within months of each other, had passed the Lordship on to him, but at what cost?
It was little matter. She hardly expected to see him again.
* * *
Hours later, she was just about to sit down to a simple dinner of vegetable soup and fresh bread when the sound of approaching hooves caught her attention. Instead of passing and growing quieter, the horse came to a stop.
For one wild, breathless moment, she imagined her sister being just outside. She had returned home with money to get them started on a new life, somewhere far away.
It mattered little that this fantasy made no sense. How would Margery have come into so much money in such a short time?
The sight of the deacon as he approached her front door caused Beatrice’s hopes to blow away like dried leaves on the wind, but she didn’t allow her disappointment to show. “Have you come to share supper with me?” she asked with a smile. “I have more than enough soup and would greatly enjoy the company.”
He offered an apologetic smile. “It was not my intention to disturb your evening meal. I received news earlier today which I didn’t feel could wait until morning.”
“Please, come in.” She had never seen him look so off-balance, even when he’d announced Cedric’s passing. He sat at the table across from her as-yet-untouched meal, his hands clenched on the tabletop.
He waited until she took her seat before speaking. “Lord Randall paid a call on me earlier today.”
“Oh, yes,” she nodded. “Our paths crossed while on the road.”
“Did they?” One corner of his thin mouth quirked up in a halfhearted smile. “That seems fitting.”
“Why?”
His eyes met hers, and for the first time she noted the apology in them. “I’ve tried to dissuade him. This is not the first time we’ve spoken of what he wanted to discuss this afternoon.”
Cold certainty flooded her.
She didn’t want to hear what he’d come to say, for there would be no unhearing it.
She wanted him to leave and not come back.
She wanted to go to bed and perhaps not get up in the morning, regardless of what her absence would do to the animals.
Anything to avoid hearing what she was suddenly certain she was about to hear.
She drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly before nodding. “You can tell me.”
He wrung his hands, taking a deep breath of his own. “Lord Randall has wished to acquire your land for quite some time. Ever since your mother’s passing, since before then, honestly.”
This was news to her. “Why did you never share this with me?”
“Because the land is all you and your sister have to your names now. A home of your own, land of your own. It is unusual for women to be in this unique position, and I didn’t wish to complicate matters for you.”
She blinked, unable to speak for a long time. When she did, her words came out in a thin whisper. “I do wish you had shared this with us. Margery might never have left if she knew we had a possible buyer who was interested in purchasing from us.”
Inside, she screamed. How could he not tell them? Who did he think he was? And why would Lord Randall go through him and not through her sister and herself?
Margery need never have left. They might have sold to him and gone on with their lives elsewhere, anywhere else. Someplace where they’d have a future. Homes of their own, husbands and babies.
Instead, the deacon had decided for them that they didn’t need to know there was a possibility of a future in store for them. He’d made their choices on their behalf and most likely expected thanks for it.
Deacon Eddard’s forehead creased even more deeply than usual when he frowned. “You don’t understand, my child. He does not wish to purchase the land from you for any price.”
The screaming in her head stopped. “He thinks we’ll give it away? Is that what he expects?”
“It is not only the land he wishes to acquire. In fact, he behaves as though it is a secondary concern.”
There was that certainty again, spreading through her, making her head throb. Her instincts had been correct the first time. And she finally understood why Geoffrey Randall had been so kind to her on the road.
He shook his head. “No, my child. He wishes to take you as his wife and absorb the land into his holdings. He intends to marry you.”
She nearly choked on fear, disgust and the brief, mad impulse to laugh. To laugh and never stop laughing because surely, this was a terrible joke. No one could seriously make such an offer.
“He asked to marry me?” she breathed, struggling to make sense of it.
The deacon winced, now wringing his hands. “No, Beatrice. He announced to me that the two of you will marry.”
6
“It’s been a fortnight since we left home.”
Broc thought he’d never heard a more miserable announcement in all his days. Derek rode beside him, Hugh just in front, through a densely wooded area between Silloth and Thrushwood. They traveled east, and the sun was at their back. The day would end soon, and they would have to make camp within the hour.
He left the scouting up to Hugh, who kept watch on the condition of the would-be road and the safety of their mounts, and turned his attention to the miserable man to his left. “It has, already?” He feigned ignorance. “It doesn’t seem as though so many days have passed.”
“They have. I’ve kept count.” His normally laughing, bright eyes had dimmed a bit more with each day away from his wife.
“We’ll reach Thrushwood tomorrow,” Broc reminded him. “Every day that passes moves us one day closer to your being reunited. Remember that.”
“Not knowing,” he growled. “It’s the not knowing. That’s the worst of all.”
“Do you trust Sarah?”
“Of course, I do. She’s one of the most trustworthy people I’ve ever known.”
“That trust does not extend itself to her care of your wife and child, however.”
For the first time in days, Derek laughed. A quiet laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “You’d understand if you were in my position.”
Broc turned his face away just enough to conceal the rolling of his eyes. If he had two pence for every time he’d heard either of his traveling companions make that very statement comparing themselves to him, he’d be a wealthy man.
Was that what happened to a man once they wed? Did they suddenly believe themselves above the petty concerns of the unmarried—even if they’d harbored such concerns in earlier days?
Then, he replied, “I understand what it is to put another’s welfare above my own. I do not need to sign a marriage contract in order to place myself in your position.”
“Fair enough. Though it still isn’t the same.” He raised his voice. “What do you think, Hugh?”
A laugh similar to Derek’s rang out as Hugh called out over his shoulder. “I think his time is coming. One day. And he’ll know.”
“Unlikely, seeing as how I’ll go back to living as we once did. Remember those times? It wasn’t very long ago.”
“Aye,” Derek murmured, staring out into the woods as he thought back.
“Never being home for more than a few days at a stretch—during good weather, of course, not the winter months when the waterways clogged with ice. Even then, you were always busy, keeping track of the shipments and their arrivals and collecting from the merchants. Securing new shipments. Making new contacts, expanding the routes the ships traveled. Collecting payment and keeping track of the records.”
Derek nodded in acknowledgement. “You don’t have to remind me. It was all of that and much more.”
Broc spread his arms in a shrug. “You expect me to find a lass of my own who’d be willing to suffer through such an existence? Or who would remain steadfast when her man was away for so long?”
Derek snorted,
shaking his head. “Remember old Angus?”
Broc’s face fell. “How could I forget?”
“Who’s this Angus?” Hugh asked.
Broc exchanged a pained look with Derek. “He was an old seaman who worked aboard one of your brother’s ships. A good man, trustworthy, as skilled as though he’d been born at sea.”
“Very likely he was,” Derek murmured. “A bit of a drifter, as well. He never stayed in one place very long, but I suppose there comes a time in every man’s life when he decides he made a mistake and wants to make up for it. He wanted to make up for never having settled down. He wanted a good woman waiting for him when he came home, someone to tell his stories to. Someone to care whether he made it home at all.”
“He married a lass far too young for him,” Broc remembered, rubbing his chin as he thought back. “None of us considered it a likely marriage. I don’t believe there was ever a question in any of our minds of whether it would end well. But he made a good living and faithfully sent the money he’d earned home to his wife.”
“Who spent it on herself and nothing else,” Derek growled.
“Herself and the man she took up with,” Broc amended. “Which Angus learned all about on a surprise visit. He thought she’d be happy to see him. He actually believed that.”
“I suppose she wasn’t alone?” Hugh guessed.
“Not only was she not alone,” Derek murmured. “She was in bed with the man.”
When neither of them finished the story, Hugh prodded them. “What did he do?”
Derek looked at Broc. Broc looked back at him.
“He killed them both. Split the man’s head open with a log from beside the hearth, then strangled her… before hanging himself,” Broc concluded. “Now, ask me again why it’s never been a priority for me to find a wife.”
The three of them fell into silence for a time, there being little to say after such a tale was shared.
Broc remembered the shock they’d all gone into at how violently the sordid situation had ended. While no one in Angus’s acquaintance believed he’d married well, they hadn’t seen such a terrible conclusion coming.
A Highland Sailor: Highland Heartbeats Page 4
