A Highland Sailor: Highland Heartbeats

by Adams, Aileen

  And that was all it took for her temper to flare in response. She stood there, glaring at him, hands on her hips and eyes flashing fire.

  He threw his right leg over his gelding’s back and hit the ground.

  “For one thing,” she spat, “if I were to run without facing the Lord first, he might follow me. Which would mean he’d be following you, too. Would I put three innocent men in danger simply because I was foolish or frightened enough to run from my responsibilities?”

  “You think he would do that?”

  “You said it yourself,” she retorted, throwing her head back. “A man such as that, after having been denied, might be capable of anything.”

  “If we left at first light, we could be far away by the time he even knows you left. It isn’t as though you’d ask the deacon to make an announcement for ye. It might even be better if he behaved as though he didn’t know. It would buy you more time.”

  “I will not run away,” she decided. “It doesn’t matter how you try to force me into it or try to talk me into it. I won’t go with you until I’m good and ready.”

  He let out a deep, sharp breath, his nostrils flaring like an angry boar’s. He understood what it meant to fly into a rage, because he was nearly there. “If ye intend on waiting until you’re good and ready, ye won’t be going anywhere at all. Ye can rot here on this pitiful farm or marry yer lordship and be his broodmare for all I care.”

  The sharp, stinging slap of her hand across his face was more surprising than it was painful.

  She didn’t hurt him, not really. Not one as small as she. If anything, she’d hurt herself.

  Her eyes flew open before she fell back a few steps, holding her right hand in her left.

  “Get off my land,” she ordered. “Now, Broc.”

  He didn’t need to be told twice.

  11

  Beatrice’s hand throbbed horribly. Her wrist, too. She’d never hit another living being before, not ever. It hurt. But it didn’t seem as though it had hurt him very much. Or at all.

  She waited until he had ridden out of sight before she untied Cecil’s reins from the fence and led him to the stable to feed and water. Poor old Bess mooed pitifully.

  “I’ll be right there,” she promised, hurrying through pulling a bucket of water from the well before she could milk the cow.

  Always the same chores. Always the same life.

  She could run away. She had the chance.

  Bess mooed again, louder this time. Beatrice shook away the selfish, self-serving fantasy of running away with the three Scotsmen in favor of taking care of what was in front of her.

  Her palm and fingers were stiff as she attempted to curl them around one of the cow’s udders. She’d put all of the force of her arm behind that slap, and he had barely flinched.

  He looked surprised. Deeply, thoroughly. And angry, too.

  Even so, as angry as he’d been, he hadn’t struck back. He hadn’t even raised his voice any louder than he had when they were arguing.

  She hadn’t been afraid of him. Astounded at herself, perhaps. But not afraid of him. How was it possible? She had never known more than a handful of men, all of whom had been kind to her, but her mother had told her tales of violent men. Angry men. Men who would gladly hurt a woman, or worse.

  Mother had sown so much fear. So much distrust. There were times when Beatrice wondered if she had deliberately set out to render her daughters unable to function in the world, out among other people. Perhaps she had, out of her own fear of being left alone in her illness.

  Her illness. Beatrice disliked herself for smirking at the thought, her cheek pressed against the cow’s flank while she worked the udders. The stinging in her hand was less, her fingers working more easily.

  Mother’s illness. Was she ever truly as ill as she made out? What good, Godfearing daughter would question such a thing? She hated her questions.

  And yet…

  There were times when she thought she’d heard Mother up and about. Times when there had been footsteps from a woman who swore she couldn’t rise from her bed. Times when items on the other side of the room were out of place from where Beatrice had left them, while Margery was visiting with Cedric Miller or in the village to do shopping.

  She’d never voiced her concerns to her sister, and certainly never to her mother. She had merely gone on caring for her, preparing her food and drink, washing and brushing out her hair, helping her bathe. Every day for years.

  Endless prayers. By firelight, by candlelight, by the light of dawn. Throughout the day, nearly nonstop.

  And at those times, especially when the strain of caregiving became too much, Beatrice had asked herself what she would’ve done in her mother’s place. No husband. Two daughters who would one day grow up and leave her. Who would find lives of their own while she was on her own for the rest of her life. No security, no companionship, no guarantee of anything.

  Beatrice had only been alone for several months and knew the pain of loneliness. It was the sort of pain her mother had feared. Along with so many other things.

  In the end, it had been a sudden illness which had taken her mother’s life. Something other than that which had supposedly kept her bedridden for so many years. The inability to breathe, a sort of gurgling in the lungs which the local healer had suggested could result from lying in bed for so long without movement.

  If that were true, Mother had played a role in her own death. Perhaps by then it hadn’t mattered to her. What did she have to live for?

  At the time, she had forgiven her mother and would continue to forgive her until her final breath. She’d been so unhappy, superstitious and fearful, always anxious in regards to the unknown. It was no way to live.

  She carried the milk pail to the house, leaving a much happier cow in the barn, reflecting as she did on her own fears. The icy pit of fear in her stomach when she considered traveling with three strange men. Fear at the thought of what Lord Randall might do to her if he found out she’d run away when he expected them to marry.

  Was it enough to hold her back? To keep from joining her sister? Margery hadn’t allowed such fears to keep her planted on the farm. If she’d backed down, she wouldn’t have met her husband. She wouldn’t be with child, the way Beatrice knew she’d always wanted to be one day.

  As she, herself, did. Marriage to Lord Randall would make that possible, but at what cost?

  It was all too much to make sense of. The more she turned the situation around in her head, the greater her confusion.

  Margery’s letter was still tucked in her sleeve, and she withdrew the folded linen in order to read it again and again. There was so little shared. So many questions. Would there be room for Beatrice there? What might she do with her life once she’d become settled?

  Would Broc be there?

  What did that matter?

  The thought of ever facing him again made her face fairly burn with embarrassment. She had struck him, and he didn’t seem the sort of man to take kindly to such treatment. Though he hadn’t harmed her, it was like as not that he wouldn’t be kind to her.

  And there she was, needing his kindness. The kindness of all three men, if she were to travel with them over rough roads and sail to Scotland. How long would such a voyage take? How long would she have to be in close quarters with the man she’d slapped?

  She was not proud of what she’d done and knew she should apologize, but he had been cruel with his tongue. Telling her she might just as well rot. Why did it seem more important to him than to the others that she go with them immediately?

  Why had he been the one to return for her? Why not Derek, her brother-in-law?

  “I’m on my way, ladies,” she assured the chickens on passing the coop. There were so many things to consider, so many responsibilities.

  When would there ever come a time for her to face the responsibility to herself?

  12

  The ride back to the village inn seemed longer than it should have.
Much longer than the ride to the farm had seemed. Because Broc had more on his mind.

  Bees floated here and there over the flowers to either side of the road, great bursts of white and blue and yellow which sent a heady sort of scent into the air. Now that the sun had fully risen in the sky and the air had warmed as a result, the heady sweetness was nearly intoxicating.

  Twittering birds sang musically, their wings beating against the late spring breeze as they sailed from tree to tree. Larger animals cavorted in the woods, too. The horse’s ears twitched this way and that as it registered the sounds, picking them up on both sides.

  Broc wasn’t concerned about the animals or the bees which occasionally buzzed around his head. It didn’t matter that the day was turning into a sparkling, beautiful one, with a cloudless sky of the deepest blue. The sort of day he loved spending on the sea, when the horizon stretched out before him and the water in all directions.

  None of that mattered when it appeared as though he was helplessly stuck in Thrushwood. Stuck there with no way out until the stubborn, stupid lass saw fit to leave with them.

  There’d be no living with Margery if they left Beatrice behind. That much he knew. Derek would never allow it, either, knowing how much it meant to his wife to have Beatrice at her side. Especially with the child on its way.

  Broc didn’t particularly enjoy the idea of leaving her behind, either. He wouldn’t wish the sort of lonely, frightened existence she’d fallen into on anyone. Not on his worst enemy. The lass had nothing to do but perform chores every day and confess her troubles to a horse and a cow. What sort of life was that?

  Even so, what sort of life awaited him if those who would see him in a cell found him in Thrushwood?

  He remembered that cell, the one he’d broken free of. The rank stench, the dankness. The constant cold and damp. The darkness. Prisoners weren’t allowed access to the light, as it might give them hope. And hope was terribly dangerous.

  The night he’d broken free, even the light of the moon had been a shock to his eyes.

  It was a mistake, coming here. And you knew it. Why did you do it? He’d been a fool, yes, but what reason could he have given? Derek didn’t know and never would, so long as Broc had anything to do with it. He’d lied at first because he’d needed the position, and no one would accept into service a man who’d been charged with a crime.

  Lucky for him, the owner of McInnis Shipping hadn’t done any inquiring into the story Broc had dreamed up. A past with no mistakes, no sour memories, no running.

  There was no way Broc could’ve refused Derek’s final request before turning over the running of the business. Traveling with him to Thrushwood hadn’t been a question. It hadn’t even really been a request, though he preferred to think of it that way. There hadn’t been a question as to whether he was expected to accompany the others.

  In any other situation, if the destination had been any other, there wouldn’t have been a moment’s hesitation. They could’ve lingered at the inn for days, as they had while in Kirkcaldy, and he wouldn’t have cared, aside from a sense of impatience. He would’ve wanted to get on with it, so he might get back to work, back to visiting new harbors.

  Would that were the case.

  Would the deacon Beatrice relied on were any other man. He’d known Eddard instantly, on first sight, and it had taken all of his sense of self-control to keep from racing the horse back down the road, through Thrushwood and on to Silloth.

  And Eddard had known him. The man had a long memory, it seemed. There had been no words or knowing looks between them, but he’d sensed the recognition just the same.

  He’d warn Beatrice, wouldn’t he? Once he placed Broc’s face and connected it to that terrible night and all the terrible nights which followed?

  Broc tied off the horse beside the low-slung, long building they’d spent the night in. The only night they were supposed to stay. He had battled irritation on their arrival, silently angry that Derek would even consider the possibility of their needing more than one night in the village. His friend had insisted on expressing this to the innkeeper nonetheless.

  It looked as though he’d made the right decision, as there was little chance of them leaving yet with Beatrice in tow.

  They were waiting for him in the great room which served as a dining area for lodgers, though the food offered by the cook was hardly worth the extra cost the innkeeper added to the price of a room. Broc had to wonder if this was a ploy to empty the purse of a foreigner, offering subpar food which might just as easily be thrown out for stray animals and more than likely should be.

  It was fortunate that the three of them had enough silver between them to leave them with options. Without waiting to find out what had happened at the farm, Derek and Hugh joined Broc just outside and walked down the wide street on their way to the nearest tavern.

  After the day he’d had up to that point, he thought a large mug of wine wouldn’t be out of the question.

  “So?” Derek asked once they were out of earshot of any interested parties. While the farm was far from the village, it was doubtless most people who called Thrushwood home would recognize Beatrice’s name. It was best they keep the nature of their visit to themselves, which meant not speaking about it while in the presence of others.

  “She’s just as stubborn as that sister of hers,” Broc grumbled, wishing there were something nearby for him to kick. “And she’s got quite a strong hand, too.”

  “She hit you?” Hugh asked, barely concealing a laugh.

  “She did. As hard as she could, I wager.”

  “Why would she do that?” Derek asked. “What did you say to her?”

  “Ah, so you think it’s my fault, is that it? The lass greeted us at the door with a sword in hand, and you still assume it was my fault she slapped me?”

  The twins snorted behind his back, and he could only guess at the cause of their mirth. They hadn’t been there. They didn’t know how impossible she was to reason with.

  “The facts are these,” he continued, as though he took no notice of their chuckles. “Someone, a nobleman, expects her to marry him.” That silenced his companions, as he’d known it would.

  Derek took his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “And she’s going to go through with it?”

  “She doesn’t want to,” Broc explained, sighing heavily. “She’s appalled at the notion. I’ve an idea it was him she was so afraid of, the reason she greeted us as she did earlier today.”

  “She thought he was coming to take her away,” Hugh mused, teeth gritted.

  “It seems that way,” Broc agreed. “She doesn’t want to leave with us until the situation is settled. Fears that if she were to leave today, or any time before speaking with him first and explaining her refusal, he might come after her, which would place us in danger.”

  “She’s a smart lass,” Derek murmured, frowning. “He might do just that. Men such as him simply take what they want. It matters little whether what they want wants to be taken. It’s easy to forget that not all nobles are like Phillip.”

  Phillip Duncan would never order a woman to marry him. He’d never force a lonely, frightened lass into handing over her property simply because he wanted it for himself.

  “I’ve half a mind to find this man and settle things for her,” Derek growled. “She’s the sister of my wife, and therefore under my protection. He has no right to force her into anything.”

  “He’ll be quite surprised to find she’s not as alone in the world as he thinks she is,” Hugh observed with a snarl.

  Broc, meanwhile, held a far different opinion. “I say we take the lass whether she wants to go or not. Tonight. And get out of this place.”

  The two of them stared at him, unblinking.

  “Why not?” he asked, eyes darting back and forth to ensure their ability to speak freely. He lowered his voice. “We can go to the farm tonight and pack a few of her things. I’ll ride with her. It isn’t more than two days on horseback to Silloth.”<
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  The twins looked at each other, having a silent conversation. It unnerved Broc to no end when they did this, and they knew it.

  “You might as well say what you have to say aloud, rather than discussing it in your heads,” he muttered.

  “All right, then, but I’ll think a lot more clearly once I have a little food in me. Come.” Derek jerked his head in the direction of the tavern, still several buildings down from where they stood.

  Broc had no desire to discuss what he had in mind while in the presence of strangers who’d more than likely pay more attention than normal to a trio of foreigners, but he followed nonetheless. The way Derek and Hugh looked at him, anyone would think he’d suddenly begun speaking another language.

  The tavern was larger than the one he remembered from Kirkcaldy, larger even than some he’d visited in thriving harbors and towns throughout his travels. A good thing, since the extra space meant a better chance of finding a table away from the handful of patrons currently enjoying a hot meal and friendly conversation.

  Conversation which came to a halt once all eyes fell on the newcomers.

  Derek nodded, smiling, as they snaked their cautious way between tables which seemed to have been placed with no real scheme in mind. No scheme as to the size and appearance of them, either, nor to that of the chairs. It appeared as though the owner had simply taken whatever was available whether it was scarred, cracked, large or small. Like as not, most of it had been cast off by neighbors.

  They found a round table near the rear corner of the room, closest to the fireplace and therefore left empty on a warm day such as that. In the winter, it would be the most popular spot in the tavern. The three of them arranged themselves, and Broc noted how much warmer it was back there than elsewhere.

  “So,” Derek whispered, leaning across the table to be better heard. “You’ve actually gotten it in your head to take her.”