A Highland Sailor: Highland Heartbeats

by Adams, Aileen

  The Lord snorted, shaking his head. “You truly do not understand familial loyalty. You see, it was one thing for you to make it possible for me to advance. I do thank you for that. But it’s another for me to allow anyone, especially a piece of Scottish scum who looks as though he’s never lived a civilized day in his life, to murder a member of my family. We’re too good for that. Much too good for the likes of you.”

  The man was insane. Broc had always believed it so, after having witnessed his red-faced, blustering screams for vengeance after Henry’s murder, but this was something entirely different. This show of callousness chilled him to the bone. No one with a soul could speak with such contempt for human life.

  An insane man was capable of anything, he knew. No show of cruelty would be too much, no perversion too brutal.

  His would not be a pleasant end. Mere hanging would not satisfy the Lord’s thirst.

  He stood, fixing Broc with a triumphant gaze. “I’ll give you a bit more time to think it over. Perhaps it’s in your favor that I’ve just sealed the agreement with my intended bride. There are many concerns I’m currently involved in, you’re only one of them.”

  Sealed the agreement. Broc took pains to maintain a neutral expression as his mind turned this expression over and over. She had agreed to marry him? He knew she had no other choice, considering the circumstances. It was clear the lass had come to the same conclusion.

  Commotion outside the barn caught everyone’s attention. Randall waved a hand, motioning for one of his men to go to the window. Broc watched as intently as the others, while the raised voices on the other side of the barn’s stone walls only grew louder.

  “It seems there’s a visitor,” the squat man announced. “A woman. Dark hair.”

  Broc’s body tensed reflexively. Dark hair.

  “Pretty thing, with gold and copper in her hair,” the man continued, chuckling before Randall stormed over and shoved him out of the way.

  “You’re speaking of my betrothed,” he hissed. “You will not speak of her that way, or at all. Ever again.”

  The man’s face went white, and his throat worked as he swallowed. “Begging your pardon, Lord Randall.”

  “Take your requests for pardon elsewhere,” Randall sneered, pushing past the man on his way from the stall. “It’s clear my betrothed has need of me, or else she would not have made the journey, short though it may be.”

  The three of them left Broc alone, with nothing but the sounds of squealing pigs and overlapping voices outside the barn to keep him company.

  What was she doing back there? She hadn’t taken it into her head to do anything foolish, had she? He prayed not. She’d promised to bring back help, but he’d assumed that was simply the sort of thing people promised in such situations. He’d have promised the same thing if the positions had been reversed.

  More voices raised, shouting orders. He recognized Randall’s as one of them, rising above the others. Excited, agitated. The pounding of hooves on stone, shouting and calling out and cursing.

  Until it faded to near silence. A silence more unnerving than all the rest.

  What had she done? What had she said?

  Rapid footsteps, running into the barn. “Broc?”

  His heart stopped beating. “Beatrice?”

  She rushed into the stall, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. “We have to hurry.”

  “What are you talking about? Hurry where? To do what?”

  “We have to get out of here while he’s gone. As quickly as possible. If we’re careful, we can escape detection.”

  “And go where?” he asked. His eyes widened when she lifted her kirtle to just above one knee and pulled a dirk from beneath the garter holding up her stocking. “And where did you get that?”

  “It doesn’t look familiar?” she breathed, eyes sparkling. “I suppose not. I really don’t know how these things work, to be honest.”

  “What things? Have you gone daft, lass?”

  She dropped to her knees, breathing heavily as she sawed at the rope binding his ankles. “I mean, if you men would recognize each other’s weapons. I suppose you wouldn’t. Derek gave it to me.”

  The rush of blood flowing down his legs and into his feet was no match for the rush of understanding her words brought. “Where are they?”

  “Move. I must get to your hands, somehow.” She slid behind him, between his back and the wall. Even in his state of exhausted confusion and rising anxiousness, he couldn’t help registering the way her breasts pressed against him as she positioned herself. Her hands were sure, strong as she held his wrists in place and sawed at the rope which bound them.

  “I asked where they are. What happened to them?” His arms swung loose, finally free, and instantly the muscles in his shoulders and back screamed in protest. He winced, an involuntary groan escaping his chapped lips.

  “Did I hurt you?” she gasped.

  “Nay. I’ve been in the same position for hours.”

  “Oh.” Her hands worked those muscles, causing fresh waves of agony to shoot through him. “I forgot. They told me to rub you down a bit before trying to get you on your feet. But we don’t have much time.”

  He would just bet the men had told her to rub him down. Even in the middle of a life-or-death situation, he could imagine Hugh barely containing his mirth while delivering those instructions.

  Even so, it helped, and he was soon able to lean forward and rub life into his legs and feet while she continued on his shoulders and back. Within minutes, he was able to get to his feet and hold himself somewhat steady. There was still a tremendous throbbing in the back of his head, and the room spun a bit, but it was an improvement over what he’d already been through.

  “Where are we going?” he whispered, while she went to the window to survey their surroundings.

  “We’ll cut across the fields to the farm,” she explained. “It should take no more than a few minutes on horseback. After that, I’m not completely certain. But we’ll think of something.”

  “Not completely certain?” he hissed. “Where are Derek and Hugh?”

  “How do you think I got Randall out of here?” she demanded, shooting a filthy look his way. “They’re riding about the village, making certain everyone sees them. He threatened harm to them if they were seen about after dawn, did he not?”

  He was struck all at once with a sense of wonder, gratitude and disbelief. That they would do that for him…

  “Come on,” she urged. “We must go, now. It seems as though our way is clear, but there is no telling how long that will be the case. The mare is just outside here, tied off. I’ll whistle when I have her ready and you’ll come on the run.”

  He remembered the warrior woman at the door, holding a sword she could hardly lift. There was a deep core of bravery in the lass, not to mention resourcefulness. She had found Derek and Hugh and was willing to risk herself to free him.

  If only there was time to take her in his arms and thank her.

  She disappeared, darting out of the stall and past the other side of the window. He crept along until he reached the arched opening to the courtyard, holding his breath, listening for her whistle.

  When it came, sharp and clear, he hurried out and spotted her just ahead. A gray mare waited, he nearly leapt into the saddle, excitement and necessity enabling him to move fluidly in spite of his sore stiffness. He bent, his back straining, and took Beatrice under the arms to place her in front of himself.

  She surprised him by taking the reins, but then, she knew where they were going.

  “Come on, girl,” she whispered, snapping the leather smartly and pulling the mare about, directing it not down the stone road leading from the courtyard but instead into the fields running alongside.

  They took off at a full gallop, and he could’ve sworn the lass was laughing as they did.

  21

  If Beatrice hadn’t been so terrified, she might have been able to admit how much fun she was having.


  Would that she were able to step outside herself and look in on what she was doing, she would’ve seen the two of them astride a galloping gray mare. She would’ve seen the mad grin spread across her face as she rode, the sparkle in her eyes and color in her cheeks.

  She was alive, fully alive, and thrilled to the tips of her toes in spite of the grave danger she’d only just put herself in.

  And he was behind her, his arms about her waist. He was real, he was free and he was holding onto her. He needed her.

  It was a matter of mere minutes before the mare stepped over the crumbling stone wall which had been built so many years before to mark the border between the two pieces of land, but had never been repaired since then. Just another thing which had fallen apart with the passage of time.

  They traveled the unplowed, unworked fields which had once grown thick with crops before reaching the stables and barn. She was glad to see Cecil waiting inside. It meant Deacon Eddard had been there.

  And was still there, it appeared. He burst from the rear door, waving them in. “You have no time to lose,” he barked, closing the door with a bang once they were inside the house.

  “What’s this all about?” Beatrice demanded.

  “Get your things together, and hurry,” he ordered.

  She had never seen him so stirred, so full of energy. There was actual color in his normally wan complexion.

  “What do you have in mind?” Broc asked.

  “First,” the deacon replied, “you’ll wash the blood from yourself. We cannot risk being stopped on the road, and you, covered in blood.”

  “There’s a bucket by the well,” Beatrice instructed them.

  “And you, hurry,” Deacon Eddard commanded before leading Broc to the well, leaving her on her own to wonder what she had missed.

  It wouldn’t hurt to get her few belongings together. She placed her good kirtle and second everyday one on the center of her bed, along with her comb and a cake of brown soap, then tied the corners of the bedspread together and carried the small bundle to the kitchen.

  Broc and the deacon were just returning, and both of Broc’s eyes were open thanks to the removal of the dried blood from his face. “There’s nothing we can do about the soiled tunic,” Deacon Eddard fretted.

  “What do you have in mind?” Beatrice asked, hands on her hips.

  “You’re leaving. Right now.”

  “How?” she asked. “We could ride, but what if Randall spies us on the road? He doesn’t know yet that Broc is no longer captive at the manor.”

  The deacon opened the front door and peered out, down the road. “Come. Hurry.”

  “Come where?” she asked, but there was no answer. She could only take hold of the bundle of clothing and follow him out to where a cart overflowing with straw was pulling up at the gate.

  Old Frances was at the reins, commanding the old mule which pulled the wooden cart, and beside her sat a basket of cakes.

  “What is all of this?” Beatrice gasped, stunned at the sight of the old woman at her gate.

  “This is how you’ll escape,” the deacon announced, taking her by the elbow and all but dragging her to the cart. “Inside. Quickly.”

  “Inside?” she gaped. “In the straw?”

  “Beneath it,” he corrected. “Both of you.”

  “Have you gone mad?” she demanded, planting her feet.

  Broc saw the plot for what it was. “It’s the only way, lass,” he decided, his hands already around her waist and lifting her until she cleared the top of the cart’s wooden sides before dropping her rather gracelessly inside.

  She sputtered, brushing straw from her face before the bundle of clothing dropped close to her head. Moments later, Broc joined her, stretching out as best he could before pulling the straw around both of them.

  “What do you plan on doing?” she asked, peering up at where the deacon climbed in beside Frances.

  “Driving you as far as we can,” he announced. “We’ll meet up with the others outside the village and find fresh horses along the way for you.”

  “I don’t understand. How do you know of any of this?” she asked as they began rolling down the road. None of it made sense, and everything was happening so quickly. She couldn’t keep up.

  “I didn’t like the idea of you being on your own, going after the Scotsmen in the village,” Deacon Eddard explained, staring ahead. She could just make out the back of his head from where she hid in the cart. “I decided to ride to the village once I’d finished looking after the animals. I saw them right away, riding their horses, attracting attention. It wasn’t difficult to see what they were trying to do.”

  “I can imagine,” Broc muttered with a wry grin.

  How could he grin? She could hardly breathe.

  “They explained to me what the three of you had planned, or, rather, what you had planned, my child.”

  He sounded as though he were chastising her, she noticed.

  “I didn’t know what else to do. We had to get Randall away from the house.”

  “That was your idea, lass?” Broc was no longer grinning.

  “It was. Somewhat. I thought we would meet up somewhere outside the village and ride as hard as we could to get away, I must admit, I didn’t think things through past freeing you,” she finished in a whisper, her cheeks burning. “It was a fairly poor plan.”

  “Poor?” he asked, grinning again. “Far from it, lass. Far from it.”

  “I must confess,” the deacon continued, “that I rode Cecil somewhat harder than he was accustomed to in my haste to make it to the church and secure the cart for your escape. But it seemed as though he understood the seriousness of the situation and didn’t complain when he had to run.”

  “Good old Cecil,” she smiled before tears sprang to her eyes.

  “What is it, lass?” Broc whispered, covering one of her hands with one of his.

  “I suppose I’ll never see him again,” she choked out, ducking her head against one arm to conceal the embarrassing rush of emotion. “I loved him. He was my closest friend for so long. I didn’t get to say goodbye to him, or thank him.”

  It was all so silly, weeping over a horse. But they had been through so much together. He had listened to her deepest fears, had stood still and strong while she’d cried against his neck all through the lonely days and nights on her own, afraid her sister had died and left her with no one else in the world.

  Broc’s voice was warm, tender as he squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, lass. I wish you’d had the chance. But I’m certain he knew you loved him.”

  “Animals don’t know such things. I’m being silly.”

  “Nay, you aren’t. And animals do know. I’m certain of it. They feel, as we feel. You gave him a good life.”

  Deacon Eddard cleared his throat from his seat above them. “I’ll see to it he’s taken care of,” he promised.

  “Thank you,” she sniffled, dabbing her eyes with the hem of her stained kirtle. “I wouldn’t blame you if you laughed at me. So much danger, and me, weeping over something like this.”

  “It isn’t easy, everything happening at once,” Broc reasoned. “You’ve been taken from your home without the chance to say goodbye to everything you knew. I wouldn’t laugh.”

  No, he wouldn’t. She knew that.

  “Time to stay silent,” the deacon murmured.

  Beatrice knew without being told that this meant they were entering the village. The cart moved slowly, rocking back and forth as it progressed. She pressed herself tight to the wooden planks beneath her, ignoring the splinters which threatened to lodge themselves in her palms and weave themselves into her clothing.

  Broc did the same, barely visible to her through the straw which covered them both.

  “You’re well concealed,” Frances whispered, having been silent all throughout the journey until then. “But you must stay still, both of you.”

  Funny how her muscles jumped and twitched just when she most needed them to
stay frozen in place. She closed her eyes and willed herself to remain still. Everything depended upon them going undetected.

  Strange, riding into the village without seeing anything around her. And yet she could see in her mind. The first few cottages, their doors open to allow fresh, warm air inside. She heard a few voices calling out greetings to the deacon and his gentle replies.

  Nothing in the sound of his voice revealed what was behind him, tucked under the straw. Never would she have guessed him to be such a quick, easy liar. Perhaps when what he lied about was important enough, she supposed, and it warmed her heart to know he felt she was so important.

  They continued on, the sounds of life which surrounded them growing louder as the cart continued its slow, steady, rocking pace. The blacksmith, hard at work, hammering away. An argument between two men. The neighing of horses, the shouts of one woman to another as they greeted each other across the street. Laughter coming from what she could guess was the tavern, its door open to draw in patrons the way honey drew flies.

  She opened her eyes just enough to check for the presence of Broc. He was still there, naturally, and had been staring at her. Instead of averting his eyes when discovered, he continued to do so.

  She could not say a word, could not ask him what was so interesting about her that he felt the need to stare. She could only return his frank, straight gaze, so many things left unspoken between them. His hand wasn’t far from hers, and she allowed her fingers to creep along the rough, wooden planks until they closed over his.

  That was all she could do to show him how relieved she was at his escape. And her own.

  But they had not escaped yet. Not truly.

  The sound of Randall’s voice, far off but coming closer, reminded her as much.

  22

  Beatrice’s eyes flew open, bulging at the sound of Randall’s voice. Broc wasn’t surprised a bit, he’d expected all along that they would come across the bastard in their escape.

  All that was left was to hope that no one thought to question a man of God.

  “Good morning to you, Lord Randall!” Deacon Eddard called out.