A Highland Sailor: Highland Heartbeats

by Adams, Aileen

  The man was a born smuggler, Broc noted silently, biting the side of his cheek to silence the laughter threatening to bubble out.

  Beatrice looked appalled at this. How could anyone stifle a laugh at such a time? Perhaps she was right, but he was far too exhausted and still in pain.

  And there was one thing he’d learned on the sea, when things looked worst, sometimes, all one could do was laugh at the turn of events outside of their control.

  “And a good morrow to you, Deacon,” the man returned.

  “It’s glad I am to have met up with you this morning,” the deacon continued. “I had not the chance to thank you for your hospitality last night. It was much appreciated, I’d never slept in such a sumptuous bed before.”

  “Take care, Deacon. You’ll be getting ideas above your station,” the old woman beside him grumbled.

  Once again, Broc stifled a laugh. This time, it appeared as though Beatrice joined him.

  “It’s right you are, Frances. Poverty is my lot in life, which I accept joyfully,” Deacon Eddard declared. “Still, there is nothing sinful in enjoying the hospitality of a friend.”

  The old woman grumbled something under her breath. She was truly doing her part to make things look convincing.

  “What brings you to the village this morning?” the deacon asked.

  Beatrice’s hand clamped down over Broc’s. He wished he could offer her some comfort. The best they could do was remain still.

  “Looking for someone,” Randall replied. Naturally, he wouldn’t tell the truth. That would mean admitting to a holy man what he’d done. “And you, Deacon?”

  Broc and Beatrice locked eyes again.

  “Delivering some comfort to the ill. I received word today that the Beckett family has fallen ill and Frances wished to bring food to them.”

  “There’s never a rest for those who wish to do good for others, is there?” Randall asked.

  Beatrice rolled her eyes. Broc could only agree with the sentiment. He thought his pretense of being a good, honorable protector to those living in the village, in the shadow of the manor, was believable.

  Deacon Eddard agreed, “Indeed not, your lordship. Indeed not.”

  “Lord Randall.” A second rider joined them on horseback. “There’s word of a sighting on the other side of the village, closer to the manor house.”

  “Is everything in order here?” Deacon Eddard asked, feigning concern. “A sighting?”

  “Nothing for you to concern yourself with,” Randall assured him.

  Broc heaved a sigh of relief, believing the men close to riding off in the direction of where Hugh and Derek were leading them, before one of the horses began sniffing around in the straw.

  Beatrice pressed her lips together, her face going deep red as she struggled to remain still and not shoo the animal’s nose away out of sheer reflex. He glared at her, shaking his head just enough to signal her to remain still. Not that he needed to. She knew better than to move.

  Even so, his heart was in his throat and threatening to burst from him as the horse continued its exploration.

  He was not a praying man. He never had been. Religion was not one of the virtues his mother had passed onto him, though she had tried her best. He was always more concerned with the rough-and-tumble life of a man of the sea.

  Though he had not adopted prayer into his everyday life, he remembered enough of what his mother had tried to teach him and silently recited every word he could bring to mind, eyes squeezed shut.

  There was little chance God would listen to him, the sinner that he was. A murderer.

  But he wasn’t praying for his own sake. He prayed for her. She had done nothing to deserve what surely awaited her if they were discovered.

  “Come. Let us see what this report is all about,” Randall decided.

  Just like that, the horses were gone, the pounding of their hooves fading into the distance and soon swallowed by the noise of the village.

  Broc opened his eyes to find Beatrice weeping, tears flowing down her cheeks. He wished more than ever that he might hold her, comfort her, whisper tender words into her ear until she relaxed. All he could do was squeeze her hand.

  She squeezed back. It was enough.

  “Come.” Deacon Eddard sounded as though he were muttering through clenched teeth. “Let us continue. Quickly.”

  The cart resumed its swaying as the mule continued on its way.

  It was by far the longest ride of Broc’s life, the seconds stretching into lifetimes as they passed through the village and on to the outskirts. If they were on the main road out of Thrushwood, which he assumed they were, there would be a few homes here and there, dotting both sides of the road until the landscape would open up and turn to gently rolling foothills.

  That time couldn’t come soon enough.

  There was no avoiding the memories of his first escape from the village, years earlier. That had been a far different event. Moonlight had been his only guide as he’d run, barefoot, from the cell and into the countryside.

  They had even taken his shoes before throwing him into the cell.

  His legs and feet had been cut to shreds by the time he’d reached a small, winding stream in which to clean his wounds. Strips of his tunic had served as bandages, and he’d followed the stream to a larger body of water which had led to a cluster of cottages.

  The kindly people who’d called the cottages home had been too far removed from Thrushwood to know who he was or even express doubt at the sight of his ragged appearance. They’d been too concerned with helping care for him, by that time, several days had passed since he’d eaten anything other than berries and plants in the woods.

  He’d spent nights huddled in a ball beneath any bit of natural shelter he could find and had walked during the day, taking care to avoid injuring his already damaged feet any further.

  They’d slowed his progress, but he’d managed to put enough distance between himself and the village nonetheless.

  “It seems as though we made it,” the deacon murmured after what felt like hours. “We’re well outside Thrushwood now.”

  “Where did you arrange to meet Derek and Hugh?” he dared ask from beneath the straw.

  “There is a wooded area a league or more from here. They should be waiting there.”

  Would they? Had they escaped? Broc wouldn’t put it past them, Randall believed himself to be clever, inescapable, but he had nothing on a pair of clever Highlanders who had spent much of their lives fighting to get out of scrapes.

  The threat he’d posed to them was nothing compared to some of the stories they’d told around the fire back at the Duncan manor house.

  Even so, there was no telling. Villagers could be vicious, especially when it came to foreigners such as themselves. They’d already witnessed such treatment. If any of them had managed to corner the McInnises…

  The cart came to a stop. Beatrice let out a long sigh, as though she’d been holding her breath. “Are we concealed?”

  “You are. You can sit up, if you wish.” They did, both of them taking great gulps of air after spending so long breathing stale, dusty air beneath the straw.

  “It’s apologies I’m owing ye, lass,” Broc grimaced. “I canna smell very fresh after the treatment I’ve received.”

  She must have been ready to choke on the stench coming from him.

  “It’s no matter,” she beamed. “I’m too happy we managed to get away.”

  He looked around, noting the slim, young trees which surrounded them and the sun-dappled ground, the rays of light shining between the leaves which grew thick and green above them. It was like something from a dream, beautiful and serene.

  And the lass beside him, picking straw from her hair with a rueful grin. She was like a dream, as well.

  He shook himself with the reminder that their journey was far from over. He wouldn’t feel safe until they were aboard the ship, on their way from Silloth. There was still another day or more of travel before
they reached the harbor, and like as not a day to prepare the ship for sailing.

  Beatrice tensed at the sound of approaching hooves, her hands trembling. Broc wished he’d thought to take the dirk from her after she’d freed him, but she’d only tucked it beneath her garter once again. If the approaching horses carried a threat, he would take it from her, whether or not the gesture was entirely proper. She would have to understand.

  He didn’t need to worry. When the horses emerged in the clearing, he smiled from ear to ear. “What took the two of you so long, then?”

  Derek scowled. “Nothing but the fools we led on a chase throughout the village while you lot made your escape.”

  “It isn’t easy, evading capture when an entire village wants your head on a sharpened stick,” Hugh agreed with customary good humor.

  The old woman gasped in shock from her seat behind the mule, and for the first time, Broc witnessed the McInnis twins blushing in shame from something they’d said.

  “It’s no matter, now,” Beatrice laughed, still shaky. “Oh, and you’ll be wanting this.” She withdrew the dirk and handed it back to Derek.

  “Ye made good use of it, so I see,” he smiled. She took it for the compliment it was and blushed, nodding.

  “Good work.” He clasped Broc’s hand. “I hope this teaches ye a lesson, ye daft… fool,” he finished, glancing at the back of the old woman’s head before the word he’d been ready to use slipped out.

  “What lesson would that be, then?”

  “Not to underestimate me, or what I’m able to understand.” Another look at the pair seated above them. “We’ll talk about it another time.”

  “After we’ve arrived home, I hope,” Broc replied.

  “Indeed, though perhaps we should discuss how to proceed.” Derek and the deacon exchanged a meaningful look.

  “Yes,” Deacon Eddard agreed. “It’d unfortunate, but Frances and I cannot escort you all the way to Silloth.”

  “Though a young woman should have a chaperone,” the old woman grumbled, obviously offended at the idea of Beatrice traveling with three men.

  “Naturally,” the deacon agreed, obviously placating her. “However, some matters can be overlooked in situations such as this.”

  “What shall we do?” Beatrice asked, looking to Broc for answers.

  Answers he did not have.

  “We can take you to the next village and be back to Thrushwood before dusk,” Deacon Eddard reasoned. “So long as we are not missed, it should be all right. I doubt anyone would connect our absence and your disappearance.”

  “We could acquire horses there,” Broc mused. “But what if someone were to get word of a nobleman in search of three Scots and a redheaded lass traveling together?”

  “We’ll go ahead of you,” Hugh suggested, patting his horse’s neck. “They’d done quite a bit of riding today, but they could manage a little speed, I think.”

  “Aye, and we’ll reach Silloth in time to prepare the ship for sailing. If all goes well, we should be ready by the time you get there.”

  “Would you really be able to make such good time?” Beatrice asked, looking less than convinced of this.

  Derek nodded. “Aye, we don’t need to sleep much, and could always trade the horses out at some point, whenever we pass a stable with an owner willing to trade. We could be there late tomorrow night, if we start out now.”

  Judging from the sun’s position nearly overhead, that would give them nearly a day and a half, Broc observed.

  “We’ll do our best to meet you there the following morning, then,” he announced.

  “You think we could?” Beatrice asked, chewing her lip.

  He shrugged, smiling in the hopes of reassuring her. “Do we have a choice?”

  23

  “You should wait here,” Deacon Eddard decided, handing off the reins to Frances before descending from the seat. “It may go easier for me to procure horses than it would for you.”

  Broc all but growled. “So it’s all throughout England that Scots are hated, then?”

  Beatrice winced for him.

  The deacon merely blinked. “You’re wearing a blood-stained tunic, my son. And there is still a wound on the back of your head.”

  Broc’s embarrassment was evident as they watched the deacon cross the road on his way to speak with the owner of a large stable just outside the village. “I feel a right fool for that,” he muttered.

  “No one could blame you,” Beatrice tried to soothe him. “You’re tired and hurt, and haven’t been treated well by my countrymen.”

  He snorted. “Nor by you, at first. You didn’t like the looks of me or my companions.”

  She winced at the memory, and at the way he insisted on bringing it back to her attention.

  “Och, I’m sorry,” he chuckled. “I shouldn’t mention it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “After all, I’ve no desire to feel your slap again,” he added, a devilish gleam in his eye.

  Frances twisted in the seat, looking down at the two of them. “You slapped him?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid I did,” Beatrice admitted, the back of her neck suddenly hot and prickly as the old woman stared with a shrewd look in her eye.

  “Good,” Frances decided, turning away again. “Some lads need a bit of sense knocked into them.”

  Beatrice bit her lip to hold back a burst of laughter. It had been a strange day, indeed.

  The reminder of the wound on Broc’s head stirred the memory of what Derek had loaded into the cart, a bag full of treatments which Sarah had put together for the men prior to their departure. She found it in the straw, opening it to reveal an array of bottles and vials.

  “I have to apply the poultice Derek recommended,” she said, examining the back of Broc’s head with a sense of dread. There hadn’t been time in the woods for either of the other men to help. They’d needed to be on their way.

  She poured water over the wound, carefully parting his brown hair before doing so. “I do wish your hair was shorter,” she muttered.

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “She was right, then. And perhaps you shouldn’t be so sharp tongued when I’m about to put my fingers to a cut on the back of your head.” She did what she could, applying the strange smelling mixture until it appeared to cover the entire injured area.

  Derek had warned her to look out for signs of infection, as Broc had spent the night in a filthy barn after being hit on the back of his head. What would happen if he became ill? What would she do? Her hands trembled as she put the contents of the bag to right.

  The deacon returned, leading two sturdy-looking geldings by their reins. They pranced eagerly, sniffing at his garments and whinnying.

  “I believe I procured the best two animals in all the stable,” he smiled. “The owner is clearly a man of faith. He was happy to let me have them in exchange for the promise of prayer on his behalf.”

  “Nothing more than that?” Beatrice asked, awed.

  Broc didn’t look as he believed it, but Deacon Eddard’s head bobbed up and down in confirmation of this tale. She wasn’t certain whether he was being completely truthful—something which would never have crossed her mind before witnessing just how skilled a liar he was that very day—or if he was merely avoiding Broc’s efforts to repay him.

  Regardless of his motivation, his actions made her heart swell with affection and gratitude.

  “You had best be on your way,” he advised, his eyes shifting back and forth. “Word tends to travel quickly, even from one village to the next along the main road. You’ll want to outrun news of your escape.”

  “Aye, we will that,” Broc agreed, climbing down from the cart before offering his assistance to Beatrice. She warmed all over when his hands landed on her waist, his strong arms lifting her as though she weighed nothing.

  Frances’s shrewd gaze nearly burned a hole in the back of her head at this show of familiarity, but she pretended not to notice.
>
  “I don’t know how to thank you,” Beatrice murmured, taking the deacon’s hands in her own. “You’ve done so much for me. Not just today or yesterday. All my life. I could never repay you.”

  His gentle smile was as familiar to her as anything else. “My child, I am not asking repayment. All is as it should be. So long as you are safe and away from that which would cause you strife, I am confident that all I’ve done was done in service to God. There is little more I can hope to do in this life.”

  She smiled through her tears, giving in to the impulsive desire to throw her arms around his shoulders. “Thank you, thank you. Be safe in your journey home.”

  “I’m a man of God,” he chuckled, looking pleased—if not slightly embarrassed—as he pulled away. “None would dare harm me, nor Frances. And I’m certain she could take on all comers,” he added with another chuckle, lowering his voice to avoid her sharp ears.

  For a woman of her advanced age, it seemed nothing got past her.

  The lady herself handed Beatrice her bundle of belongings. “I’ve added the food from the basket,” she explained. “Be sure you eat it, now.”

  “Thank you! How generous.” Sure enough, the scent of fresh bread and sweet cakes rose from inside the tied bedspread.

  Frances glanced at Broc, who was speaking quietly with the deacon. “Be careful,” she warned.

  “Frances. You’ve known me my entire life. Do you believe I would do anything to bring shame to myself? Or that I would trust someone who didn’t deserve my trust?”

  The old woman’s mouth nearly disappeared when she pressed her already thin lips together, but she nodded before long. “True. And the deacon trusts him, which I suppose says much for his character.”

  She didn’t appear convinced, however.

  “Be on your way, now,” Deacon Eddard urged, offering her a hand up as she mounted the light brown, glistening horse. He seemed gentle, sweet but spirited, and fairly danced with eagerness to be on his way. As though he knew they were about to have an adventure together.

  “Come, lass,” Broc murmured, leading the way. “We still have several hours of travel possible before darkness falls.”