A Highland Sailor_Highland Heartbeats

by Aileen Adams

  “It wouldn’t have to be that way for you,” Derek insisted after a while. “As you said yourself, everyone knew it was doomed to failure from the start.”

  “Aye,” Broc muttered, staring straight ahead. “Everyone but Angus.”

  The conversation ended there, which was just as well. The sun had nearly slid behind the foothills and the sky was darker by the minute. Hugh pointed to a group of trees whose branches seemed to grow together, they were so closely intertwined. The effect was that of a roof under which they could bed for the night.

  Hugh tended the horses while Derek shook out the bedrolls and Broc built a fire a short distance from the canopy of branches, out in the open. The McInnis twins joked back and forth, Derek’s mood having improved with the promise of food and sleep. Good thing, that, since Broc wasn’t certain how much more of his friend’s brooding he could stand.

  His own mood, on the other hand, had darkened at the recounting of Angus McGuinness’s terrible tale. He’d been a good man, a solid one, one Broc had always been able to count on whenever they manned the same ship. They’d enjoyed more than their share of close calls on stormy seas, had shared more than a few mugs of mead.

  All it had taken for him to break was one unfaithful woman.

  He’d wondered at the time what had gone through Angus’s head in those final, brutal minutes. When he’d seen his wife in bed with another man. Had he suddenly realized how wrong he’d been all along? Had he remembered all of their tender moments in a single rush of understanding, had he questioned her sincerity?

  Had he felt like a fool, the sort of pathetic man neighbors whispered and laughed about? No doubt they’d laughed, too, watching men parading in and out of the home he’d purchased for his unfaithful wife. She’d used him and flaunted her using of him.

  Had any of the unthinkable pain in his head and his heart eased once he’d split the bastard’s head open? Had that made him feel any better?

  Had there been any love left in his heart for her even as his hands closed around her slim throat and he choked the life out of her? Had he felt vindicated as the light in her eyes faded to nothing?

  Had he hanged himself from the rafter out of guilt? Had he come out of his blind rage, blinking fast and wondering who had caused the death all around him?

  Or had he done it as an alternative to what was surely to come?

  Had he done it because he was embarrassed by the fool she’d made of him?

  The fire leapt to life, shooting flames upward into the air. Broc fed it a handful of dry twigs before standing and wiping his dirty hands on already dirty trousers. They would all need to change into clean clothing and wash up before visiting Beatrice. Like as not, the presence of three strange men would already have a jarring effect on the lass. They didn’t need to frighten her any further with the roughness of their travel-weary appearance.

  “At the rate we’ve managed to progress to this point, we should be able to make Thrushwood tomorrow evening,” Derek mused, skewering the last of their roasted rabbit on a stick before placing it over the fire to warm through.

  Broc wouldn’t mind a day without rabbit. He’d eaten enough of it on this trip to last him a lifetime.

  “And we’ll set out for the farm at first light?” he asked, perhaps more hopeful than he should’ve sounded.

  Both of his companions noted this, if the way their eyebrows arched meant anything.

  “Why so eager?” Hugh asked, uncorking his flask and drinking deep of the water inside.

  “No reason. I’m only concerned for Derek, reminding how close we are to turning around and starting for home.”

  It was a lie, an inexpert one, but it seemed to do the trick. Derek’s eyes lit up at the prospect of getting home quickly, back to his wife. This was enough to shift the tide of the conversation away from Broc.

  Which was all he needed.

  * * *

  The horses were fatigued close to the point of collapse by the time they reached the outskirts of Thrushwood nearly a solid day later.

  “How that lying bastard could look us in the eye and tell us these beasts were up to the challenge of such a journey is beyond me,” Derek grumbled as they walked the exhausted animals past the first few outlying buildings. Light glowed in the windows, the light of fires and lanterns and candles.

  Broc’s stomach growled when the scent of roasted meat and stewed vegetables and fresh bread floated from home after home. He hoped there would be food available at the inn, or at least a tavern nearby which would provide sustenance. If he never saw rabbit again, it would be too soon.

  “We won’t do much riding tomorrow,” Hugh reasoned, patting his gelding’s neck. “It will be a good rest for them.”

  “I ought to give the man a piece of my mind when we return,” Derek grumbled, brows drawn close together. “Thinks just because we’re Scots, he can push these three off on us.”

  “Well, he did push them off on us,” Hugh observed with a wry smile. “Perhaps it would be best not to start a fight when we reach the harbor. No need to complicate things further. If the horses get us there, they get us there.”

  “If,” Derek barked. “If they do. I’ve half a mind to switch them out for fresh here in the village and tell the man where to stick his complaints when we reach Silloth.”

  It was all background noise to Broc as they continued to ride further into the village. Memories pressed in on him from all sides as they passed the blacksmith, the baker’s. A row of small, modest cottages. They were all still there, in the same place as before.

  Was everything the same?

  What about the filthy, rat-infested pit in which criminals were held?

  “Margery described the location of the inn,” Derek reported, breaking through the chilling images which fought for control of Broc’s mind. “It should only be a few minutes ride down the main street, which she said is twice as wide as any of the others and impossible to miss.”

  “Other things impossible to miss,” Hugh noted, his sharp eyes scanning the area around them. “Three strangers riding into the village.”

  Sure enough, they had attracted attention. This was no surprise. They’d be distrusted simply because of who they were. Thrushwood was rather removed from the rest of the world, too, surrounded by woodlands on all sides, so one couldn’t blame the villagers for their suspicions.

  Even so, the utter contempt on the faces of those watching from doorways and windows as they passed was unnerving. An old woman, busy sweeping her doorstep, spat in their direction before stomping back inside without finishing the job she’d started.

  “Perhaps it would be best for us to hurry about our business,” Broc observed in a low voice after a pair of young men snarled in their direction, then continued walking past.

  “Things will be better when we reach the inn,” Derek promised.

  “How can you be so certain?” Broc asked, glad for the presence of a dirk at his hip. They’d been careful to conceal their weapons so as to avoid trouble, even so, his was just beneath his tunic and could be freed in a matter of moments.

  Isn’t that the sort of thinking that nearly ruined your life? The voice in his head was clear, sharp, knowing. He tried to ignore it, to no avail.

  Defending oneself wasn’t a crime. If any of the villagers decided to react to their visitors with violence, the three of them would have no choice but to fight back.

  The problem would lie in convincing the rest of the village that they didn’t deserve to hang for it.

  7

  Beatrice didn’t need the rooster to wake her the following morning. That would mean having slept at all, which she had not. How could she when her life was over, or as good as?

  She had wept for hours after the deacon revealed his terrible news, well past the point where her soup was cold as ice. Her appetite was long gone, anyway. Deacon Eddard had been thoughtful enough to empty the untouched bowl back into the pot on the dwindling fire.

  “What am I going to do?�
� She’d asked until her throat was raw, but there had come no answer. She had no choice, so there was no sense in stating the obvious.

  She had to marry the man.

  Was there no one who could speak for her? No one who would protect her from what would surely be a sad and empty life?

  “Emptier than now?” she whispered to her otherwise silent bedroom. There was no one to hear. No one but her.

  Would marrying Lord Randall be worse than spending endless days and nights on her own? Wandering around the house, performing the same tasks day in and day out? Milking the cow, feeding and chickens, collecting the eggs. Tending the garden, harvesting more than she could ever possibly eat on her own. Sweeping the floors, washing her few dishes, cleaning the hearth. Going into the village to trade for the goods the farm couldn’t provide.

  She couldn’t trade for companionship, could she? There was no way to fill the emptiness which weighed on every bit of her life.

  Even so, it was her life. Hers alone. She had spent so much of it—almost the entirety—living under her mother’s rule, to the point where she’d devoted what were supposed to be the carefree, sunny years to caring for the woman when she was an invalid. She had lived for nothing more than her mother’s comfort and her own meager existence.

  While she did not enjoy the aching loneliness of her days, especially in Margery’s absence, she preferred it to the thought of living under the Lord’s roof. She’d never seen the manor up close, only from a distance as she traveled the road into the village on Market Day. A sprawling, intimidating sort of place, even from the road.

  How would she ever learn to live in a house like that, when all she ever known was around her right at that very minute? She’d never wanted more—well, perhaps a new kirtle now and again, and the ability to purchase new shoes when the soles of the only pair she owned wore out. She wouldn’t have begun riding sweet, old Cecil if it hadn’t been for the wear and tear on her shoes otherwise.

  What would it entail, being the Lady of the manor? Because she would be the Lady. Nobility. She, the daughter of a farmer who’d been the son of a woodcutter.

  Was she honestly entertaining the idea? No. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t.

  She knew what marriage meant. She knew what men expected from their wives. She would have to bear children, heirs to the family name. Boys, naturally, girls couldn’t inherit anything. She would be little more than a broodmare to her husband until she could no longer bear children.

  And then? What would she be then? Only darkness followed that question, darkness and blankness. Because she had no idea what would come after her childbearing years were over. She had no experience to draw from and no older woman in her life to provide guidance.

  Not everything would have to be so bad, she reasoned in an attempt to soothe herself.

  It would be nice to have servants about, wouldn’t it? She might be able to sleep in the morning, rather than living at the mercy of the rooster and his incessant crowing. The skin of her hands would no longer feel so rough. She might be able to eat enough food that her body would fill out a bit, instead of its current scrawniness.

  At what cost, however? Marriage to man nearly old enough to be her father? One who she had never held in high personal regard and who hadn’t given her a good feeling when they’d met on the road? There was something… empty about him. Hollow. Cold.

  She stretched, her sore muscles protesting after a night of tossing and turning, then settled back into the pillow with a sigh. It wasn’t dawn yet. She might get up, but to what purpose outside of tending the animals? They didn’t expect her yet.

  Memories of Margery teased at the corners of her mind. Oh, the many adventures the two of them had dreamed up for themselves. How silly it seemed in hindsight. How childish.

  Like any young girls, they had spent hours giggling late at night over the sort of men they would marry one day. They had been too young and untested to understand how unlikely it was that they’d ever find the men they dreamed of, or any men at all. They hadn’t understood what it took to find a husband, more than just knowing a man. It took money from a father. Something to bring to the marriage.

  Such as land.

  There was no such thing as romance for girls such as they, poor girls with no living father to provide for them or even ensure they made a good match with a decent man.

  To think, she had once feared living the rest of her life alone. Going to bed alone every night until she died. Never knowing love, never hearing the laughter of children as she went about her housework.

  She hadn’t considered the existence of something much sadder. Darker. Lonelier.

  Of course, once she had children, she wouldn’t have to be alone. She would have them.

  Yes, and then what? She wouldn’t make them responsible for her happiness, that was one lesson she’d learned from her mother. One of the few things she would carry with her out of the many warnings Mama had passed on. It wasn’t fair to a child, having to carry the burden of an unhappy parent’s misery.

  And that was what she’d done for so long. She and Margery, both.

  It seemed that no amount of thinking would help her. No matter how many times she went back and forth, she never reached a satisfactory conclusion.

  Getting out of bed seemed the logical thing to do, though her heart wasn’t in it. Facing the day meant facing her fate.

  Even so, she went through it, just as she’d likely go through with the marriage.

  What would Margery think? What if she were alive out there, somewhere, planning on sending for her? What if she was on her way home? What if she expected her home to be intact, still in her name?

  It would break her heart to know that they’d lost their farm, even though it had become little more than an anchor weighing on them. Beatrice knew her sister all too well; she would blame herself for not having succeeded in establishing them elsewhere.

  She dragged her heavy feet across the room, splashing her face with cool water out of habit and drying it on the back of her arm. What did it matter? The water did soothe her sore eyes, though, after so much crying. She was certain there were no more tears in her. She had cried enough to fill a lake.

  Like the lake on Lord Randall’s property.

  Perhaps she would drown herself in that lake one day…

  “No.” She stood by the window, looking out over the still-dark farm. “No, I won’t. I won’t do anything of the sort.” Not only was it a sin, but it would be tantamount to giving up. She didn’t give up. She never had, never once in her life.

  Even if she had to marry the man—she held out hope otherwise, but it was always a possibility—she would find a way to be happy. She owed it to herself.

  Didn’t she?

  It wasn’t until the sky began to lighten that she turned away from the window, dressing quickly and with much greater purpose than she’d felt since the visit from the deacon. There had to be something she could do.

  And she thought she might have an idea as to what it might be.

  If she could find someone in the village interested in purchasing the land, anyone at all, she might be able to get around Lord Randall’s demands. Let whoever bought the land argue with him over a good price.

  She hardly cared anymore. It was a matter of desperation at this point. While she didn’t much enjoy the feeling that she was trapped in a corner, she was reasonable enough to do what needed to be done without much regret.

  Bess would be waiting for her milking. Beatrice was lost in thought as she stepped outside. She knew she would have to get to the village early, as soon as she had the chores finished. The time couldn’t come soon enough.

  It wasn’t until the three riders were nearly close enough for her to make out the color of their eyes that she even noticed their presence on the road. Rough looking men, large and muscled.

  All of them looking at the house, the farm.

  They weren’t merely passing through. Her instincts screamed at her to run, to
throw herself on Cecil’s back and take off in the other direction. To take sanctuary in the church and throw herself at the deacon’s mercy, to beg for his protection.

  But they would catch her, for certain. Their horses were large, young, unlike the old farm horse who could barely make it to the market and back. She felt sorry for even forcing him to make the trip. How could she hope to outrun them all the way to the church?

  Instead, she dashed inside the house and did the only other thing she could think to do. In the bedroom which had once belonged to her parents, in the trunk at the foot of the little bed they’d shared before her mother had taken it over and made it her sanctuary for years.

  Beatrice’s hands shook as she worked the old lock, but she managed to open it on the third attempt and withdrew the sword her father had carried as a member of King Henry III’s army. It was heavy, requiring both of her hands just to heft it from the chest and carry it to the front door.

  The horses were approaching, their riders dismounting. She saw them through the window, only peering out at them with one eye to keep the rest of herself hidden. Just the sight of them would’ve frightened her in any circumstance—watching as they walked from the front gate to the door left her uncertain as to whether she could hold her water.

  Had Lord Randall sent them? Would they forcibly remove her from the house and take her to his manor? Would he force her…?

  The very thought of such a thing sent fire racing through her, the fire of rage and desperation and a determination not to be his possession, his thing to do with as he wished. It was enough to make her fling the door open and take the sword’s hilt in both hands.

  “You’re on my land, whoever you are,” she announced, throwing her head back. “I would leave it if I were you, unless you’ve a mind to feel my sword slicing into you.”

  8

  That was a surprise.