A Highland Sailor_Highland Heartbeats

by Aileen Adams

  To her, he was a leering animal, ready to pounce. His muscles were always tensed, always at the ready, even when he pretended to be friendly.

  She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  This man was able to do something as terrible as what she now knew he’d done. He had ordered Broc’s attack. He had brought him back to the manor house for the purpose of exacting his own version of justice.

  Instinctively, she knew she could not let on that she was aware, and, even if he knew she was aware, she could not allow him to know she cared. The man was a stranger to her, wasn’t he? And a foreigner. If she betrayed her concern, she would be giving away much more.

  “Beatrice?” Deacon Eddard prompted, clearing his throat.

  She’d lost her voice. She’d lost the ability to move. What was she supposed to do? Tell Lord Randall she had no intention of marrying him? It was suddenly clear that such an announcement would fall on deaf ears. He wouldn’t care what she wanted, what her intentions were.

  He was willing to attack and kidnap a man. Most likely, he’d have Broc locked away somewhere before enacting his revenge. It had been a long time coming, too, which meant he wouldn’t be satisfied with anything quick or merciful.

  How did she know this? She didn’t know the man beyond what she’d heard of him and what she saw of him, standing there just inside his grand home. She knew nothing of his heart.

  She didn’t know how she knew what he’d do to Broc. She simply did.

  Because of that, she needed to say what was about to come from her mouth, even though she would never have believed herself capable of such a lie at any other time.

  “I’ve come to accept your offer of marriage,” she announced, all of it coming out in a rush.

  Deacon Eddard sounded as though he was choking. Beatrice shot him a look from the corner of her eye which she hoped was enough to make him understand. Had he seen Broc? If not, she could understand how confused he’d be.

  He remained silent. A small miracle.

  Lord Randall, meanwhile, looked neither surprised nor pleased. His face bore the expression of a man hearing something he had already been certain of. As though she had reported that it was night and dawn would arrive in the morning.

  “Good!” he shouted, laughing. “I knew you would see what a fortuitous match this would be. Please, both of you, do not sit on horseback. I’ll have my men take care of the animals while you join me inside.”

  She exchanged a look with the deacon which she hoped did not betray her panic. “Oh, no,” she demurred, smiling slightly. “We could not take advantage of your hospitality this way. I had only decided to come here on a whim, I suppose you might say, and I wouldn’t want to take up your time or that of the deacon’s.”

  It sounded believable, she prayed.

  “Nonsense,” Randall insisted, and it wasn’t her imagination when she took note of the less-friendly tone of voice in which he spoke. She was denying him what he wanted. He was accustomed to his desires being fulfilled without question.

  Such as his marriage to a girl he didn’t know, simply because he declared it would be so.

  “I believe we should drink to our good fortune, then,” he continued while his visitors dismounted their horses, making a hand signal to the old man who hovered nearby before leading Beatrice and the deacon further into the manor house.

  The two of them handed the reins over to one of the stable boys, who’d come on the run, and walked side-by-side. A flash of childish terror came over her and she wanted more than anything to take the deacon’s hand for reassurance.

  Instead, she curled her hands and drew deep breaths in a desperate attempt to tamp down her rising panic. She didn’t need to toast with the Lord. She needed to get to the village to warn the other two—Derek and Hugh. They had to do something.

  She had to do something!

  “I don’t think—” Beatrice began, but Lord Randall spoke over her.

  “I’m sure Deacon Eddard would agree that this is an occasion worthy of a toast,” he insisted, assuming this was the reason for her misgivings.

  Rather than allowing him to continue believing this, she went on, “I was about to say that I should go. I don’t believe we should stay. I did not wish to wait until morning to speak with you, but now, it would be best if I returned home. There is no one there to tend to it but me, after all.”

  He didn’t slow his pace, leading them into a grand hall with contained a long table and more chairs than she could quickly count. Her entire home would fit into it five, perhaps six times over. The ceiling seemed to stretch up to the stars. She had to crane her neck to see it all, with wooden rafters which spanned the length.

  “Do not tell me you’re considering making the ride home at this point in the evening,” he said, shaking his head as he walked to the head of the table, where a jug of wine and three cups were already waiting. “It is far too late, and too dark. There is no telling just what might decide to come out of the woods and make your acquaintance.”

  His words sent a chill down her spine and made her wonder if she should be more concerned over the animal before her.

  What was he doing to Broc? Would he kill him that very night, or was he planning to hold him there? He dug her nails into her palms, barely fighting off the urge to scream. A man’s life was in danger and she could do nothing but stand there and pretend not to know or care.

  What alternative did she have? If she confronted Lord Randall with what she’d seen, what she knew of his past acquaintance with Broc, what would happen? He might lock her away, giving her no chance to help Broc or the others. He might do something to silence her, and Deacon Eddard, too.

  At least, if he were with her and the deacon, he wasn’t torturing Broc. That was a relief, anyway.

  Even so, she couldn’t stay. There had to be a way to get to the village, and immediately.

  “Please, allow me to extend this hospitality to my betrothed.” He smiled, at least, his lips curved into a smile, she observed. His eyes did not reflect happiness, however. They were strangely hard. As though he were only reciting words he knew he had to offer. Custom and good manners dictated that he do so.

  She exchanged a glance with the deacon, whose face remained blank.

  “Oh, and you as well, Deacon Eddard,” Lord Randall continued. “Your journey would take even more time, and I wouldn’t want you to come to harm on a dark road.”

  The road wasn’t dark. The moon was nearly full, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky according to what Beatrice could see through one of the narrow windows of the hall.

  There was nothing she could do. Nothing she could say that would sound innocent enough not to raise his suspicions. She had no excuse and would only anger him if she refused.

  When she didn’t respond, Deacon Eddard nodded. “Very well. Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

  Lord Randall rang a small bell which sat at his right hand, and almost instantly a young woman came nearly on the run. “See to it that rooms are prepared for my betrothed and Deacon Eddard,” he commanded, not bothering to look at the girl. She meant nothing to him, just as Beatrice would’ve meant nothing once they were married.

  He didn’t even bother to mention Beatrice’s name. She was his betrothed. His. Nothing more.

  “Now, for our toast.” He handed her a cup, then handed another to Deacon Eddard. He raised his own, locking eyes with Beatrice before continuing. “To my betrothed, and our union. May it be a fruitful one.”

  That was it. Nothing of happiness or even a hint of him being glad that she had accepted him. It had never been a question for him, naturally. It mattered not whether she’d accepted. He’d planned on their union, just as he’d plan on waking up the next morning and going about his business.

  She managed to sip a bit of the wine for the sake of politeness, but she’d never developed a taste for it. Would the lady of the manor house have needed to do so? She would never know.

  “The steward will show
you to your rooms and one of the girls will take care of your needs,” he promised her after drinking deep of his wine, emptying the cup. It clanged on the table when he returned it there.

  “I have no needs,” she assured him. “After all, there are no servants on the farm. Just me. I’m accustomed to caring for myself.” It would be the height of discomfort, having someone attend her. Especially when she wanted nothing more than to be alone so she could think things through.

  He waved a hand as though this was nothing, a brief frown creasing his forehead as he considered life lived on his own. Or so she supposed. “You need to become accustomed to the life of the lady of the manor,” he reminded her.

  “Of course. I hadn’t thought about it that way.” Best not to argue the point. Best to simply allow him to go on believing he was getting his way. Nothing was wrong in the world, everything was wonderful, and Lord Randall was going to have what he wanted.

  And the rest of her life would’ve been lived that way if she had married him. Always telling him what she km new he wanted to hear, always lying. Betraying herself, betraying what she knew to be right.

  Turning a blind eye when his men did something terrible at his command.

  “You know,” she continued, thinking fast, “I will need to leave at first light. Someone must tend to the cow and chickens and such at dawn. They will become ill if I do not.” She held her breath, hoping this excuse would be strong enough. It was the truth, of course, but there was a chance he wouldn’t care for her concerns.

  “Will they?” he asked before shrugging. “I suppose you would know more about that than I would. Of course, do what you must do. I only want to be certain you’re safe overnight. One never knows what might occur out in the dark. I wouldn’t want any danger to befall you.”

  She stopped short of asking exactly what danger he referred to, deciding she didn’t wish to know.

  They bade Lord Randall goodnight, and it wasn’t soon enough for Beatrice. Only when she was no longer in front of him could she breathe freely. What was it about him that made her feel as though she were choking?

  Perhaps it was the way he ordered the beating and restraint of innocent men.

  Broc wasn’t innocent, though. It was a terrible thing, attempting to make sense of what he’d done. It had been in defense of a defenseless woman, but the woman had already died. If he’d been defending himself, it would’ve been different. She might have been able to understand, if not condone his actions.

  Then again, Deacon Eddard had admitted that he would’ve done the same thing. Did that mean it wasn’t such a terrible sin after all? Was there such a thing as a forgivable sin? One God would understand?

  The old, stooped steward walked a few steps in front of them, leading the way down a long, narrow corridor hung with richly embroidered tapestries. Would Lord Randall have expected her to learn to embroider once they were wed? She knew noble ladies were expected to learn such skills from a young age, but there had hardly been time for such fanciful pursuits while she was growing up.

  She cut her eyes to the side, catching the deacon’s attention. “You saw Broc?” she mouthed.

  He nodded, his face pained.

  She pointed to herself. “Dawn. Village. Warn them.”

  He nodded, still with a pained expression, then pointed to himself with eyebrows raised.

  She glanced at the steward to make certain their conversation was unnoticed before shaking her head. “Nothing,” she mouthed. “Go home.”

  “No.” His eyes went wide.

  “You can’t. I will go.”

  “I must do something,” he whispered, a bit louder than he should have.

  The steward glanced over his shoulder, but it was an innocent glance. He understood nothing, or so she needed to believed. A man of his advanced age might well have been hard of hearing.

  She shook her head again. “No. Please.”

  He merely sighed, shaking his head, and folded his hands in prayer.

  She nodded firmly. They would need all the prayers they could get.

  16

  Broc could only open one of his eyes on waking.

  When he did open the left eye, the one not caked shut with dried blood—he could smell it. That plus the searing pain in the back of his head told him what he needed to know—he looked about him and wished he had never woken at all.

  Everything hurt. Not just his head. His hands and feet were bound, the feeling having long since left both. Time had passed, then, enough for the blood to stop flowing.

  Why would it flow there when it could flow out of the back of his head?

  If the pain was in back, he reasoned—thinking helped distract him from the pain, something he had learned long ago—but the blood had flowed over the side of his face, it meant he’d been on his face, or at least face down.

  He didn’t need to ask himself where he was. The scent of manure and pigs assaulted his nose to the point where his eyes watered. A barn, tucked in a corner somewhere. Aside from shuffling feet and occasional snorting, there was silence.

  They’d left him alone.

  Why not? He was bound, arms behind his back, with a cloth wadded up and stuffed into his mouth. He was no threat to anyone.

  He also didn’t need to ask himself who had done this to him. It had been too much to ask that Lord Randall not recognize him. The man had known him on sight, as Broc had known him.

  It was folly, beginning to end. The entire thing. He had no business return to the scene of his crime. Whatever happened was no less than what he deserved—after all, he’d gone seven years without paying for his crime.

  They had been good years, too. He had Derek to thank for that. And himself. He’d worked hard, but it had been work at which he’d excelled, work which had pleased him greatly.

  Perhaps that was as much as he’d deserved.

  He told himself not to despair, not to give up so easily, but what was the alternative? Lord Randall, who had most assuredly seen to his capture, wouldn’t make it so easy for him to escape again. There wouldn’t be a moment in which he’d be left to his own devices.

  He would be bound at all times. And though he was currently alone, he wouldn’t be alone for long. He knew that, too.

  Derek and Hugh didn’t know where he was. They would read his letter on waking and assume he had left with the lass. And they would ride out at dawn, as Lord Randall had demanded.

  There was one hope. Only one. That they would first ride to the farm to confirm that he’d kidnapped Beatrice. When they found her there, never having arrived, they’d know something befell him.

  What difference would it make? What could they possibly do?

  He’d seen what they could do. He’d heard the stories, too. But there were only two brothers, that was all. None of the men Hugh had trained to fight, none of Maccay’s men or any of the others.

  While they both had military training, it would matter little when they were so vastly outnumbered.

  And Derek wouldn’t want to ride to the farm, at any rate. He would take Randall’s threats to heart and would like as not assume the man had placed spies along the road, perhaps even near the farmhouse, keeping watch for them.

  Broc felt a great deal of affection for his friend, the sort of affection men developed toward those with whom they’d been through many challenges. He knew that affection was shared.

  But it wasn’t the same as having a wife and new babe on the way.

  He wouldn’t risk his life to save his friend when Margery waited for him.

  That was simply the way of life, the manner in which things had unfolded.

  He was on his own.

  There was little light coming from the window above his head, telling him it was still night. Derek and Hugh would leave at dawn. There were only a handful of hours left before his fate was sealed.

  If that many.

  After all, Lord Randall need not keep him alive that long. He might decide to end things quickly—not out of any sense of m
ercy, but impatience. He’d been waiting a long time.

  Broc tried as best he could to lessen his discomfort, shifting slightly. They’d dropped him on his backside, judging by the soreness in that area. He was up against the wall, slumped on his right side, where his eye was crusted shut.

  He bent his arms, both of them burning in protest—they’d handled him most roughly, it was clear—and attempted to push himself up to a sitting position. That would relieve the pressure on his ribs, he hoped. It seemed as though he’d been across the back of a horse.

  That made sense. If he were kidnapping a large, unconscious man, he’d have thrown him over the back of a horse, too. On his stomach, where the blood flowing from the wound on the back of his head would run into his eye and close it.

  Was he actually agreeing with the methods behind the actions of the men who’d captured him?

  After much slow movement, taking time to breathe carefully against the pain in his ribs, he managed to sit up. They’d at least left him on a bed of straw. A small mercy.

  What wasn’t a mercy was the terrible, white-hot pain which screamed out in the back of his head. Sitting up had turned mere throbbing into agony and made the world swim before his open eye. His stomach clenched in revolt.

  But he was gagged. He would choke to death on his own vomit if he didn’t control the nausea which twisted his insides. He couldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t allow it.

  Panic would only make things worse, and it was threatening to overtake him.

  Breathe. Slowly. Deeply. He counted to five as he breathed in, focusing on the numbers and on drawing breath in through his nose. Then, he let it out as slowly as he’d drawn it in. Again, in and out. In and out.

  He rested against the stone wall at his back, closing his eye, fighting to control himself and stave off another wave of nausea. It got easier as time went on, and his insides relaxed somewhat.

  Strangely enough, he thought of Margery in that moment. Poor Margery. To think, she had to go through that every day.

  He’d never see her again, either. Any of the people who had welcomed him into their home and their hearts. They’d found their way into his, all of them.