by Aileen Adams
She couldn’t go home again. He would surely come for her, take her, perhaps force her into an immediate marriage. He might keep her prisoner until she gave him children, then…
Dispose of her.
If he did not dispose of her immediately after they’d consummated the marriage, once her land was in his hands.
It was all he’d truly cared about, after all. He might always sire an heir with another woman.
“All right, then,” she said, lifting her chin. “You’re correct. I wouldn’t be able to go home. I will have no choice but to flee with them. Immediately.”
“You’re certain this is the right choice?” They came to the crossroads. The road stretching to their left led to the farm, then on to the church. To the right, the village.
She nodded, bringing the horse around to the right. “I am. I must go. Thank you for everything.” With that, tears stinging in her eyes, she urged the horse into a run.
The sun was only just on the rise.
She prayed more fervently than she ever had before, even harder than she’d prayed for her sister’s safety, that she could find the men in time to save Broc.
18
Only when they reached the outlying buildings at the edge of the village did Beatrice pull up the reins and slow the mare’s pace. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself. Anyone who saw her would surely wonder why she’d been riding so wildly, and might draw a conclusion she didn’t wish for them to draw.
Still, every passing second was one second more in which Broc suffered.
The village was starting to come to life, the sun’s light beginning to creep over the thatched roofs of the cottages which lined the street on which she rode. Doors opened, and out poured the men and women who had chores to complete and work to get to.
She nodded in greeting to everyone who acknowledged her. If she ignored them or behaved as though she was disturbed, they would see through her.
Winifred Baker made eye contact as they passed. The woman walked with a wide basket stacked high with bread, balancing it on one hip as she made deliveries for her husband. Beatrice nodded with a smile, hoping the woman was too busy to think much of her appearance so early in the morning.
The only inn she knew of was on the main street, and she brought the mare to a stop in front of it. The door was open, so she tied the horse off to a post in front of the building and hurried inside.
The innkeeper greeted her with a wide smile. She recognized him, having seen him in the village for years, even if she had never been inside the inn.
It was a rather unpleasant smelling place, musty and full of dust. There was a large room just beyond where she entered, with several tables and chairs. At one of them, a pair of men sat and ate what looked like a rather dry, withered roast.
She took all of this in with a single glance, her heart sinking when she didn’t recognize the men at the table. She’d hoped Hugh and Derek would be easy to find. If only one thing could go easily, she would’ve been grateful.
The key would be to make certain the innkeeper—she didn’t even know his name, she realized—didn’t think anything was amiss when she asked after the two Scotsmen.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I understand a trio of foreigners were staying here with you,” she began. Her palms went slick with sweat as her heart raced out of control. She could almost hear it pounding away.
“Indeed,” he replied, his smile fading to nearly nothing.
“They paid me a visit yesterday,” she continued, perceiving his change in demeanor and wondering what she could do to cheer him again. “I was hoping to speak to them, if they were awake and available for a call. Is there any way you could send someone to their room and let them know I’m waiting for them?”
He shook his head, and for a moment she was certain he’d send word to Lord Randall that she had been asking around after Broc’s traveling companions. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that everyone in the village knew of their presence and why they’d come.
“I’m sorry, but they left at dawn.”
“They what?” she gasped before she could stop herself. “I mean, so early? I was not of the understanding that they’d intended to leave yet.”
“Well, your betrothed made certain they wouldn’t be a trouble to you ever again,” he beamed. “Lord Randall is a good protector, and you’re fortunate to have such a powerful man looking after you.”
“Yes, I am,” she replied with a sinking heart, a fake smile stretching her lips.
“You don’t have to worry about them any longer,” he continued, as though he believed she should be proud.
She supposed he wanted to feel more important than he was, too, and enjoyed being at the center of an exciting story which otherwise had nothing to do with him.
“Why not?”
“Because your future husband ordered them to leave the village. They were to be on their way, or else Lord Randall would…” He allowed himself to trail off, widening his eyes and shrugging. Not that he needed to continue.
“Which way did they go? I only want to be certain I won’t run into them on the way home,” she added.
“You should not. They came in from Silloth, so they should be traveling west.”
“Thank you for your help.” She took slow, easy steps outside, taking her time at untying the reins and mounting the gray mare. If she hurried, it might appear as though she was anxious to catch up with the men.
Which she was.
Would they truly leave without Broc? This was what she couldn’t understand. Staying and looking for him would mean sacrificing their safety, but it would mean sacrificing him to leave. Were they truly good, trustworthy men?
Her sister’s letter had said so. She had married Derek! That meant he had to be a man of honor. Did it not?
Men of honor did not desert their friends.
Unless…
They believed there was another reason for him to not be with them?
She managed to keep the horse at a steady walk until she was outside the village. Then, she drove her heels into its sides and took off at a full run.
Heading west.
19
Beatrice had to catch them. She simply had to.
“Come on, girl,” she urged, tapping the mare’s sides. It had been an inspired idea, exchanging horses with the deacon. Cecil never could have ridden as she’d ridden the gray mare whose name she didn’t know.
If the horse even had a name.
Not that it mattered.
She was exhausted, sweaty, soiled, and terrified. What if they were too late? What if she never managed to find Derek and Hugh?
Broc would think they had deserted him. And she’d promised to bring help, too.
She would go back all alone if she had to. No matter what it meant for her.
The sun climbed higher, a constant reminder of how long it was taking. Time was slipping by, precious time.
“Please, don’t collapse on me now,” she begged, patting the mare’s neck, tears clogging her throat as she struggled to hold onto even the slightest bit of control she had left. If she allowed herself to fall to pieces, Broc would surely die.
And he would think she had let him down.
He’d tried so hard to remain brave, for her sake. Though he had clearly been in pain, and bloodied, and though he had certainly known what awaited him at the hands of his captor, he had done everything possible to conceal his true feelings.
She sat up straighter in the saddle, more determined than ever when she remembered the blood on his face, and the strength he had still shown.
And the way his cheek had tasted under her lips, when she’d kissed him. The sound he’d made. He hadn’t been able to speak, already gagged. She wondered what he might have said if given the chance.
Tears filled her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks when she blinked. He was in so much pain.
“Halt!”
She froze, drawing the reins in to halt the ho
rse as commanded. Her eyes darted around, vision blurred thanks to the tears still flowing from them. The voice had belonged to a man who didn’t take well to being trifled with.
Where was he, whoever he was?
“I—I was merely passing through,” she explained, breathing fast as her heart took off once again. “I don’t want any trouble, please. I’m in a terrible hurry.”
A rustling in the underbrush just ahead of her. The mare’s ears turned in that direction, though she stayed still. Beatrice watched, her breath catching as a figure emerged.
“Derek!” She nearly fell from the saddle in relief, her body sagging.
Though he held a knife in one hand, she didn’t fear him. Though it did attract her attention. He looked down, then grimaced. “My apologies, lass. We weren’t expecting to be followed by you, of all people.”
Hugh emerged from her left, also armed. “How is this possible?” he asked, looking at his brother. “She’s supposed to be with Broc.”
“What makes you think that?” she asked.
“He told us…” Derek cleared his throat. “He told us he was going to fetch you last night and leave for Silloth. We’d expected him to already be on his way by now. With you.”
“No! He’s at the manor house! Lord Randall captured him!” The entire story came out in a rush. She was close to sobbing by the time she finished, though it was a relief to know she was no longer on her own. She had help.
“So you know, then,” Derek murmured, reaching up and awkwardly patting her arm.
“I do. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t deserve what was done to him.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “He doesn’t deserve it. And even if he did, lass, we wouldn’t let anyone else decide his fate.”
“Especially not a man such as him,” Hugh agreed.
“What can we do?” she asked, looking from one of them to the other. Their presence was reassuring, their strength a comfort. They were both armed, too, which would be a help.
“We?” Derek asked.
“Nay, lass. You’ll be going home,” Hugh decided for her.
“No! I can’t. Lord Randall will know I had something to do with you going for him. Don’t you see? Home, by myself, anything could happen. He might truly send men to capture me this time. I don’t think my sword skills are up to the task, if Broc couldn’t defend himself against them.”
Derek surprised her by laughing. “You’re right at that. Even so, Margery would never forgive me if she knew I allowed you to be present for such an event. You’ll simply have to stay behind.”
“I won’t. And we don’t have any more time to discuss this. We need to get back to him, now.” Suddenly, another concern occurred to her. “But we can’t pass through the village. Everyone knows you’re supposed to be on your way to Silloth, and if they see you…”
“What other choice do we have?” Hugh asked. “Do you know of another way to reach the manor house?”
She opened her mouth, then paused. “I believe I know of another way to draw Lord Randall away from Broc.”
20
It was early morning, light flooding through the window in the barn wall. The pigs jostled for attention a few stalls over. Broc wondered if the men who cared for the beasts had been ordered to stay away.
Randall would either have to move him elsewhere or kill him soon. The poor pigs couldn’t go for days without food and drink. And from the stench of it, their stalls or pens or whatever it was they lived in needed mucking. Badly.
He wished he could breathe through his mouth. Perhaps being forced to sit in the midst of such stink was his true torture.
The manor came to life outside the barn, voices overlapping as men and women got to work. It wasn’t unlike the clamor of activity which always surrounded the Duncan manor house. He grown accustomed to it, if anything, the noise comforted him.
Except the voices weren’t pleasant. There was no laughter, no good-natured joking or taunting as everyone worked together.
Was life with the Duncans so special?
Or was life with Randall so bitter?
He could easily believe it was the latter. Randall likely treated those who worked the land and tended the animals and house little better than slaves. They were miserable, all of them.
As Beatrice would be.
He imagined her growing old before her time. Her smooth skin would become wrinkled, would lose its healthy color and turn sallow. The corners of her mouth would point down in a scowl and stay that way. Her rich, vibrant hair would go gray.
Her feisty nature would fade to nothing.
She’d be nothing but a shadow of who she had once been, and it wouldn’t take long for the change to occur.
There had to be a way for him to escape, to take her away. To spare her the pain.
What about his pain? His legs had cramped beyond the point of movement. If Randall’s men were to haul him to his feet, there would be no way for him to run. Even if they untied his ankles, he would be useless.
The same went for his arms. He’d never be able to fight off an attack when he could hardly feel anything from the shoulders down.
He was useless to himself, useless to her.
Those strident footsteps rang out again, and this time he was ready for them. Only Randall wasn’t alone, at least two men accompanied him. The men who had attacked him, most likely. After all, it wouldn’t do for everyone at the manor to know who was tied up and left helpless in the barn.
One of them, a squat little man with a crooked nose, was rough in pulling the gag from his mouth before shoving a cup of water at him. Broc did what he could to swallow some of it, but most ran down his chin and onto his bloodstained tunic.
“Let no one say I allow my prisoners to go without water.” Lord Randall waited by the window, his arms crossed as he watched Broc nearly choke.
They didn’t gag him again. A relief. He took deep gulps of air, relishing the freedom until his ribs ached in response.
The other man—tall, wiry, with a nasty sneer and only a handful of rotten teeth—dropped a crust of bread in his lap.
“How am I supposed to eat this when I can’t use my hands?” he asked, his voice little more than a croak.
“I suppose you’ll have to work it out for yourself,” Randall smiled. “Let it not be said I allowed you to go without food.”
“Why don’t ye get it over with, then? Are ye too much of a coward to do what we both know you’re simply longing to do?” he dared.
“Don’t think you can goad me into taking action before I’m ready,” Randall whispered, nostrils flaring as he did. “That would be an act of mercy, and there is no room for mercy here. I didn’t wish to extend it seven years ago, and I certainly have no wish to do so now. I’ve had too much time to imagine what I’d do to you if I had the chance.”
“Aye. And I’ve had seven years to reflect on how glad I was to beat that filthy excuse for a man to death. He deserved worse than he got, which you know is true. No matter how little you think of women, no one should do what he did and get away with it.”
“The men in the village certainly didn’t believe so,” Randall hissed. “They were preparing the rope for the noose which would’ve broken your neck, you murderous savage.”
“And you’ll finish the job for them. You’ve taken it upon yourself, rather than turning me over to those who’d see me hanged back then.”
Randall scoffed. “Those feeble-minded dolts? I’d be surprised if any one of them could remember what took place yesterday, much less a crime from seven years back. At any rate, this is about satisfaction. Personal satisfaction. I intend to experience quite a lot of it.”
“Don’t allow me to get in your way, then,” Broc muttered. “Do what you must. Perhaps I shall die of boredom while waiting for you to screw up the courage to kill me.”
Randall held up both hands when his men looked as though they’d advance on Broc, then crossed the stall and leaned down until they were face-to-face.
“Do you think I’ve never killed before?” he asked in a low whisper, eyes harder than ever. “Are you truly that naïve? Trust me, it isn’t a matter of courage, I’m under no illusions about my late nephew, and I know he was not a courageous man. And yet he killed that nameless wretch, did he not?”
Ah. So the lass had died after what Henry had done to her.
Randall didn’t know it, but he’d just given Broc a gift of sorts. The sense that the killing was warranted. The beast had murdered that poor, innocent girl who’d done nothing worse than sell herself. Like as not, she’d led a sad life.
But nothing she’d done, no sin she’d committed, meant she deserved to die so pitifully. So painfully.
Randall’s teeth shone even in the shadowy corner of the stall. “Perhaps I should thank you, in all honesty. You did what I couldn’t do myself. You did me a favor by killing Henry that night.”
And to think, he’d been certain Randall could do or say nothing to surprise him.
“Think about it,” he continued, with all the relish of a man finally able to bear his secrets to a confidant. “If my nephew had lived, he would have inherited the title. The land, the money, all that goes with the lordship. Once he was out of the way, it was just a matter of time before my brother died. If the rest of the world believes he died a brokenhearted man… so be it.”
“You killed him,” Broc whispered, disgusted.
“You helped,” Randall replied. “He did truly care about the lad, though I never understood why. The last thing he had to remember his dead wife, that type of thing. Yet another complication I’ve never understood, the attachment to women, but you and I have already had that discussion,” he added.
“Aye. We have.” The thought of Beatrice made him grind his teeth.
“So, I suppose I should thank you,” Randall concluded. “You made it possible for me to live the life I always knew I was entitled to.”
“Why all of this, then?” Broc asked. “Why this determination to destroy me, when I only made it possible for you to have what you wanted?”
