by Aileen Adams
“Thank you again,” Margery gasped as she stepped away from him, nearly vomiting at the thought of what may have splashed all over her if it weren’t for him.
He had a strong body, and extremely quick reflexes if he saw what was coming long before she did. He was a sailor, after all—from the commands she’d heard shouted above her head during her voyage, she knew they had to be quick on their feet and able to jump to action at a moment’s notice.
He shrugged, continuing on. “It’s nothing.”
They turned down a narrow street, lined with even more buildings. It seemed as though they were built on top of each other, crowding in until there was hardly space to breathe. Not that Margery wanted to breathe in the foul, stale odors which assaulted her from all directions.
Was this what life in a village meant? Stench and overcrowding? It was nothing like what she had imagined.
The thought was a sobering one, one which left her feeling strangely hollow inside. London was larger than a village, with far more people than the village of Kirkcaldy—if the merchants who traveled through Thrushwood were to be believed.
She’d taken their word thus far and allowed the fire they’d set in her imagination to bring her to what might have been a rather painful end—had it not been for her savior.
He ushered her into a tavern and bade her take a seat while he went about procuring food.
She’d never seen the inside of a tavern before, having only ever increased her speed while walking past before then. Taverns were not the sort of place in which a woman would be welcome—or, if they were welcome, it would be for the wrong reasons.
Margery wasn’t certain what she’d expected, but what she found was very nearly reassuring. The room was small but cozy, rather than cramped. A fire blazed in a deep hearth along one wall, adding to her comfort, and the men enjoying refreshment spoke amicably among themselves.
Perhaps this wouldn’t be so terrible, after all.
The man who’d rescued her stood head and shoulders above the others near him. He was quite large, too, though not as tall as the dark-haired, hazel-eyed man who’d rescued her.
She offered him a thin smile. “What is your name?” she asked, hoping to sound friendly.
“Broc.” That was it. He offered nothing more. One word.
She remained smiling. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you—this wasn’t my idea,” she added, laughing shakily.
He nodded, his light brown hair not touching his broad shoulders. “I know. It’s difficult to change my captain’s course once he gets an idea in his head.”
His captain. Did this mean Broc worked for him? He’d referenced owning a shipping company—he was probably quite wealthy, or at least well-off. His tunic appeared to be of good quality, and its deep green color told her he could afford dyed cloth.
She had always longed for a kirtle of that shade, knowing it would turn her hair to gold and make her blue eyes appear even bluer in comparison.
But that was vanity, and vanity was a sin.
Even so, hadn’t she committed a multitude of sins over the course of her journey? Breaking into a barn that wasn’t hers, taking shelter there without the knowledge of the owner. Stowing aboard a ship without paying for passage. Lying, lying, lying. She’d told so many lies.
“The owner will prepare food for you,” the dark-haired man assured her as he joined them at the short, small table. His presence crowded things a bit, and she took pains to distance herself from him.
Being too near him seemed a dangerous idea, though she couldn’t have explained why her instincts told her so. He wasn’t threatening, not like the sailors who had handled her so roughly. He’d been gentle, and seemed concerned for her well-being.
Even so, he overwhelmed her.
“Thank you very much,” she murmured. “I wish there was something I could do for you in return.”
He leaned in slightly, folding his arms on the surface of the table. There was no humor in his gaze—in fact, his intensity was almost frightening. “Are you truly set on traveling alone?” he asked.
“I am.”
“And what is the purpose of this travel? I mean, are you meeting someone?”
“I’m not. I’m going to find work and save money to send for my sister.”
He drew a sharp intake of breath, which he let out slowly. “Well, then. Your first lesson, though you haven’t requested it: do not ask a strange man if there is anything you can do to repay him for a kindness.”
“But—”
“I mean it,” he insisted, his tone flat. “Never, ever offer that. There are men of dubious character who would take such a statement as an invitation, or an offer.”
“An offer of what?”
He exchanged a look with Broc, who shrugged. “Are you serious?” he asked, grimacing.
“I am, sir.”
“Derek. Call me Derek.”
“Derek,” she echoed. “I am serious.”
“You don’t know anything about strangers? About the sort of people you might meet on your travels?”
“I know enough to avoid main roads whenever possible,” she allowed, feeling at once ashamed of her naïveté and curious as to what he might possibly mean. “I know it’s a good idea to avoid strangers, to keep to myself whenever possible.”
Her cheeks burned when she recognized the fact that she was breaking that rule by sitting with two strange men in a strange tavern.
Broc managed to maintain a straight face, though his eyes crinkled in the corners.
Derek merely shook his head.
“I’m happy to assist you in any way I can,” he insisted, “and I believe the most I can do—aside from ensuring you eat a decent meal—is to offer you advice. Whether you choose to accept it or not is your decision.”
She thought this over, then nodded. “All right. Please, I’m eager to hear what you have to say.”
“Remember the first lesson. Never offer repayment to a stranger without naming strict terms. A piece of silver, whatever it happens to be.”
“Understood,” she said, nodding again—though she still wasn’t entirely sure what he was alluding to. Did he really mean to insinuate that she might come into contact with a man looking to ravish her?
“Second,” he continued, never looking away, “you must find proper lodging. Do you have any money?”
“Some. I don’t know how much it costs to lodge for the night,” she admitted.
“Of course, you don’t. It would change from place to place, anyway,” he grumbled. “And any innkeeper would be sure to charge you double, since you’re so clearly inexperienced with travel.”
She drew herself up, her chest puffing out. “I found my way from my village to the harbor in Silloth on my own. With only my wits and the stars to guide me. I lived through that relatively unscathed.”
He grinned, admiration clearly present. “Where did you sleep?”
“In barns, mostly.”
“Smart.” He leaned away when a young woman delivered a platter of roast meat, cheese, bread, and ale.
Her mouth watered at the scent of the meat—the first good aroma she’d enjoyed all day.
No, that wasn’t true. Derek had smelled good when he held her close to him, preventing her from fainting on the ground. Leather and perspiration and fresh air. Not unpleasant, not at all.
He nodded when her eyes met his, as though she were asking permission to eat and he granted it. She dove in without hesitation then, tearing at the meat with her teeth, biting into bread and cheese and nearly closing her eyes from the pleasure of it all.
“How long did it take you to get to the harbor?”
She counted on her now greasy fingers. “A week.”
“An entire week?”
“As I said,” she explained, washing down a mouthful of food with a gulp of ale, “I avoided main roads and picked my way through field and forest, instead.”
“You encountered no wild animals?�
��
“No.”
The two of them looked at her as though she were mad. “You didn’t? Not a single one?” Broc asked in his deep, rumbling voice.
“Not one.” She shrugged. “Perhaps I was fortunate.”
“More than fortunate.” Derek chuckled, leaning back in his chair, long hair touching his shoulders.
The light from the glowing fire played over his face, alternately brightening and then casting him in shadow.
She wasn’t surprised at her luck. She had divine guidance. She was certain of it.
“Don’t count on that good fortune to hold out,” he warned. “That’s your third lesson. Counting on good fortune because good fortune has visited you previously is a sure way to make a mistake and leave yourself vulnerable. Always be aware of your surroundings.”
She swallowed a bite of cheese, nodding. “I see. Thank you.”
“Why are you determined to go to London?” he asked.
“Because there is so much life there,” she clarified. That was the simplest way she could explain herself.
The two of them blinked without speaking, as though they waited for her to continue.
When she didn’t, Broc asked, “Is that all? Your entire reason for making such a long journey?”
“Yes. My sister and I wish to live in London.”
“Why?” Derek asked.
“Why not? Why do we have to have a reason? I’m sure it wouldn’t suit you, judging by the way you’re looking at me.”
He scowled. “It’s only that London is hardly the sort of place for a lass like you.”
“A lass like me?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Aye. You know so little of the world.”
“Which is why I wish to live in a city such as London,” she replied, speaking slowly and measuredly, trying to hold on to her temper. It wouldn’t do to anger him when he’d been so generous.
“Do you know how quickly disease spreads there? How filthy it is? I saw how your nose wrinkled when you noted the slop in the streets, how close you came to having a bucket emptied on you. Filth flows through the streets, into the Thames. Fires regularly break out and spread quickly, thanks to the way homes are crowded nearly one on top of the other. You’re not equipped for life in a city ten, twenty, thirty times the size of this village.”
Was he correct about this? For the first time, she began to truly question whether her journey was rooted in folly. Perhaps she wouldn’t be able to handle herself in a city such as the one he described. Perhaps she didn’t want to live in such a place.
“What do you think I should do, then? I’ve already come all this way.”
“You don’t want to know what I think,” he muttered darkly.
“No. Please. Tell me. What do you think? You’ve already shared so many opinions.” There was an edge to her voice, one which she didn’t take pains to disguise.
And he heard it, and his eyes twinkled in response. “I think you should book passage back to Silloth, and find your way back home.”
“That, I will not do.” She looked about her, at the tavern with its patrons, so quick to laugh and raise their mugs to one another.
She reflected on what she’d seen up to that point—shops, men and women selling both goods and services. There were many children, or so it seemed. She might be able to teach them, her sister having already taught her so much.
There were always choices. Beatrice had taught her that, too.
“What, then?” Derek asked, sounding dubious.
“I will stay here. In Kirkcaldy. I will find a position and a place in which to live. And I will send for my sister once I’ve saved enough to do so.”
6
That decided him. She was touched in the head. There was no other excuse. How in the world did she think she could possibly protect herself, even in a village of this size?
She clearly knew nothing of the world. She knew nothing of the damage men could do. She couldn’t possibly know how to identify a thief or other sort of criminal on sight. She certainly couldn’t handle herself when in the middle of leering, grabbing, lusting men. He had seen that much for himself.
He’d once known a boy who was touched in such a way. Young Isaac, whose father’s farm was the closest to theirs, sitting at the northern edge of Duncan lands. He had always been a rather shy, timid sort, always more comfortable indoors with his mother and sisters. He hadn’t been the sort of rough-and-tumble lad the McInnis brothers were.
Still, he’d been a good lad. Until the day he stood too close to the mule, without thinking. He never was one for using common sense, his thoughts normally in the clouds. The mule had spooked, kicking out behind himself, clipping Isaac’s head.
After that, things simply weren’t the same. He’d recovered after half a year. Derek could remember the way the lad’s poor parents had rejoiced, certain that this was a sign from heaven. God had brought their son back to them.
Only he wasn’t their son. The difference had been plain from the start. Where he’d been slight, timid, nearly afraid of his own shadow, he was suddenly more boisterous than either of the McInnis brothers. Always looking for an adventure, always raring for a fight.
At first, the brothers had enjoyed their new companion. Until they became frightened of him. He was so… intense.
And then came the day they’d rounded the sheep pen and found him torturing one of the lambs, holding it up by its hind legs and swinging it around his head until the limbs had snapped. Derek would never forget that sound. Hugh had turned and retched quietly, while Derek stood and gaped at the horror in front of him. The lamb’s blood, flowing freely on the well-trodden earth while the sheep bleated and screamed.
Isaac’s father hadn’t wanted to believe it. Not his boy, his good boy, the one he’d often had to force out of doors in order to get some fresh air and avoid becoming too much like a woman. He’d rebuffed the brothers’ claims and insisted they were making it up. They were always troublesome, always looking for a fight.
Two nights later, the home and all its contents—including the family—were lost to fire.
Nobody ever knew for sure how it had started. There was never any proof. Even Isaac had died, which Hugh and Derek’s mother had insisted meant he had nothing to do with the setting of the blaze. If he had, she’d reasoned, he would’ve escaped.
Derek was never so certain. He’d seen the empty look in his friend’s eyes after mercilessly torturing the poor lamb. As though there was nothing there.
He shook himself away from this turn of thought, wondering where the memory had come from. He hadn’t thought of Isaac or his family in years. This girl was nothing like him. There was life in her eyes, determination. The only person she was a danger to was herself.
Somehow, this thought didn’t make him feel better.
“What do you plan to do to earn a living?” he asked, leaning forward, searching her face.
It was a lovely face, to be sure, delicate and smooth and clear. A face that had never known hardship. Bright eyes, behind which was intelligence but little common sense.
She frowned, her smooth forehead creasing. “I’m not entirely certain of that yet.”
He refrained from rolling his eyes. “What can you do? Do you have any skills?”
“I’ve run my household for ten years. More than that, in fact.”
“No parents?” Broc asked.
It was rare for him to speak in such a situation, especially since his question was rather insensitive. Derek had the impression his friend had grown tired of her, and possibly of him.
He wanted to bring an end to the whole affair and get back to the reason why they’d come to the village. It had already taken longer to reach their destination than originally intended, and it had been a far less comfortable journey than he was accustomed to. His patience was as thin as a pane of glass.
Margery winced, but took the question in stride. “My father passed away when I was very young. My mother was sick for many y
ears, and passed away over the winter.”
For the first time in their long acquaintance, Derek saw Broc’s face darken in what could only be labeled as a blush.
“I beg your pardon,” he mumbled.
She shrugged it off. “I’m skilled at caring for the infirm, cooking, baking, washing, tending garden, sewing and mending. And many other things I’m sure I’ll remember if necessary.”
“How do you plan to use any of those skills to earn a living?”
She waved her hands, becoming flustered and more than a bit frustrated. “Aren’t there inns? Seamstresses? Healers? I would do anything.”
“What did I tell you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Careful the words you use. You would not do just anything. Never offer anything without being specific.”
An exasperated sigh exploded from her. “Are people really as evil as you make them out to be?”
“Not evil. Not truly. But… more than willing to take advantage. Not everyone. But most people. It’s clear you haven’t had much experience with the world, or you would understand this already.”
He couldn’t say what was in his heart—he didn’t truly understand what it was, either. Why should he care the way he did? She was none of his concern. A stranger, a girl obviously determined to allow life to beat her down.
And that was what weighed heaviest on him, the fact that she would lose the refreshing innocence about her, the frank, clear-eyed, level gaze that seemed to penetrate his thoughts. She would grow older in an instant. Perhaps even bitter. He hated the thought of it.
“I do not think this is a wise undertaking,” he said again, as though she had forgotten. As though she cared.
“It is a blessing, then, that you have no concern in the matter.” She wiped her fingers on the hem of her tunic before standing. “I thank you most humbly for your assistance. Truly, you’ve saved my life today, a fact that is not lost on me. I shall include you in my prayers.”
“I can’t say anyone has ever offered to pray for me before.” He chuckled, glancing at Broc.
