by Aileen Adams
It was only one night. She would be fine for one night. Wouldn’t she?
Once she was alone again, truly alone, she went to the door. Sure enough, the latch was useless. Had the man who’d threatened the girl broken it? Or was it always broken? No matter. What mattered was finding a way to make things right.
She turned in a slow circle, as though a solution would suddenly present itself. Oh, what would Derek say if he knew she’d rushed headlong into this predicament without inquiring about the conditions?
Why did she keep thinking about him?
There had to be something which would make her feel safer. There was a metal handle attached to the inside of the door, a ring which was still intact. The hooks for her clothing were mounted on the wall to the right of the door. She pulled her few belongings from her pack—underclothes, a kirtle, another pair of stockings, shoes which Beatrice had insisted she take along, being in better condition than her own.
Touching the shoes brought tears to Margery’s eyes. What would her sister think if she knew what the journey had come to?
There’s no time for this, Beatrice’s voice reminded her in its typical no-nonsense manner. You need to find a way to secure yourself, or there will be no hope of getting sleep tonight.
This was a truth Margery acknowledged rather grimly. She wouldn’t sleep a wink until she was certain she would go the night unmolested. But how?
Derek’s face flashed in the forefront of her mind. Oh, if she only had him to keep her safe…
Silliness! Beatrice admonished her.
Margery could almost see her—hands on her hips, red hair billowing around her head like a sail in the wind, her creamy skin turning red as her ire grew.
You took care of yourself before meeting him, did you not? You survived the trip to Silloth using nothing but your wits. You can do this, too.
She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Yes, she had taken care of herself, and she had survived. She’d even found a way onto the ship and had hidden herself successfully until they’d docked in Kirkcaldy.
With a shrewd eye, she surveyed the door once again. So long as there was something barring it from opening fully on first being pushed, she could rouse herself in time to take hold of her broom and scream at the top of her lungs, if necessary. Oh, would that she had possession of a dirk, something more dangerous than a gnarled old broom handle. But it would have to do.
The stockings…
She was quick to peel off the pair she was wearing—soiled after many days of travel, she wouldn’t have worn them again until they’d been washed—and tied them to the door’s handle. Then, she tied the other end to one of the hooks on the wall, leaving no slack whatsoever. The cloth was taut, leaving no room to swing the door open unless force was used. She would have time to go on the defensive, if the situation called for such action.
It would have to be enough, just as washing up using the pitcher and basin would have to be enough. Oh, for a washtub, someplace she could wash her hair and truly scrub the dirt from her skin. It would feel as though she were washing the entirety of her past away, and that wasn’t entirely an unwelcome notion.
To start fresh. Clean. Putting all the crushing disappointment behind her.
That was life, or so she’d been taught. The idea that penance and self-sacrifice were the true way had been driven into her since the day she was born. As much a part of her as the color of her eyes or her somewhat crooked smile.
She reflected on those early lessons as she unwound her braid, running her fingers through her hair to loosen any dirt which had settled inside. What would it have been like to grow up in a village such as Kirkcaldy, where there might be friends and laughter and perhaps even a suitor or two?
Naturally, there would’ve been hard work. Nobody in the village was exactly well-to-do—quite the opposite, in most cases she’d seen over the course of the day. But life had been difficult on the farm, too, and without anyone’s help but her sister’s, and the occasional offer of assistance from the miller. He had his own work, of course, and was of advanced age. They couldn’t accept it.
So, the farm had shrunk considerably from what it once was, back before Papa had passed away. All the animals had to be sold until all that was left was a cow, two pigs, and a handful of chickens. Enough to get them through. There was simply never enough help, and never enough money to hire it.
So much disappointment. Seemingly endless years spent watching out the window of her mother’s sickroom. Watching for what? She couldn’t have said then and still didn’t know. For something. Anything.
Life.
She had always been certain of there being more out there, somewhere. A place where she wouldn’t have to feel so lonely, as though everything of value had passed her by. Somewhere she could shed the years of playing healer to a woman who would never heal. Where she could be young, as she’d never had the chance to be.
A laugh bubbled up in her throat which she quickly squelched.
What were the chances of her being young and carefree in a room such as the one she was about to bed down in? Very slim, indeed. Perhaps nonexistent.
She fell asleep the moment her head hit the flat, lumpy pillow, the smell of stale ale and meat roasted long ago already less prominent than it had been on first arriving in her new home.
11
If only there was a way to check on her.
Derek rolled to his side with a growl in the back of his throat. If he managed to get a single moment’s sleep, it would be a miracle.
At least she was safe for the night, or so he tried to tell himself. She wasn’t out in the elements, getting rained on, curled up in a ball as a way of protecting herself. Perhaps in a doorway or beneath an overhang.
No. She was only sleeping in the back room of a tavern. Quite a step up.
He squeezed his eyes tightly closed, willing thoughts of her out of his brain. He needed to sleep if he were to have his wits about him when he visited the village shipping business in the morning. He’d already wasted nearly an entire day.
A fact Broc wouldn’t allow him to live down.
Upon his return to their shared room, his first mate had fixed him with a keen eye and his usual sharp observation.
“What went wrong this time?” he’d asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.
“What makes you think anything went wrong?” Derek had replied, a grateful groan escaping his lips as he sat on the edge of the bed.
It was nothing compared to the luxurious accommodations back at the Duncan manor house, but it would beat sleeping on the muddy ground any day of the week.
“You have those lines between your eyes.” Broc had gestured to the space between his eyebrows, above the bridge of his nose. “I know that look. I’ve seen it too many times. When a merchant was trying to swindle ye, or a storm was brewing on the horizon.”
“Perhaps it’s been a long day, and I’m merely tired.”
“I’ve seen tired. You’ve been tired since not long after we started out from the manor house—I know, because I’ve felt the same way. We spent far too long growing soft in front of a winter fire.”
Derek had chuckled at the truth in this. “Aye. There’s nothing so dangerous as a comfortable fire for men such as we. Especially when it’s a five-month-long fire.”
The truth was, spending nearly half a year without strenuous activity had made him easily fatigued compared to how he normally behaved—vital, energetic, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice. He wasn’t nearly as trim as he’d been the night Hugh and his bride had ridden into town, either.
Broc hadn’t ceased pressing the matter. “No, this is more than fatigue. What happened out there? Did you find her?”
“Did I say I was looking for her?”
“You never had to say it, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t know all along. I’m hardly feeble-minded.”
“Then perhaps you should know better than to press me when I’m in a mood such as the one you claim I’m
in,” he’d snapped, rising to go to the basin to wash his face and hands.
A good, long swim would’ve done a much better job of cleansing him—he knew better than to dream of a washtub by the fire, as he’d grown accustomed to back at Phillip’s—but there was nothing to do but make the best of what was available.
Broc had held his tongue while his captain had washed, staring out the open window at the rain-drenched night. It was better than snow, at any rate, and left the air smelling fresh.
“Will you go with me in the morning?” Derek had asked, drying his face on a strip of linen hanging by the basin for just such purpose.
“Aye, of course. I wouldn’t allow you to go alone. Why do you think I’m with ye?”
“I thought it was for the pleasure of my company.”
Broc had chortled. “I wouldn’t use those exact words, begging your pardon.”
The two of them had fallen into a companionable silence as they’d stretched out on their respective beds. They were lumpy, stuffed with straw which had flattened in some places, but not entirely uncomfortable. A small fire had burned, warming the room and casting dancing shadows on the wall opposite the fireplace.
Even with the peace which hung over the room, Derek had known Broc was merely waiting for him to confess the truth of his evening walk. And the truth was, in spite of his reluctance to share his thoughts, he’d needed to get them out of his head.
So he’d told Broc of following her, of watching her spirits fall a bit at a time as she’d made her way through the village. Of bribing the woman in order to secure a position for her, and of losing the sixpence for no good reason.
To his credit, Broc had remained silent throughout the tale—even when Derek had confessed to squandering the money, money they might have need of before their journey came to a close.
The room had fallen silent again, only the crackling of the logs in the fireplace and the soft, steady rain outside the window providing sound. That, and their breathing.
Derek had been certain his companion was asleep, which made the sound of his voice a surprise.
“I have to give the lass credit for being hardheaded,” Broc had grumbled, almost grudgingly.
He’d never had much time for women aside from the ways in which a man normally appreciated women, so Derek knew this was high praise.
“Yes, but her hardheadedness is going to get her killed.”
“It hasn’t yet. She made her way to Kirkcaldy.”
“Purely by accident. And it was a purely lucky accident which led her our way. I don’t think I have to tell you what would’ve taken place had I not stepped in prior to those sailors doing what they intended to do.”
Broc had let out an almost animal snarl—they were of the same mind when it came to such behavior, which was one of the many reasons Derek trusted him so implicitly. “Aye. She wouldn’t have been long for this world.”
“She would’ve been fortunate if it had ended early for her,” Derek had agreed, his stomach twisting at the mere idea of her being so ill-used. “You see what I mean, then.”
“I do. But I also see that she’s not your responsibility. Which you don’t seem to see.”
That had been the end of the discussion, as Derek had felt the beginnings of an argument he was not of a mind to begin—nor had he the energy. He’d allowed Broc’s flat, matter-of-fact observation to be the final word for the time being, which was wildly against his nature. Not many men ever got the last word when Derek was involved.
This was different. She was different.
And Broc was right.
Derek rolled to his other side, groaning inwardly as he reflected on how much of the night had passed without sleeping so much as a minute. He faced the wall, where the shadows were much fainter than they’d been when Broc’s breathing had turned to snores. The fire was all but dead, just another piece of proof that the night was slipping by.
Margery wasn’t his responsibility.
Why, then, was it impossible for him to forget about her?
Why did the image of her lying there in his bed, tucked up against his body, fill him with something deeper and more primal than lust? To be sure, the beginnings of desire unfurled in his core, causing his manhood to stir, but there was more to it than that.
When he closed his eyes and imagined hard enough, imagined her being there in his arms with her small, warm, soft body tucked firmly against his, a sense of peace came over him. Calm. Certainty.
It was enough to help him finally sleep.
12
“MacBride’s Shipping.” Broc read the sign on the warehouse swinging in the gentle breeze coming up from the Firth of Forth.
Above the name was a carved wooden ship, to alert those without the ability to read of the business transacted inside.
“If he’s the sort of man we’ve heard he is, it’ll be best to take our time with him,” Derek muttered, turning his face away from the warehouse as he spoke.
It wouldn’t do for someone inside to know of his intentions before he stepped foot inside.
“Aye,” Broc agreed, looking at his feet as he spoke. “A hard-bitten man.”
“A shrewd businessman,” Derek replied, remembering the stories he’d heard over the morning meal of hard bread, thin soup, and ale.
A strange way to break the fast, but welcome nonetheless. The soup, thin as it was, had warmed his blood nearly as well as the ale had. Good thing, because the morning was far more chill than any since they’d left the manor house.
He wasn’t certain of what he foresaw for the purpose of this meeting. He’d originally considered meeting the owner of the business, explaining his difficulties, and finding out if there was business enough for the two of them in Kirkcaldy. It seemed to be a thriving harbor, with three new docks in the process of being built to accommodate growing demand.
On reflection, however, he began to wonder if he wanted to start over at all.
“You would consider selling the ships to this man?” Broc asked, likely for the tenth time since Derek had broached the idea over breakfast.
“I wouldn’t do anything without getting a strong feel for the man’s character,” Derek assured him again, almost trying to soothe his friend.
He understood the severity of the situation from Broc’s point of view: his livelihood depended upon Derek’s decision. But he would never sell the ships to this MacBride without a firm promise that Broc would be in charge of the ships upon their sale. It was only fair.
“You never mentioned this before,” Broc argued, crossing his arms over his formidable chest. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this idea?”
“Because, in all honesty, I hadn’t considered it before.”
“What’s changed?” he challenged, eyes narrowing.
Derek couldn’t say. Something had changed, something in his heart, over the course of the winter spent with the Duncans. He’d forgotten what it was like to have a home, a real home, and a family. He’d never had either of those things as a man—first the army, then his shipping concerns. That was all for him. And it had been enough before the winter had come so early and so severely, crippling travel and forcing all of them to spend months in each other’s company.
While it had driven him to distraction at first, the inability to come and go as he’d become accustomed to doing, he’d warmed to the idea in nearly no time at all. After a while, it had become a comfort he’d realized was sorely missing from his life. The comfort of a home and a hearth.
And a wife.
None of which he could enjoy in his old profession.
Until their arrival in Kirkcaldy, the notion of selling the ships and making a new life with use of the profits hadn’t been more than the wisp of an idea in the back of his mind. At some point in the last day, that idea had solidified until it looked more attractive with each passing hour. Almost intoxicating.
Walking through the door at the end of a long day, greeted by the welcome sight of a lovely smile. A plump,
attractive rear to admire as his wife bent over the fire to stir the stew she’d put on for the evening meal, the fire making her golden hair gleam…
He shook himself, clearing his throat, realizing too late exactly what had changed. What had made the notion of settling down crystalize in his mind.
Damn her, the wicked temptress, changing his heart the way she already had.
He couldn’t tell Broc about this, knowing what his friend would think.
He wasn’t certain he had to, at any rate. The look on the man’s face told him everything there was to know. He knew Margery had something to do with Derek’s change of heart but was merely biding his time before speaking of it.
The docks were hardly the place for such conversation, at any rate, bustling with activity as they were. There was no hope of standing still, the need to step out of the way as men carried crates and casks from a ship which had just docked that morning making the two of them hop from side to side as though they were dancing.
He did love it so, that rush of activity. It made his blood course a little faster, a little hotter than before. It made his brain fairly buzz. The excitement of a new arrival, the business of taking stock of the shipment to be certain everything promised had come in. The sense of pride and accomplishment, the swelling of his chest when one of his beautiful ships made it back in one piece.
Hell, the last time he’d felt anything akin to excitement was when they’d outrun Dalla’s uncle, when he’d been forced to dive into the sea to rescue her from drowning. That was the last time he’d felt truly vital and alive, at one with the forces of nature—forces which he’d been able to bend to his will, laughing at the storm and the churning sea.
He did miss it so.
Uncertainty made him nearly ill.
“Perhaps this isn’t the best time,” he reasoned, taking into account the ship’s arrival.
“It can’t hurt to introduce yourself,” Broc reminded him.
“True.”
