by Aileen Adams
And he did. “Come in! Come in! You’re a tough fellow to locate!” He was wearing a cleaner tunic and a wide smile as he waved his arms, motioning for Derek to join him.
“I apologize for having inconvenienced you,” Derek replied, taking his time in crossing the warehouse floor.
It wouldn’t do to appear eager in any way—not that he was especially eager to have another meeting with this rather offensive man.
MacBride rubbed his hands together, reminding Derek for all the world of a greedy little boy in front of a holiday feast. His eyes nearly shone as he pulled up a second stool for Derek to sit upon.
“I don’t think the two of us got off to the right start,” MacBride announced, pulling a corked bottle out from seemingly nowhere. Had it been beneath his tunic? He pulled the cork, taking a long swig before offering it to Derek.
“No, thank you,” he replied with a smile, hoping to appear gracious but unwilling to take his chances on whatever might be in that bottle. “It’s a bit early in the day for me.”
“Early in the day for men such as us?” MacBride’s laughter was loud, raucous. “Come, come, no need to put on airs with me, lad. We seamen have a code of our own.”
Seamen. Derek wondered if the man had ever been to sea. It was one thing to own a business such as his, but another to take the wheel and lead the ship to its destination.
“Just the same, I’d rather not. But please, enjoy yourself.”
Some of the light left the man’s eyes, and his attitude shifted as quickly as ever.
Derek felt something ending, as if the chance to have the upper hand in the conversation had slipped through his fingers. If getting drunk early in the morning was what it took to gain MacBride’s respect, it wasn’t respect Derek wished to earn.
Might as well get to it, then. “What is it you wished to see me about?” he asked.
“I wanted to know whether you’d given any thought as to your course of action,” MacBride replied, clearly disappointed to be drinking alone. He corked the bottle again and slid it into a pocket of his tunic. So that was where it had come from. Another piece of the man’s character revealed itself, and Derek was hardly surprised.
“I’ve thought about it, but I’m still uncertain.” He sighed, looking around the room before turning his gaze out toward the water. “I would miss it, to be sure. Being out here, I mean.”
“Aye. It’s a lot for a man such as us to live his life away from the sea once it’s in his blood.”
Again, a man such as “us.” He truly considered the two of them to be of like mind.
Derek knew this was a ploy to earn his trust, to break down any barriers which stood in the way of them making a deal. Did MacBride think so little of his intelligence?
Derek turned to him. “I assume you’ve done your fair share of asking around after me, my business, my ships.”
“Aye. And I must say, I was impressed. You built yourself a modest business, but it was a good one—with plenty of room to grow.”
He spoke in past tense, as though he assumed Derek would sell. Or as if he were trying to push matters along.
“Thank you” was all Derek replied, choosing to overlook MacBride’s choice of words. This was what he liked best, to be sure, outwitting his opponent. It wasn’t like being on the battlefield, using swords and shields to achieve victory. There was another level of skill involved when one was fighting with their mind.
MacBride paused, as if waiting for Derek to elaborate—when nothing more was said, he slid a small bit of linen across his desk, on which was written a figure. “This is what I’m willing to offer for all three ships and access to the accounts which they served.”
He’d been expecting a low number to start out, but nothing as flagrantly insulting as the one before him.
“This doesn’t cover what I paid for two of the three ships when I purchased them.” Derek chuckled as he shook his head, sliding the figure back to MacBride. “I cannot accept this. You will have to do better.”
MacBride’s eyes narrowed, becoming dangerous slits in his puffy face. “Who do you think yer dealing with here, lad?” Gone was all pretense of friendship.
“I think I’m dealing with a businessman who knows the value of what I have to offer,” he replied, rising. “And if there’s no further negotiation to be made, I will have to bid you a good day and be on my way.”
The fact that he wouldn’t even consider negotiating told Derek all he needed to know. The man was a bully who thought he could take what he wanted and offer next to nothing in return. Like as not, he treated his men like slaves to be worked near to death.
He’d never do that to Broc, but wouldn’t sign over his ships without knowing they’d be cared for in his absence. Broc was the only man he’d trust with such a task.
No matter how he looked at the situation, it was clear, MacBride was not the man to do business with.
MacBride did not share his opinion.
When Derek turned to the door, intent on leaving the warehouse behind, he found two sailors barring the way. One of them sneered, revealing the space in his mouth where teeth should’ve been.
“You don’t get to walk away that easily, my lad.” MacBride’s voice was close, just behind him. “You can’t walk in here with a ripe little business like yours and hint around that you’re looking to sell, then turn your back on me this way.”
“It’s still up to me, whether or not I sell to you or anybody else.” Derek held his chin high, sizing up his opponents as he spoke. If only he had brought a dirk or something similar to defend himself with—not that he didn’t believe his fists were enough, but he wasn’t keen on being outnumbered.
MacBride wouldn’t fight. He would leave the fighting to his men, but they looked tough enough.
He’d seen tougher on the battlefield.
“You think you’re smart, do ye?” MacBride’s breath was hot on the back of his neck, but Derek didn’t dare turn away from the pair in the doorway. “You’ll find I’m smarter, lad.”
“Perhaps you are—but the business is still mine,” Derek snarled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other things to attend to.”
“You had better attend to getting out of the village, if you know what’s good for you.”
Even so, the men at the door stepped aside, probably at some signal from their employer.
As he walked out, Derek called over his shoulder, “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t need to find out what happens to anyone who threatens a McInnis.”
What did he think he was playing at, this MacBride? How many had he threatened in the past? Was this how he managed to maintain the only shipping business in a growing village, by threatening anyone who dared stand in his way?
Stepping into the sunlight was truly what Derek imagined stepping into another world would be like.
Leaving behind the dank, stench-ridden, rodent-filled warehouse was a joy, and he filled his lungs with as much fresh air coming from the Firth of Forth as he could in an attempt to clear away the memory of that terrible place.
He would never go back there again, and would certainly never bend to a bully such as MacBride.
If only he had never become involved with him at all.
18
“Here you are, lassie. As promised.”
Margery tried not to appear too eager as she held out her hands to accept the payment Hamish owed her.
She’d waited all day, wondering when he would finally get around to fulfilling his end of their arrangement.
The first wages she had ever earned. Oh, would that she could share her happiness with Beatrice.
Or Derek. But he was in the past. More than likely long gone by now, and already having forgotten about her.
She wished she could forget him.
Hamish wore a look of expectation, waiting for her to react. She forced herself to smile in spite of the way her heart suddenly ached. Curses on Derek for spoiling this moment for her.
&nb
sp; “Thank you very much,” she murmured, weighing the coins in her palm.
“Don’t spend it all in one place.” He chuckled, almost fatherly.
How he could sound so threatening at times when at other times he could be so kind, she had no idea.
“Oh, I won’t,” she promised, shaking her head. “I have plans, you know.”
“I’m sure you do—and you’re not a silly lass, either,” he acknowledged, scratching his balding head as he summed her up. “Anyone with eyes can see that.”
“Thank you.” She smiled.
“But take care,” he warned, serious again. “Be certain you keep your money in a safe place. There are plenty of cruel, thieving folks who’d be more than happy to relieve you of it.”
“I will,” she promised, suddenly struck with the realization that she had no such safe place.
She went straight to the room which had been hers for the last seven days and looked around, chewing her lip. There had to be somewhere to hide it. Tied in a handkerchief, perhaps, on her at all times.
What would happen if someone became wise to this and decided to attack her and steal it? Within another fortnight or two, it would become too much for her to feel comfortable carrying. She wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it, would constantly be checking to make certain she hadn’t lost it.
Her eyes fell on the straw-filled pallet, and an idea took root in her head. There was bound to be a slight tear somewhere, or a fray she could work with her fingertip until it was large enough for her to work the coins into it. Until another option came along, it was the only chance she had to keep her precious wages hidden.
She examined the bed until she found just such an opening, likely chewed by a rodent who had once called the tiny room home, and slid the coins inside with shaking fingers. She’d never had money of her own before. She hadn’t guessed it would feel like such a heavy responsibility.
The sound of male voices rang out as the tavern began to fill. She was loath to leave her wages there, even hidden as they were. Was this the reason money was considered a curse? Why a rich man could never enter the kingdom of Heaven?
That was what she’d always heard, from the time she was old enough to attend services. The deacon was quick to remind the poor villagers that it was better for their souls that they remain poor, always, as money caused men to do wicked deeds and lose sight of the true aim of their lives.
She could see that as she went out to greet the men who had just entered the tavern, already laughing and sharing the stories of their day as they waited for ale to warm and cheer them further.
She’d wondered many times already how these men lived. Did they not have wives and children? Homes of their own? Why would they choose to avoid going home and enjoying the evening meal with their loved ones?
Not everybody had loved ones, she reminded herself as she went from table to table. It was easier for her to become lost in her thoughts, the work no longer as taxing as it had been only a week earlier. She could imagine what life was like for the men she served.
Perhaps they were all alone, never having married.
Or they were married but didn’t get along with their wives. This was true of several men who could be counted upon to complain loudly of the shrewish women waiting for them at home, who were overeager to collect the week’s wages and leave nothing for their hard-working man to enjoy.
Of course, Margery wondered about this. If she had a husband who spent his wages in the village tavern rather than bringing them home for the good of the household, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t behave exactly as the wives did.
Not that she would ever know how they felt.
Her chest ached, but she did her best to swallow back the pain she felt whenever thoughts of Derek haunted her. Why had she been so rude? Why hadn’t she explained just what his kindness meant to her? Even if she couldn’t have spoken the words—and she was never able to find the words to express herself—she could’ve shown him. Somehow.
She could’ve found some way to explain how her heart raced whenever he was near. How her skin tingled when he touched her, even in the most innocent way.
It couldn’t be right to feel the way he made her feel—perhaps it was for the best that he’d mostly likely returned home.
But how else did people find each other and marry if they didn’t feel the way she did whenever Derek was anywhere near? How did they develop feelings of love for one another without that first… something? It couldn’t be sinful if it came from her heart, which she was beginning to believe it did.
Not that it mattered. She would get over him in time. She had no other choice but to adjust to life on her own, as she was already beginning to do.
He had taught her what she needed to know, and that would have to be enough.
Margery rolled her head on her shoulders, every part of her aching the way it normally did after a long day of carrying jugs and platters of food, but it was a good ache. The sort of ache a person almost enjoyed when they knew they’d done a good job.
And that there was a reward waiting for her, where she had hidden it.
Hamish was just going about the business of covering the cooking fires with ash to put them out for the night when Margery walked past the kitchen with the intention of going to her room.
“Good night,” she said, barely stifling a yawn.
“Good night to ye, lass.”
He was a pleasant man when he wanted to be, especially after a day in which she’d managed not to drop or break anything. As she walked away, she heard him begin to hum a happy little tune.
Life was certainly not the way she’d imagined, but it was becoming more bearable by the day.
She was smiling to herself when she entered her room, not noticing until it was too late that the latch gave way far too easily. As though it had been broken.
There was no time to gasp or make any sort of sound at all before a hand clamped over her mouth from behind and an iron arm closed around her, slamming her into an unyielding body which stank indescribably.
Her eyes found the bed, which naturally had been overturned and nearly torn apart. Her wages would be gone, somewhere on the person who held her tight.
“If ye don’t scream, this will go much better for ye,” he promised, his rasping whisper like a dagger in her ear when she understood what he intended to do.
No, no, no!
She slammed her heel down on what she hoped was the top of his foot, but he pulled it away just in time to avoid the worst of her blow.
His hand tightened painfully, squeezing her cheeks and crushing her lips until she was sure they would bleed.
“Now, now,” he hissed, turning and slamming her into the wall with his arms still around her.
The force of the impact knocked the air from her lungs.
She struggled to remember what Derek had taught her, what she had done before when she’d been cornered. But her arms were pinned to her sides, and no amount of fighting could dislodge them. He hadn’t told her what to do when that happened!
The man wedged his leg between hers, forcing her thighs apart. She screamed behind his hand but knew Hamish would never hear, having probably gone up to his living quarters.
He had to let go of her at some point, didn’t he? She would never stop fighting, not ever!
He moved his hand just a bit, giving her more room to breathe, and she managed to open her mouth and bite down hard on the side of his hand.
He drew in his breath in a hiss. “You wicked…!”
He threw her to what was left of the bed, finally giving her the chance to scream, but the air left her lungs again on impact. She struggled to draw in a breath to shout for help, but he fell on top of her before she could.
“You bloody bastard!” In a flash, the man was off of her and against the opposite wall, being pummeled by a pair of large, meaty fists attached to a screaming, raging man who grunted viciously with every blow.
She sat up slowly, unable to unde
rstand what had happened until her attacker sank to the floor and her savior turned, flying to her side with a stricken expression.
Her hair was loose and tangled about her face—when she brushed it aside with one shaking hand, she let out a whimper of disbelief.
“Derek?”
“Och, Margery.” He brushed back what was left of the hair covering her eyes and took her face in his hands. “Margery, lass, I’m here.”
He was there. Thank heavens, he was there.
She burst into exhausted, heartbroken tears.
19
“What’re you thinking, leaving her alone as you did?” he demanded, stopping just short of strangling the fool who owned the tavern.
Hamish, Margery had called him when he’d entered her pathetic excuse for a room at the back of the building.
“She was retiring for the evening!” the older man sputtered, eyes wide.
“And you didn’t hear a struggle? You didn’t even hear someone going through the place?” He swept his arm over the room, where the bed had been torn apart.
“I didn’t!” he cried out.
“He’s a bit deaf,” Margery murmured, sitting in a chair with her hands clasped between her knees.
“Is that true?” Derek demanded.
“Is what true?” Hamish asked, confirming what Margery said. He hadn’t heard her call him deaf.
Derek paced the length of the room, back and forth. It didn’t take long, the room being small as it was. “What would’ve happened if I hadn’t come to say goodbye? What would’ve happened? When will you learn that I’m right when I tell you this place isn’t safe for you? When?”
She raised her eyes, ringed with dark circles and red from weeping, and guilt wrapped itself around his heart. He had no business accusing her in such a manner after what she’d been through.
His hands were sore from the pleasure of beating the bastard until he was half-dead, though he wished he could’ve finished the job.
