A Highland Sailor: Highland Heartbeats Read online

  They put me in a cell, were going to hang me for what I did. Lord Randall visited me more than once. He demanded I be put to death, no matter what had brought on the attack on his nephew. It did not matter that I was only defending a woman the Lord’s nephew had nearly killed. She was nothing to them. I do not know if she lived through what he did to her. They wouldn’t tell me.

  I couldn’t tell you of this, nor could I tell you of my escape. One of the men in charge of looking after the prisoners came to bring me gruel and water one night, the night before I was to be hanged. I hit him, knocked him out, and escaped on foot.

  I feared that this would come to pass, that Lord Randall would somehow find out I had returned to Thrushwood. Or that someone in the village would know me on sight. Refusing you would’ve meant confessing to my crime, which I could not bring myself to do.

  I did not wish for you to think less of me for what I did years ago. I do not wish for you to think less of me now, and would rather have never confessed at all.

  I tell you now, just as I tell you that I’ve gone through with my plan. She cannot marry him. I won’t leave without her. I will meet you in Silloth, the ship will be ready when you arrive. Do make haste.

  It was the entire story, barring some of the more gruesome details, and as much as he needed to know. So long as Derek was aware that Broc hadn’t meant to kill the young man—much as he’d deserved it—there was little else he could do except hope his friends hurried to Silloth to join him and Beatrice.

  He rolled up the letter and took it with him to the room where Derek and Hugh had already fallen asleep. It was for the best that they had. The more time before anyone noticed he was missing, the better. He left the letter lying on the table beneath the basin, where both men would be sure to see it when they awoke.

  His heart was heavy. There was no turning back after a confession such as his. What would Derek think? Would he ever be able to regain his friend’s trust?

  He worried over this as he stole silently from the inn, nearly tiptoeing until he was outside. The night was a clear one, the sky full of stars and hardly so much as a breeze to stir the air. If only Beatrice would be quiet and go easily, the task would be a simple one.

  He was wondering how he’d manage to convince her when a sharp pain exploded in the back of his head.

  14

  When Deacon Eddard arrived at the front gate, Beatrice didn’t pretend to be surprised. Naturally, he would ride down to the farm to ensure that she was safe after being escorted home by a stranger. She had even set out two bowls on the table, in case he was there in time to share her evening meal.

  It would be a treat for her. She was tired of eating alone.

  He joined her at the table but did not appear as though he wished to eat. His eyes were troubled, his hands constantly moving as he wrung them in his lap.

  “What is it that has you worried?” she asked between bites of stew. “You can plainly see that no harm has come to me. I am well, I am safe. Though I’m glad you came to check on me,” she added, making certain he understood her gratitude.

  “And I’m happy to see you so well, my child,” he assured her. “That is not why I have come, however. There is something I need to discuss with you. I fought myself once it came to me, wondering if it were for the best that you know.”

  It explained the ashy pallor of his skin, the way his eyes darted away whenever they met hers. He was a man with quite a lot on his mind.

  And it had to do with her.

  “What came to you?” she asked, leaving the spoon in the bowl, thoughts of eating suddenly less important. “What is it you wish for me to know?”

  He twisted his hands together again, shaking his head as he stared into his own bowl. “The young man. The one you rode with earlier today. I recognized him at the time, or thought I did. I wasn’t certain until later. He… has been to Thrushwood. It’s been many years since he was here, but I knew him then. A little.”

  Beatrice frowned, thinking back. “I do not remember him. I believe I would remember someone so… large and strange, compared to everyone else in the village.”

  “He was passing through, or so I believe. Some of the details of the situation are unclear after so much time. I would not expect for you to ever have made his acquaintance, busy as you always were here.”

  Imprisoned, you mean. “How was it that you came to make his acquaintance?”

  The hand wringing grew worse, more desperate. “He was being held in one of the cells in the village. For prisoners, you understand.”

  “Prisoners?” She lost her appetite, though she’d felt terribly hungry only moments earlier. The scent of stewed vegetables turned her stomach so that she pushed away the bowl.

  “I visited as I normally do, hoping to provide a small measure of comfort to the men being held there. The conditions are even worse now than they were at the time, it doesn’t seem to matter how many protests I raise or how I urge the villagers to treat the prisoners as human beings…”

  “What was he there for?” she prompted, ready to scream at the way he took his time with things.

  “Oh, yes. Of course,” the deacon continued. “He… it seems he killed a man.”

  “Killed?” she whispered, breathless, suddenly certain that her stomach would empty itself of its contents. No, not Broc. Broc was good, wasn’t he? Gentle, even for a man of his size. He hadn’t touched her. He had hardly raised his voice, even when he had, it had been in response to her temper.

  “I don’t believe there was malice in his heart,” Deacon Eddard insisted. “I didn’t believe it at the time, after hearing his confession. After hearing the specifics of what occurred on that evening, the night he killed Lord Randall’s nephew.”

  The world began twisting and twirling around her, as though she were lost in a strong wind which had lifted her from her chair and tossed her about. She found herself sliding to the floor, hitting it with a thump. The deacon flew to her side.

  “I shouldn’t have told you,” he fretted, helping her sit up. “I knew I shouldn’t have. I knew it would be too much for you, such a terrible crime.”

  She shook her head, but wasn’t able to speak until he guided a cup full of cool water to her lips. It helped revive her somewhat, cleared her head.

  “It isn’t what he did,” she whispered as her entire body trembled. “It’s who he did it to. I’d heard of Henry Randall’s death, but never of exactly what happened to him.”

  “It was a rather ugly affair,” he murmured, helping her up into her chair and hovering over her until she was ready to scream at him to give her air. She didn’t need him to hover and flutter about. She needed to hear the truth.

  “What happened? You can feel free to tell me. I’m not a child, and I will not swoon again,” she promised, intending it with all her heart.

  “I feel as though I shouldn’t have—”

  “Tell me,” she snapped, recoiling a bit at the harshness of her tone. But it was enough to stir him to speak again.

  He began wringing his hands again, overwhelmed. “It seems as though the late Lord Randall’s son was harming a young woman. I’m sure you’re aware of the presence of a house of ill repute on the outskirts of the village.”

  If she hadn’t been so stricken, she might have giggled at the way the deacon blushed.

  “I’m aware of it,” she whispered.

  “The accused—Broc, his name was—was walking nearby and, according to him, Henry had been in the act of… abusing a young woman outside the building, on the ground. He had beaten her horribly and was… taking advantage of the fact that she was no longer awake. Her clothing was torn, her face bloodied.”

  Beatrice swallowed back a wave of nausea, forcing herself to stay conscious and in control of herself. “Go on.”

  “You’re certain?” he asked with a wince, eyeing her doubtfully.

  “I’m not a swooning, fainting, weak type,” she insisted, glaring at him in spite of who he was. “The coincide
nce of Broc being connected to Lord Randall was what caused me to lose control of myself. Not what he did. Please. Continue.”

  He sighed, shrugging. Knowing there was nothing to be done but finish his tale. “Broc came across this and pummeled the young man. He didn’t stop. Henry Randall died there, on the spot.”

  “What happened to the young woman?” she asked.

  A sad smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Only one with a heart as true as yours would think to ask, my child. Sadly, she died as well. It appeared as though Randall had strangled her to death before Broc ever arrived on the scene.”

  And yet it was Broc who had been imprisoned for the crime. He had only done he world a favor, ridding it of a monster. She’d never known Henry Randall personally, but had no trouble believing the nephew of Lord Randall to be a violent, murderous fiend.

  “Lord Randall demanded he be hanged for it,” the deacon explained. “He wanted him hanged that very night, when several of the men who’d been…” He cleared his throat, blushing again. “Who’d been inside the building at the time… brought Broc into the village. Once it was evident who the dead man was, Lord Randall and the late Lord stormed in and all but killed him themselves.”

  “What happened? How did he escape with his life?”

  “He ran away. Three days after the killing, he overpowered the man who’d been guarding the prisoners and ran. He was never found, as is obvious, seeing as how he’s still alive.”

  She took a few deep breaths, striving to calm herself. Her heart raced painfully, her head throbbing as a result.

  He’d come for her. He had returned to the place where he’d committed murder and escaped with his life. To bring her to Margery, who was waiting back in Scotland.

  He didn’t have to do it. The man was either a fool or incredibly brave. She wasn’t certain which.

  Once the storm in her head calmed a bit, she looked up at the deacon who still hovered nearby, arms slightly outstretched as though he was ready to catch her. “Why did you feel it so important to tell me this?”

  “I wanted you to know who he was, in case you decided to leave with him. I don’t believe he meant to kill anyone. I believe he wanted only to help the young woman. Perhaps he was angry at Randall for what he’d done. I’m certain he was. And…” He turned away, facing the fire, hands balled into fists.

  When he spoke again, his voice was tight with emotion. “I’m not certain that I wouldn’t do the same if I were in his place, though I know the severity of the sin. You see, I saw the young woman. I demanded to see her before she was given her pauper’s grave. I saw what Henry did to her.”

  Beatrice reached out, touching his arm. “I’ll never tell anyone you said that.”

  He chuckled softly. “Thank you.”

  “Well. I know one thing,” she decided, standing.

  “What?”

  “He can never meet Lord Randall. Not ever. He offered to visit him, you see. Along with the others, in order to speak for me. To come to an understanding about our marriage. I must find a way to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “What could you do?”

  “I don’t know for certain.” She chewed her lip, staring out the window as she did. The evening hadn’t wound down very far yet. It wasn’t too late.

  “It’s too far a ride into the village,” she mused aloud, twirling the end of her braid between her fingers. Much like the way the deacon wrung his hands, she needed something to busy herself as she pondered.

  But the ride to the manor house was a matter of minutes. An idea began to form.

  “I know.” She turned away from the window, determined. “I’ll visit the Lord right now and offer the farm to him. I’ll tell him I’m going away, to see my sister. That she’s very ill and needs me.”

  Deacon Eddard did not look convinced. “You think he’ll accept this? That it will be that simple?”

  “No. I don’t think it will be that simple,” she admitted. “But I know it needs to be done. And I would be eternally grateful if you would come with me.”

  15

  It was full dark by the time Beatrice and the deacon reached the manor house. Had it been possible to cut through her fields and into his, the trip would’ve taken no more than a few minutes. Over the road which bordered her land and that of the Randall family, it was a much longer ride.

  And it gave her plenty of time to think. Thinking was the last thing she needed to do just then, with so many concerns competing for her attention. It would’ve been better to simply act before she became overwhelmed.

  Think about the good which will come from this, she urged herself when her fingers tightened around the reins to the point of pain and her heart began to race. Think about how good it will be when things go your way. Her muscles eased slightly, and her jaw relaxed. She only realized then that she’d been grinding her teeth, a bad habit she’d been certain of breaking years earlier.

  It would be a relief, having the situation with Lord Randall settled and the matter of the farm, too. He didn’t need to know that she was aware of his ties to Broc, or that she’d ever met the man. With the word of the deacon behind her, there would be no way to question her motives, or the fact that she needed to leave, immediately. Who would dare question him?

  The house was even larger than she’d ever imagined, the walls made of stones held together with dried mud and stretching well above her head. How many rooms could such a house contain? Dozens, she guessed. The windows were tall and narrow, hardly allowing out any of the light from within.

  A wide path, almost a road, led up to the front of the house and it, too, was paved with flat stones which made their approach louder than she had intended it to be as the horses’ hooves rang out against them. A large, vaulted door sat in front of the house. Her mouth went dry when she thought of who was just behind that door.

  This could’ve been hers, or at least hers in name. Such a grand home, with so many servants working within. She heard them, a smithy worked in a smaller outbuilding to her left, just past the main house. Even late in the day, his fire glowed and the hammer he used sang against the iron he shaped.

  Farther off was a stable full of horses, she heard them neighing as young boys walked to and fro with buckets of straw. The animals would need to be taken care of for the evening before the boys had their meal and got their rest.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked the deacon.

  “Oh, yes. Many times. The late Lord Randall and his late wife often sent for me. They lived by their faith, unlike…” His voice trailed off.

  And yet they had borne and raised a monster. Just how faithful had they been? She knew Henry Randall’s mother had died when he was just a boy, barely much older than she’d been when her father died. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps he might have turned out better had his mother lived.

  If that had been the case, the young woman he’d killed might still be alive. He, himself, might be alive.

  And Broc would never have killed him. She needn’t have been so frightened for his sake, stomach clenching and knees shaking whenever she imagined him being discovered.

  The clopping of hooves grew louder, but Beatrice soon realized it was not their horses making the additional noise. There were men approaching behind them.

  For one brief, heart-stopping moment, she feared Broc and the others had come to meet with Lord Randall on her behalf. She looked over her shoulder, fear widening her eyes, but she recognized none of the four men riding their way down the stone-paved path.

  There was another horse with them, riderless, led by its reins in the hand of another rider. It carried something over its saddle. Something large, bulky, which hung down over both sides of the horse’s ribs and bounced in time with the animal’s trotting.

  The riders had no intention of keeping the stately pace held by the two strangers, and Beatrice had no choice but to fall behind the deacon to leave room for them to pass.

  When they did, she got a good look a
t what was hanging over the saddle.

  Not what, but who.

  By the light of the moon—the only light other than that of the torches held by two of the four men—she caught sight of his face, turned toward the horse’s rear end. Blood covered half of it, blood which seemed to seep from a gash on the back of the head and darkened the already dark hair to black.

  She knew him, even though she’d only just met him. He was not the sort of man one forgot easily.

  Broc.

  What was this all about? Why…?

  Just as it had earlier at the kitchen table, cold certainty filled her. She knew what had happened just as surely as if she’d been there to witness it.

  Lord Randall had gotten word of him being in the village, somehow. Naturally. Word spread quickly among the villagers.

  Either that, or he had learned of the presence of the foreigners and had felt it his place to track them down.

  Why hadn’t she gone to the village to warn them away from speaking to him? They might have hidden themselves. They might even have left in time to avoid Broc’s attack.

  He’d kill Broc.

  Her knees pressed into Cecil’s sides, the reins digging into her hands as she squeezed them. What was she to do? How could she help? For she had to. There was no question that she had to.

  But the men were riding off toward the right, around the side of the manor house, while the heavy, wooden front door was opening and a tall, golden-haired man strode out.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” Lord Randall’s face bore a triumphant look.

  If he were anyone else, Beatrice would’ve thought him handsome. She knew many girls in the village did, she’d seen them gasp and sigh over him on Market Day, as he flaunted his wealth to all around him.