A Highland Sailor: Highland Heartbeats Page 12

  He loved them.

  He had never imagined loving people.

  There had been his father and mother. Affection, at most, but even that had been rare. Theirs had not been a loving home. Perhaps this was why his father never hurried home from his work, from his boat.

  Perhaps this was why their son hadn’t wasted a moment’s time in leaving home when he came of age to do so.

  He had never imagined himself as part of a large, loving family. Like the Duncans. Somehow, they’d all found each other and did everything they could to ensure the comfort and safety of the rest.

  Such as the way Heather and Sarah had insisted Margery live in the manor house so they could care for her.

  They weren’t related by blood. Her husband was a childhood friend of theirs. They owed her nothing, and yet, they had demanded the ability to watch over her and the child she carried.

  He hadn’t known there were people in the world such as them.

  Nor had he known there were lasses as brave and true as Sarah and Heather. Alis. Dalla. Margery.

  Beatrice.

  His chest ached at the thought of her.

  Would she marry Lord Randall out of a lack of other options? For there would be none, once Hugh and Derek were gone. She’d have nothing to do but go through with the marriage and be his prisoner, as Broc currently was.

  He hoped she had a longer life than he would.

  Then again… perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps it would be a mercy if she didn’t live long at all.

  Footsteps roused him to full wakefulness, full awareness. Someone was coming. Someone who wore good shoes, who walked with a long, sure stride.

  Only one person on the manor would fit that description.

  Sure enough, moments later, a lantern appeared. With it, the man who carried it. The golden-haired, cold-eyed man he’d remembered so well over the course of seven years.

  The man who had remembered him, as well.

  “We meet again,” he murmured, eyeing Broc up and down. “I must admit, they hit you a bit harder than I had requested. I didn’t wish to see you covered in blood which I haven’t shed.”

  Broc could do nothing but watch and wait. And listen to the foul words coming from the man’s foul mouth.

  “Did you really think I didn’t know you when I saw you last evening?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did you think that just because you allowed your friends to do the talking for you that I would leave you be? I would think you’d know be better than that by now.”

  Broc remained still, barely breathing as he strained to hear the man’s low voice. Even the snorting, shuffling pigs had silenced as if in fear.

  “I will have the satisfaction of avenging my nephew’s murder,” Randall promised, leaving the lantern on the floor near the window before coming closer. “I will watch you die. I will think of him as I do, as the life drains out of you. Him, and my brother. His father. The man who died of a broken heart without his only son, his only child. You destroyed my family.”

  “And for what?” He crouched in front of Broc, examining him closely, sneering as he did. “For the sake of a filthy, worthless piece of garbage? As if women like her don’t die every day. As if they matter. As if any woman matters aside from what’s between her legs.”

  The image of Beatrice’s face crossed Broc’s mind then. So this was the esteem in which Lord Randall held all women.

  It wasn’t a surprise, of course, but hearing him give voice to what Broc knew was in his rotten heart only solidified his certainty that Beatrice would live a miserable, wretched life under his roof.

  “You killed a man far better than you,” he uttered. “You had no right to kill one of your betters. You had no right to even put a hand on him. You’ve escaped punishment for far too long, but not to worry.”

  His eyes flashed with the first traces of real feeling Broc had seen up to that point.

  “You will pay for the time you’ve been granted since then. For every one of the last seven years you escaped the death you so richly deserve. And it will be my pleasure to dispense this suffering. Wait and see.”

  He stood, then, spitting on the floor by Broc’s feet. “But not yet,” he whispered, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. “Not just yet. I’ll let you think it over while I make preparations.”

  He left the lantern sitting there, leaving empty handed. Broc thought he heard the man chuckling as he walked back to his house.

  In fact, he was certain of it.

  17

  Another long, sleepless night. Worse than the one before.

  Beatrice couldn’t possibly keep missing entire nights of sleep and hope to stay alive. Two nights in a row.

  And both because of Lord Randall.

  For all that, she felt sharp. Her brain moved quickly throughout the night, as she weighed her options and worked out what she felt was the best course of action.

  The room in which she’d spent the night was a comfortable one, or would’ve been, had she done more than sat at the edge of the bed while a young woman had poured water in the basin on the bedside table, then offered to comb her hair.

  It was the same young woman as before, she noticed, the one who Lord Randall had called in to announce the preparation of the rooms for her and Deacon Eddard.

  She’d looked terrified, scurrying around the room like a rodent. Was this the way her supposed husband-to-be ran his household?

  For a moment—the very briefest of moments, no longer than the blink of an eye—she’d considered accepting his offer after all. She might bring a measure of mercy to the manor. She might see to it that the people working there, living under the Lord’s protection, knew what it meant to feel appreciated. No longer afraid.

  But, no. It made her chest ache when she considered it, leaving this girl and so many others behind. There was nothing she could do for them.

  She didn’t care for them as she cared for herself. She couldn’t go on living her life for the sake of others.

  And she cared too much for Broc.

  She shouldn’t, and she knew it. He was a stranger. A stranger who had killed a man, no matter the reasons why he’d done it. He’d brought to an end the life of another.

  No matter that Henry Randall had deserved what came to him. Who was to say that poor, miserable girl was the only one he’d attacked? Or that she would’ve been the last?

  Even so, it was enough to give her pause. The way she cared for Broc and his well-being was entirely wrong and baseless. No matter how kind he’d been. No matter how he’d made the sacrifice of coming to fetch her for Margery’s sake, though it had meant certain danger for him.

  It was all too confusing.

  And beside the point. She reminded herself of this as she paced the floor throughout the night, wringing her hands as the deacon so often did. Grinding her teeth until her jaws ached.

  She wouldn’t have married Lord Randall even if it weren’t for Broc, so that mattered not.

  And no matter what he’d done, he did not deserve the fate Lord Randall had in store for him. Murder did not justify murder. God would see to it that justice was meted out.

  Whether he believed himself to be or not, Lord Randall was not God.

  Was he even still alive? And where would the men have taken him? She looked out the window, fairly certain there was no one outside in the middle of the night who might see her there.

  The land belonging to the Randall family stretched on and on, beyond what Beatrice could see in the moonlight.

  There were a number of outbuildings, a barn and stables. The fire was out in the smithy’s, finally.

  However…

  Was it her imagination, or was there a faint light coming from a window in the barn?

  A lantern? A candle? Regardless of the source of the light, it was burning. Who would leave a candle burning in the barn, in the middle of the night? It would certainly set the straw on fire.

  She wondered about it, her imagination turning over and over. What
could it mean? Was there something she could do about it?

  Could that be where Broc waited?

  No, it wasn’t possible. That would be too simple, too easy. And yet, it would mean he was close by. Where his captor could keep watch on him, so to speak.

  She might…

  She might claim, if discovered, that she’d worried when she saw the light. Thinking there was a fire. There would be questions, of course, such as why she’d been awake, looking out the window, but she could make up an excuse for that.

  Moments later, before she could so much as question what she was doing, Beatrice was fleeing barefoot down the hall which she’d traveled earlier, with the deacon. What was she doing? Was she really so bold?

  There was no noise coming from the great hall, just beyond the vaulted front door, besides snoring. It seemed much of the manor’s servants and workers—the men, at any rate—slept there, on the floor. The sound and smell of sleeping, snoring, flatulent men assaulted her, and she turned away from them before her presence could be noticed.

  One thing was certain, she told herself as she tiptoed to the door and opened it as slowly and silently as possible. Lord Randall would be nowhere near the room in which his lowly servants slept. A blessing.

  She dashed to the barn, reminding herself as she ran that she was merely a girl afraid of a fire breaking out. Intending only to put out the light which some careless, tired man had left behind. That was all. Nothing more. She wanted to be a help, to protect the building and the animals who lived inside.

  After all, wasn’t that the sort of thing the Lady of the manor would concern herself with?

  Once inside, she located the source of the light. A lantern, as she had suspected, placed on the floor in a corner beneath the window. The stall was free from any animals. Why would anyone be in there?

  Other than that, there was nothing but the sound of pigs who she’d startled with her appearance.

  As a result, she moved slowly, so as not to further frighten the poor creatures. It wouldn’t do for them to raise a fuss and alert the others to her presence. She bent at the waist to retrieve the lantern, wrapping the edge of her kirtle around her hand in case it was hot after burning for so long.

  A sudden movement in the straw on the other side of the stall startled her so, she nearly dropped it on the floor and set the entire place on fire.

  With a shaking hand, she lifted the lantern higher, lighting more of the space around her.

  And she saw him.

  “Broc!” she gasped, dashing over to him and falling to her knees. “Broc, it’s me! Beatrice!”

  Only one of his eyes could open, she realized. The entire side of his face was crusted over, the blood having long since dried to an ugly shade of rusty brown. She longed to wash it clean but knew that would be a grave mistake.

  Someone would know he’d been assisted.

  He stank, too, reeking of sweat and blood and filth. The stench made her nose wrinkle, but she wouldn’t leave him. She couldn’t turn away.

  There was something in his mouth. Cloth? She was careful in pulling it free, holding it between the tips of two fingers as she did.

  “Beatrice?” His voice was little more than a whisper, and he winced after speaking her name.

  “Your head. It hurts?” she asked, looking around to be certain they were alone.

  “Aye, lass. Terribly.”

  “What did they do to you?”

  “It matters not,” he breathed. “You must get out of here. Now. Before he finds you.”

  He was right, of course. Her hands trembled at the notion.

  “I have to help you,” she insisted nonetheless. “We have to get out of here.”

  “It’s impossible. You could never free me now, they would catch us. He would know it was you who did it. I won’t have you sacrifice yourself for me.”

  “I want to. I won’t leave you here.”

  “Lass. You don’t know why I’m here.”

  “I do,” she hissed. “I know about all of it. That doesn’t matter. I will help you. I won’t let him…”

  “You must go,” he urged. “Whatever the reason you’re here, you must go back.”

  “I came here to sell the farm to him tonight. He made me stay, with Deacon Eddard.” Why she felt the need to explain this, and to add the fact that she wasn’t unchaperoned, she wasn’t certain. She wanted to be certain he knew she wasn’t there because she wanted to be.

  Not with someone like the Lord of the manor.

  He nodded, then winced from the pain which resulted. “Please. Do us both a favor and get out of here. You must, before he finds you, lass.”

  He was right. “Oh, Broc,” she breathed, standing in spite of the deep desire to stay.

  “Leave the lantern. Replace it,” he reminded her. “He must not know you were here.”

  “Of course.” She did this, then turned back to him. Bound hand and foot, bloodied. Defeated, or so it seemed.

  “Hurry,” he urged. He smiled ever so slightly. “I’m glad I had the chance to see you again, lass. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”

  This wasn’t true. She knew it as well as he did. She knew he was lying to her, trying to ease her pain.

  She wouldn’t let him despair. She wouldn’t let him die, not if there was anything she could do about it.

  “I’ll bring back help for you,” she promised. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

  “Don’t come back,” he whispered.

  She turned away, but then, at the last moment, remembered the gag. “Oh, no!” she gasped, running back to him, picking up the cloth. “I’m sorry. I almost forgot this.”

  “As did I,” he smiled, his good eye searching her face as his mouth fell open. She was careful not to choke him as she wadded the cloth into his mouth.

  “All right?” she whispered.

  He nodded.

  She then leaned forward and kissed his almost clean cheek before she could think twice and stop herself.

  He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat as she ran from the stables and back to the house.

  The sky was beginning to lighten. A good sign. Lord Randall had left him alive for that long. He was in no hurry.

  So long as he allowed her a few more hours, she might be able to find the twins and bring them to the manor. There had to be some way to free Broc.

  At any rate, she couldn’t allow them to go on without knowing what had happened to their friend.

  She did not know the men. She didn’t know the sort of men they were or whether they were brave enough to free him. Or foolish enough, perhaps.

  Slipping back into the house, she dashed down the hall and into the bedchamber. It was as she’d left it. Empty. Only once she was certain of this did she breathe a sigh of relief and lean against the closed door.

  But it was a short-lived relief. There was little to be thankful for or relieved over.

  Dawn would arrive soon enough. She pulled on her stockings and shoes, then washed her face and hands.

  After that, she went from her room and down to the next room, where the deacon had spent the night. Had he slept at all? Or had he walked the floor, as she had?

  Perhaps he had spent the night in prayer.

  There were stirrings in the great hall, telling her the men inside were beginning to awaken though it was not yet dawn. Perhaps she could slip away in the commotion of early morning activity and get a head start into the village.

  The door opened when she knocked, the fully-dressed deacon peering out at her before he opened it further. He didn’t ask why she’d come or what she intended to do. He merely joined her.

  The two of them walked side-by-side down the hall, to the front door. “We’ll need our horses,” he announced to the first man they found. He nodded, running both hands through sleep-mussed hair, and went outside to fetch the animals.

  The two of them spoke not a word as they waited, Beatrice’s nails digging into her palms once again. Just as t
hey had the night before. It would be a strain, holding back old Cecil rather than urging him into a run.

  If he even could run.

  “Can I use your mare?” she whispered when the young man came back into view, leading the pair of horses by the reins. “I don’t want to push Cecil too hard.”

  “Of course,” Deacon Eddard replied, so they mounted the wrong horses before bringing them around and starting down the stony path.

  Beatrice avoided looking directly at the barn as they rode away. He was still in there, perhaps wondering when he’d be killed or how. It broke her heart to leave him, to ride from the place without freeing him first.

  But trying to escape with him as they were, the three of them riding out in the open, would’ve been worse than folly.

  “He’s in the barn,” she whispered as the horses trotted. “I saw him earlier. I found him there.”

  “You took such a chance?”

  “I did,” she replied, cutting her eyes in his direction. “I couldn’t leave without at least knowing where he was. And now I’ll know where to tell the men to find him.”

  “You believe they would take such a chance?”

  “What choice do they have? He’s their friend, their companion. They wouldn’t leave him behind.” So she told herself. So she needed to believe.

  “I’ll leave you at the crossroads,” she announced when they reached the road which ran alongside the Randall lands.

  “I will join you.”

  “You won’t, and I won’t argue about it again,” she insisted. “Perhaps you can care for the cow and chickens in my place. They’ll need it. I will come to you later, once it’s finished.”

  “When it’s finished,” he replied, his jaw firmly set, “you won’t be able to do any such thing. You will have alerted the men to their friend’s presence and the danger he is in. You will have no choice but to go with them. Otherwise, what might Randall do to you?”

  It was true, and she knew it in her heart. She had been entirely wrong in her thinking, though she had spent hours taking it all apart and putting it back together again.