Broc paused in the act of folding a fresh tunic, holding his breath to hear better the row which was beginning to pick up in another room. If the newlywed McInnises didn’t stop their bickering, the trip to Thrushwood would never commence.

Margery’s plaintive cry rang out. “But I need to go. I keep telling you, there’s no other way.”

“Darling—”

“Don’t ‘darling’ me, Derek McInnis. You always say that when you’re trying to placate me, and I am in no mood to be placated.”

“I know better than to even attempt to placate you, lass.”

“Lass? Lass! That is even worse!”

The crash which came after set Broc’s teeth on edge, though he couldn’t help but chuckle. Margery McInnis was a fine woman, but sometimes more than Derek could handle quietly. Broc wondered what she’d chosen to hurl at her husband. Likely whatever was closest at hand, as she was confined to the bed.

The shouting stopped at that point, which Broc knew meant one of two things. They were either making up and apologizing for making fools of themselves, or Margery was vomiting. Based upon the morning sickness which had recently taken hold of her, he was ready to bet on the latter.

It was a tragic twist of fate, to be sure. The three of them had been preparing for the journey to Thrushwood for more than a fortnight. Margery had chomped at the bit the entire time, eager to see her sister again.

Almost frustratingly eager.

But Broc could understand, and therefore had allowed her to carry on. Beatrice was alone, an unprotected woman on a farm which didn’t seem to be easily accessible by more than a few neighbors. And Beatrice had no idea whether Margery had even survived the journey to London—where she had not landed, but instead, the Scottish harbor village of Kircaldy—much less that she’d wed Derek McInnis and fallen pregnant since.

The pregnancy had been a surprise none of them had prepared for. Broc would never forget how stunned his longtime friend had been on hearing the announcement that he was going to become a father. They’d only been married for a month at the time, and mere days away from setting out for England.

All joking about the level of ardor he felt for his wife aside, the rest of the Duncans and those who’d pledged their loyalty to the clan had expressed joyful surprise on hearing the happy news.

So had Broc. If Derek was pleased, so was he.

Until Margery had begun becoming violently ill every morning. Only the illness didn’t pass once the morning had, but instead extended itself throughout the day. This was what made Heather and Sarah, wives of the Duncan brothers, first take note of there being a complication.

“The babe should be fine,” Sarah, a skilled healer experienced in midwifery and with a child of her own, had assured Derek time and again. “It isn’t unusual for a woman to experience this type of sickness in the early stages of carrying a child. In fact…” She had trailed off, biting her lip.

“In fact, what?” he’d pressed.

She was accustomed enough to the fiery, unpredictable nature of Highland men to weigh her words carefully, Broc noted. “In fact, in some cases, severe illness extends throughout the course of the pregnancy. It isn’t common, but it is possible.”

“Did you go through this?” Derek had demanded.

Broc had only seen Derek like this on a small number of occasions, before meeting Margery, his worst moods had to do with unforeseen storms while his ships were at sea, or setbacks with a major shipment.

Now, his worries all had to do with morning sickness and setting up a house for his wife.

Sarah had shaken her head. “Not to this extent, no. Nor did Heather.”

“And Alis is regularly spotted out and about,” Derek had added in a tight voice, referring to Maccay’s wife who was five months into her time and busier than ever, involved in tending her gardens and participating in work in the manor house.

“She is. I’m sorry. This is simply the way it happens sometimes. But not to worry,” Sarah had urged him, patting his shoulder with a sympathetic sigh. “She is a young, healthy woman and the babe is fine.”

That had seemed to settle Derek’s nerves.

But not Margery’s.

“What does this mean?” she’d demanded, looking around the room.

Her skin was a strange greenish tinge, and she looked as though she might be ill at any moment. The windows in the set of rooms which she shared with Derek—rooms the Duncan wives had insisted they take, in order to keep Margery close at hand—were flung open to air the space out after her repeated retching.

Her husband had winced, eyes sweeping from one ally to another. None of them, Broc included, had felt as though it was their place to speak. Derek McInnis had married the stubborn, fiery woman. It was up to him to break the news.

“I’m sorry, lass, but it means you won’t be able to go with us to bring Beatrice back.”

And the war had begun.

It was absurd, all of it. Margery was foolish to insist she was well enough to take the trip, she could hardly get out of bed and barely went half the day without losing the contents of her stomach. Much of Sarah’s and the cook’s time was spent making nutritious, soothing broths which would still deliver what mother and child needed for their health while ideally settling Margery’s stomach.

If she were to go with them, she wouldn’t make it more than a day or two. The child would certainly suffer and eventually die. It only made sense for her to stay home.

Broc could never say these things aloud to Derek. He didn’t need to, either. His friend was well aware of what hung in the balance of the trip and his wife’s pregnancy, and the stress this put him under left his forehead permanently creased in deep frown lines.

A knock at the open door to his room garnered Broc’s attention.

Hugh McInnis was there, with a rueful smile so like his twin brother’s. “It’s going well in there, eh?”

“By far, one of their more interesting fights,” Broc observed, shaking his head.

“How she has the strength to put up such an argument is beyond me, beyond everyone,” Hugh murmured as he entered the room. Broc wondered if he kept his voice low for the sake of discretion, or if he was afraid his sister-in-law might overhear.

She wasn’t exactly behaving rationally, and none of them wanted to be at the receiving end of her ire.

“I think there’s only one reasonable answer to this problem.” Hugh glanced at the canvas bag which Broc had spread out on the bed prior to packing.

“What’s that?”

“I’ll go with you, instead. The three of us will go on one last adventure before Derek settles down to a life of domestic boredom.”

Broc snorted. “I didn’t think your life was so boring.”

“It hasn’t changed as much as Derek’s now that he won’t be actively involved in his business anymore. I’m still in the laird’s service. I haven’t changed much since marrying Dalla.”

“You’re better kept than you were when we first met. You’re clean-shaven, for one, and you no longer stink like an unmucked horse stall.”

“I’d also been traveling and sleeping out of doors for days when we first met.” He laughed.

“Just the same. I’m sure you’ve improved. As has your brother. And I’m certain he’d enjoy the voyage if it weren’t for his concern over Margery and the babe.”

Hugh’s eyes darkened, his smile faded. “Of course. Perhaps he shouldn’t come along at all.”

“Oh, is that what you think?”

They both turned in surprise at the silent entrance of Derek himself, who stood glowering at the two of them with arms folded across his chest. Broc had seen him like this before, when a merchant was clearly trying to cheat him.

“We didn’t realize your fight had ended.” Hugh grinned.

“Or else you wouldn’t have been talking about me? At least, not with the door wide open?”

“Don’t take it out on us,” Broc warned.

He felt for his friend, truly, but domestic squabbles were not something he’d signed on for when he’d first taken his place as Derek’s first mate. They had learned to work together, had taken their time in feeling out the other’s habits and personal quirks, and Derek was difficult enough to deal with on a good day.

After having the sawdust knocked out of him by his sharp-tongued wife, he was even more of a challenge.

“We weren’t sitting around the fire with our knitting, whispering and laughing over you,” Broc pointed out. “We were merely discussing whether it was a good course of action for you to come with us. Perhaps it’s best you stay here, with Margery. Your brother and I know you well enough to know you’ll eat your heart out with worry over her and the child. It seems cruel to take you away from her now.”

“Margery has already tasked me with protecting her sister,” he argued, “or else I might take you up on your offer. We just had it out, as you well know.”

Hugh and Broc exchanged a glance.

Derek cleared his throat with a sharp look in his eye before continuing. “If she can’t make the trip, she insists I go. This is no reflection on you,” he added, looking at Broc.

“I take no offense.”

“She feels that if her sister’s husband arrives to fetch her, Beatrice will be more likely to agree to the journey. I suppose we need to put ourselves in the lass’s shoes, strange men from a strange country, insisting they have nothing but her best interests at heart? Would you come along with us if you were a young, inexperienced lass? Remember how ill-prepared Margery was to face the realities of life when we first met her. She’d hardly ever held a conversation with more than two men, and one of them a man of God.”

Broc looked down at himself, then at his friends. They looked rough because they were rough. Men who lived their lives outdoors, who made it their business to conquer all nature placed in their path. “I see the point. What if she writes a message for us to give to the lass? She can explain herself in it. What other reason would there be for any of us to carry a letter from Margery?”

“She’s already written to Beatrice in hopes we’ll take the message along with us. I hope it’s enough to convince my sister-in-law to join us, or else we’ll have made the trip for naught.”

“Could it wait until after the babe comes?” Hugh suggested.

Derek sighed heavily, which Broc knew meant he’d considered this and had been promptly turned down. “Nay, and I do understand the logic. Beatrice is alone, unprotected. And it’s like as not she believes by now that her sister is dead or came to some unfortunate end. Let’s not forget how easy it would’ve been for just such a thing to happen.”

It was true. Had Derek and Broc not arrived in Kirkcaldy at the same time as the ship on which Margery had stowed away, she would’ve faced a rather grim future. Derek had come between her and certain tragedy more than once before convincing her to leave the village and return to Duncan lands with them.

“The longer we wait, the worse it is,” Derek surmised. “And there’s no telling what she’s facing all alone. A single woman holding down a farm. Frankly,” he added, lowering his voice, “if the farm is still in her hands, I’ll be deeply surprised. But Margery has assured me time and again that for all her stubbornness, her sister is ten times more stubborn and sharp as a newly-forged dirk.”

“More stubborn than Margery?” Broc asked, rubbing his chin with a rueful smirk.

“I’ll remind you, sir, that you’re speaking of my wife.” The gleam in Derek’s eye gave away his mirth.

Broc knew he could get away with making such comments because of the unspoken understanding between them. He’d lay down his life for Margery, in spite of the rather rocky start they’d gotten off to. Any dislike he’d every held for her had stemmed from his own frustration at wanting to move on from Kirkcaldy. Derek had lingered for days in the village, thanks to her, and Broc had resented the inaction.

But he’d never truly resented the lass, who—when she wasn’t behaving in an utterly irrational manner—was a good, true, loyal woman. A fitting match for Derek, who was one of the finest men Broc had ever known.

“What do you think of my idea?” Hugh asked. “Coming along with you two?”

“I think we could use all the help we can get, once we’re out on the open sea.” There was no missing the edge of excitement in Derek’s voice when he described it. He would miss the freedom of it, Broc knew, though the trade-off was worthwhile in his eyes.

It left Broc wondering how many men left behind that which made them feel free and alive in favor of domestic life. And how many of those men ever lived to regret it. Had he been a praying man, he would’ve prayed that this not be the fate of his friend.

“Even though I’m hardly as skilled as either of the two of you?” Hugh grinned.

“We’ll leave you below, to care for the horses,” Broc suggested with a wink in Derek’s direction.

Hugh’s jaw clenched. “Any little thing I can do,” he muttered.

The three of them burst into laughter, and Broc thought it would be a most enjoyable trip, indeed.

If only they were going anywhere else in the world but Thrushwood.