Beatrice’s hand throbbed horribly. Her wrist, too. She’d never hit another living being before, not ever. It hurt. But it didn’t seem as though it had hurt him very much. Or at all.

She waited until he had ridden out of sight before she untied Cecil’s reins from the fence and led him to the stable to feed and water. Poor old Bess mooed pitifully.

“I’ll be right there,” she promised, hurrying through pulling a bucket of water from the well before she could milk the cow.

Always the same chores. Always the same life.

She could run away. She had the chance.

Bess mooed again, louder this time. Beatrice shook away the selfish, self-serving fantasy of running away with the three Scotsmen in favor of taking care of what was in front of her.

Her palm and fingers were stiff as she attempted to curl them around one of the cow’s udders. She’d put all of the force of her arm behind that slap, and he had barely flinched.

He looked surprised. Deeply, thoroughly. And angry, too.

Even so, as angry as he’d been, he hadn’t struck back. He hadn’t even raised his voice any louder than he had when they were arguing.

She hadn’t been afraid of him. Astounded at herself, perhaps. But not afraid of him. How was it possible? She had never known more than a handful of men, all of whom had been kind to her, but her mother had told her tales of violent men. Angry men. Men who would gladly hurt a woman, or worse.

Mother had sown so much fear. So much distrust. There were times when Beatrice wondered if she had deliberately set out to render her daughters unable to function in the world, out among other people. Perhaps she had, out of her own fear of being left alone in her illness.

Her illness. Beatrice disliked herself for smirking at the thought, her cheek pressed against the cow’s flank while she worked the udders. The stinging in her hand was less, her fingers working more easily.

Mother’s illness. Was she ever truly as ill as she made out? What good, Godfearing daughter would question such a thing? She hated her questions.

And yet…

There were times when she thought she’d heard Mother up and about. Times when there had been footsteps from a woman who swore she couldn’t rise from her bed. Times when items on the other side of the room were out of place from where Beatrice had left them, while Margery was visiting with Cedric Miller or in the village to do shopping.

She’d never voiced her concerns to her sister, and certainly never to her mother. She had merely gone on caring for her, preparing her food and drink, washing and brushing out her hair, helping her bathe. Every day for years.

Endless prayers. By firelight, by candlelight, by the light of dawn. Throughout the day, nearly nonstop.

And at those times, especially when the strain of caregiving became too much, Beatrice had asked herself what she would’ve done in her mother’s place. No husband. Two daughters who would one day grow up and leave her. Who would find lives of their own while she was on her own for the rest of her life. No security, no companionship, no guarantee of anything.

Beatrice had only been alone for several months and knew the pain of loneliness. It was the sort of pain her mother had feared. Along with so many other things.

In the end, it had been a sudden illness which had taken her mother’s life. Something other than that which had supposedly kept her bedridden for so many years. The inability to breathe, a sort of gurgling in the lungs which the local healer had suggested could result from lying in bed for so long without movement.

If that were true, Mother had played a role in her own death. Perhaps by then it hadn’t mattered to her. What did she have to live for?

At the time, she had forgiven her mother and would continue to forgive her until her final breath. She’d been so unhappy, superstitious and fearful, always anxious in regards to the unknown. It was no way to live.

She carried the milk pail to the house, leaving a much happier cow in the barn, reflecting as she did on her own fears. The icy pit of fear in her stomach when she considered traveling with three strange men. Fear at the thought of what Lord Randall might do to her if he found out she’d run away when he expected them to marry.

Was it enough to hold her back? To keep from joining her sister? Margery hadn’t allowed such fears to keep her planted on the farm. If she’d backed down, she wouldn’t have met her husband. She wouldn’t be with child, the way Beatrice knew she’d always wanted to be one day.

As she, herself, did. Marriage to Lord Randall would make that possible, but at what cost?

It was all too much to make sense of. The more she turned the situation around in her head, the greater her confusion.

Margery’s letter was still tucked in her sleeve, and she withdrew the folded linen in order to read it again and again. There was so little shared. So many questions. Would there be room for Beatrice there? What might she do with her life once she’d become settled?

Would Broc be there?

What did that matter?

The thought of ever facing him again made her face fairly burn with embarrassment. She had struck him, and he didn’t seem the sort of man to take kindly to such treatment. Though he hadn’t harmed her, it was like as not that he wouldn’t be kind to her.

And there she was, needing his kindness. The kindness of all three men, if she were to travel with them over rough roads and sail to Scotland. How long would such a voyage take? How long would she have to be in close quarters with the man she’d slapped?

She was not proud of what she’d done and knew she should apologize, but he had been cruel with his tongue. Telling her she might just as well rot. Why did it seem more important to him than to the others that she go with them immediately?

Why had he been the one to return for her? Why not Derek, her brother-in-law?

“I’m on my way, ladies,” she assured the chickens on passing the coop. There were so many things to consider, so many responsibilities.

When would there ever come a time for her to face the responsibility to herself?