13
Broc knew him immediately, just as he had known the deacon. It had been seven years since he’d last set eyes on the man, but nothing had changed. The same golden hair, swept high off his forehead. The same cold eyes. The same sneer.
And the clothing. Rich, sumptuous, trimmed in fur even in such warm weather. The man had always believed in displaying his wealth. That hadn’t changed, either.
Those cold eyes swept over the tavern and Broc knew it wasn’t his imagination, that the room had indeed gone deathly quiet. There was an important gentleman present, after all.
A terrible thought occurred to him. Something beyond what he’d already imagined. Was it possible? Could this be the nobleman Beatrice was so frightened of?
No. It would be far too great a coincidence. The sort of coincidence which simply didn’t occur.
Incredible how the sight of a person could bring back memories he’d fought so hard to push down, to lose in the depths of his mind. It was bad enough that the sight of the deacon had stirred up so much he’d tried to forget.
This? This was like being thrown into a cell all over again. Like fighting off the rodents who took every opportunity to bite him as he slept, like fighting off sleep because he knew he’d be their victim the moment his eyes closed. He could almost hear their paws on the hard, dirt floor as they darted here and there, all around him.
A shudder ran through his body and he reminded himself that was the past. Not the present. He was no longer a prisoner.
When the man’s eyes fell on their table, Broc noted the way Derek’s hand drifted down to where the dirk was hidden beneath his tunic.
“Leave it,” he whispered through clenched teeth. Broc knew it wouldn’t end well if Lord Randall so much as suspected one of them was armed.
“You must be the three foreigners who’ve been visiting my intended,” he announced in a loud voice, looking around to gauge the reactions of the other patrons. “I understand you’ve paid a visit to the farm of a young woman living on her own, with no chaperone to speak of.”
Broc’s hands curled into fists, a block of ice taking the place of his stomach. It was true. This was Beatrice’s nobleman, the one who demanded her hand in marriage. The one she might have been forced to marry had it not been for their arrival.
Because he would lay down his very life if need be, if it meant her freedom. He wouldn’t leave her in the clutches of a monster.
The tavern’s owner came running from a back room. “Lord Randall, it’s an honor to have you here. What brings you to my establishment?”
“These men,” he replied, glaring at them. “They took the liberty of stepping foot on the property belonging to my intended.”
Broc’s fists tightened, hidden by the table. What he would’ve given for the privilege of smashing his fists against the man’s face.
Derek spoke first in a carefully measured voice. “Has the young woman asked for your protection against us? Did she give you a reason to find us?”
“She didn’t need to,” Randall scoffed, tossing his head so the golden strands of hair glowed in the firelight. The years had been kind to him, but then, why shouldn’t they have been? He need only wake in the morning at whatever time suited him and find a way to fill his days with leisure. If that had been Broc’s lot in life, he might appear ageless, too.
“Then, you’re here to accuse us of… calling on a young lady?” Hugh asked, a hint of humor in his voice.
“There’s no reason for a filthy Highlander to call on a young Englishwoman, especially one who is betrothed to a Lord,” Randall retorted, eyes narrowed.
Derek stood, slowly, with his hands in plain sight. He was no fool. He’d do nothing to lure the man into a fight. “The young lady to whom you refer is the sister of my wife, sir. We were paying a visit at my wife’s request. She was unable to make the journey on her own, or she would explain all to you.”
Randall’s surprise was evident, as was the shock of those seated elsewhere. “You’re wed to the young woman who once shared the house?” he sputtered.
Derek nodded. “I am, sir, and she’s half-owner of the farm, as well. Which places her sister under my protection, and I regret to request it, but I’d prefer we no longer speak of her in such an establishment. It is improper for gentlemen to refer to their womenfolk in a tavern.”
Silence, then snide laughter. “I see no gentlemen before me. Only Highlanders who have no business being here. Now that you’ve paid your visit, you can find your way out of the village. I’m well aware of the arrangement you’ve made with the local innkeeper, but that arrangement will no longer be honored as of dawn tomorrow. You are to leave this village and this country, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Who will see to it that this happens?” Hugh demanded.
Randall merely shrugged, the shoulders of his silk cape shimmering. “I’ll leave it up to you… gentlemen,” he smirked. “I see no reason why I shouldn’t take you at your word. Granted, if I hear you’ve lingered around the village or along the outskirts, you will leave me no choice but to catch up with you again.”
The tavern’s owner finally spoke up. “I don’t wish to see any trouble here, my Lord.”
“And there will be no trouble,” Randall replied without taking his eyes from the three of them. “Isn’t that correct?”
Derek fairly shook with the strain of holding himself back. “That’s correct.”
“My Lord.”
“Pardon?”
Randall let out a tiny sigh to signal his exasperation. “It’s typical for a Lord, such as myself, to be addressed as such. Your mistake is understandable, I suppose, since you Highlanders aren’t accustomed to the way civilized people conduct themselves.”
Derek spoke not a word in reply. Nothing to defend himself, nothing to argue the point, and no apologies. He didn’t even correct himself for leaving out the man’s title. He merely glared at him with hatred he didn’t bother to disguise, eyes unblinking, nostrils flaring, muscles jumping in his jaw.
And Lord Randall saw it for what it was, or else he wouldn’t have backed down. “Enough of this. I’m a busy man. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t pay any further visits to my betrothed. While she may have been under your protection, as you call it, she is now mine.”
The cape he wore swirled around him when he turned. Broc recognized the gesture, one the man had likely studied. What else did he have to do with his life except practicing how to make an entrance and an exit?
The tavern remained silent once he was gone, all eyes on the trio near the fire.
“I suppose you wish us to leave,” Derek said, eyes shifting from the empty doorway to the owner of the establishment.
The bald, short little man’s face turned deep red. “Yes, and quickly, too. I didn’t like the looks of you when you entered, and now I understand why. We don’t need any trouble from your sort in here, and certainly no trouble from the likes of Lord Randall.”
“We did nothing to cause trouble,” Hugh began, his voice no longer carrying a note of humor, but Derek held up a hand to silence his brother.
“Never mind. Let us settle our debt and be gone.”
“I don’t want your money,” the bald man spat, pointing to the door. “Get out.”
Broc stood, surprised. Since when did a man refuse payment? He dropped a few pence on the table, nonetheless. “If any of you would like this, then,” he muttered, looking at all of them before following his companions out into the night. Let it never be said that he left debts unpaid.
He hadn’t risen from his chair while the nobleman was in the tavern, as Hugh and Derek had. And he hadn’t spoken. Anything to avoid Randall’s attention. Anything to keep Randall from recognizing the man who’d killed his nephew.
Hugh had noticed. “Why did you say nothing in there?” he asked as they walked to the inn, all three of them keeping a fast pace. There was no telling how many of the villagers knew of Lord Randall’s orders, how they were to leave Thrushwood at dawn.
News traveled fast in small villages, Broc knew. It was likely most of the people up and down the street were already aware.
“What was there to say?” he asked. “It was him against us, which meant the entire tavern was against us, and I’ve already warned you about men such as him. You see now that I was right all along. He has no intention of treating us fairly. I only wonder how he knew of our visit.”
“You don’t think Beatrice would’ve told him, do you?” Derek asked. He seemed to take Broc’s silence better than his brother, most likely because they’d known each other for so long. He knew his longtime first mate was no coward.
“She hates him,” Broc muttered. And with good reason. She wasn’t alone in that. “She’d never go to him. She might not entirely trust us, but she fears him. There’s the difference.”
“How would he know, then?”
“Word travels,” Broc reminded the two of them. Just as it had traveled after that terrible night, the night he first made the acquaintance of Henry Randall and, later, his uncle Geoffrey.
“What are we to do?” Hugh wondered. “We can’t simply leave without her. Margery would never get over it.”
“Nor would Beatrice,” Broc muttered. “We cannot leave her here. I’m still of a mind to go out to the house tonight.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Derek snapped. “What if someone is there, waiting? Watching the house? After having made the acquaintance of Lord Randall, I can easily imagine him leaving one or more of his men by the road to watch out for us.”
Damn the bastard’s soul to hell. He would never let them take her. Why hadn’t Beatrice agreed to leave with them? They might already be on their way if things had gone according to plan.
They would have to go according to Broc’s plan, then. He didn’t wish to cause the lass any further strain, but what would be worse than the strain of being forced into marriage with a brute? In the end, she would thank him for it.
He only needed to get to her. That would be the greatest challenge.
The three of them gathered their belongings in silence when they reached the inn, having avoided the innkeeper on the way to their room. Or perhaps it was he who avoided them, the coward.
There was nothing else to do but discuss among themselves what was to be done next. Broc knew what had to be done and saw no reason to waste time, but he couldn’t leave without explaining himself.
“I’ll sit in the great room for a while,” he declared, standing. “I need to think. To straighten out my thoughts.”
Derek fixed him with a knowing look. “You like the lass, don’t you? It disturbs you to leave her to that man.”
As if he needed another reason to want to kill Lord Randall. It was true, and he knew it when Derek voiced the words. He did like her, more than he should considering that they’d only met that very day. He liked her strength, appreciated her intelligence and courage in the face of that which terrified her.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I do, and it does. More than I can explain.” He left the two of them behind, going straight to a small desk which he’d spied earlier in the day. It was customary for innkeepers to prepare a place for their patrons to write messages before sending them on to loved ones or back to those they’d left behind.
It would be easier to explain himself this way, he decided, pulling out a piece of linen on which to write. The faster he wrote, the easier it would be.
So he hoped.
Writing had never been his strong suit, and he took great pains with the lettering to be sure Derek would be able to understand.
Derek,
I’ve had to move ahead with the plan I discussed with you. I did not wish to call attention to all of us, nor to expose you to danger or added trouble.
I must confess now something which I didn’t wish to confess before now. I’m certain you will understand when I explain.
He drew a deep breath, steadying his nerves and wishing he had a mug of ale at his side to aid him. Then again, he would need full control of his faculties in order to accomplish what he had in mind.
Our meeting with the Lord tonight was not the first time I’ve met the man. It didn’t seem as though he recognized me, but I knew him instantly. You see, seven years ago, I killed his nephew.
It was accidental. The young man—Henry Randall was the name—was attacking a young lass outside a brothel. It seemed as though she had refused him, or he had demanded something she didn’t wish to grant him. He began beating her without mercy while tearing at her clothes and forcing himself on her.
Images from that night came rushing back, all at once. The lass’s blood on the ground, the tooth she had lost lying beside her after Henry Randall had punched her mouth. Bruises around her neck, where his hands had closed around her throat and squeezed, over her eyes where he had struck her. He’d torn her kirtle from top to bottom, leaving her plump body exposed to all, and was moving sharply on top of the unconscious woman when Broc had found them.
I pulled him from her and throttled and hit him until he was dead. I did not mean to do it. I would not have gone so far if it hadn’t been for the way he’d hurt the lass. She was nearly dead, herself, covered in blood and bruises. Every time I looked at her, I hit him again. Until it was too late to stop.
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.