Broc could only open one of his eyes on waking.

When he did open the left eye, the one not caked shut with dried blood—he could smell it. That plus the searing pain in the back of his head told him what he needed to know—he looked about him and wished he had never woken at all.

Everything hurt. Not just his head. His hands and feet were bound, the feeling having long since left both. Time had passed, then, enough for the blood to stop flowing.

Why would it flow there when it could flow out of the back of his head?

If the pain was in back, he reasoned—thinking helped distract him from the pain, something he had learned long ago—but the blood had flowed over the side of his face, it meant he’d been on his face, or at least face down.

He didn’t need to ask himself where he was. The scent of manure and pigs assaulted his nose to the point where his eyes watered. A barn, tucked in a corner somewhere. Aside from shuffling feet and occasional snorting, there was silence.

They’d left him alone.

Why not? He was bound, arms behind his back, with a cloth wadded up and stuffed into his mouth. He was no threat to anyone.

He also didn’t need to ask himself who had done this to him. It had been too much to ask that Lord Randall not recognize him. The man had known him on sight, as Broc had known him.

It was folly, beginning to end. The entire thing. He had no business return to the scene of his crime. Whatever happened was no less than what he deserved—after all, he’d gone seven years without paying for his crime.

They had been good years, too. He had Derek to thank for that. And himself. He’d worked hard, but it had been work at which he’d excelled, work which had pleased him greatly.

Perhaps that was as much as he’d deserved.

He told himself not to despair, not to give up so easily, but what was the alternative? Lord Randall, who had most assuredly seen to his capture, wouldn’t make it so easy for him to escape again. There wouldn’t be a moment in which he’d be left to his own devices.

He would be bound at all times. And though he was currently alone, he wouldn’t be alone for long. He knew that, too.

Derek and Hugh didn’t know where he was. They would read his letter on waking and assume he had left with the lass. And they would ride out at dawn, as Lord Randall had demanded.

There was one hope. Only one. That they would first ride to the farm to confirm that he’d kidnapped Beatrice. When they found her there, never having arrived, they’d know something befell him.

What difference would it make? What could they possibly do?

He’d seen what they could do. He’d heard the stories, too. But there were only two brothers, that was all. None of the men Hugh had trained to fight, none of Maccay’s men or any of the others.

While they both had military training, it would matter little when they were so vastly outnumbered.

And Derek wouldn’t want to ride to the farm, at any rate. He would take Randall’s threats to heart and would like as not assume the man had placed spies along the road, perhaps even near the farmhouse, keeping watch for them.

Broc felt a great deal of affection for his friend, the sort of affection men developed toward those with whom they’d been through many challenges. He knew that affection was shared.

But it wasn’t the same as having a wife and new babe on the way.

He wouldn’t risk his life to save his friend when Margery waited for him.

That was simply the way of life, the manner in which things had unfolded.

He was on his own.

There was little light coming from the window above his head, telling him it was still night. Derek and Hugh would leave at dawn. There were only a handful of hours left before his fate was sealed.

If that many.

After all, Lord Randall need not keep him alive that long. He might decide to end things quickly—not out of any sense of mercy, but impatience. He’d been waiting a long time.

Broc tried as best he could to lessen his discomfort, shifting slightly. They’d dropped him on his backside, judging by the soreness in that area. He was up against the wall, slumped on his right side, where his eye was crusted shut.

He bent his arms, both of them burning in protest—they’d handled him most roughly, it was clear—and attempted to push himself up to a sitting position. That would relieve the pressure on his ribs, he hoped. It seemed as though he’d been across the back of a horse.

That made sense. If he were kidnapping a large, unconscious man, he’d have thrown him over the back of a horse, too. On his stomach, where the blood flowing from the wound on the back of his head would run into his eye and close it.

Was he actually agreeing with the methods behind the actions of the men who’d captured him?

After much slow movement, taking time to breathe carefully against the pain in his ribs, he managed to sit up. They’d at least left him on a bed of straw. A small mercy.

What wasn’t a mercy was the terrible, white-hot pain which screamed out in the back of his head. Sitting up had turned mere throbbing into agony and made the world swim before his open eye. His stomach clenched in revolt.

But he was gagged. He would choke to death on his own vomit if he didn’t control the nausea which twisted his insides. He couldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t allow it.

Panic would only make things worse, and it was threatening to overtake him.

Breathe. Slowly. Deeply. He counted to five as he breathed in, focusing on the numbers and on drawing breath in through his nose. Then, he let it out as slowly as he’d drawn it in. Again, in and out. In and out.

He rested against the stone wall at his back, closing his eye, fighting to control himself and stave off another wave of nausea. It got easier as time went on, and his insides relaxed somewhat.

Strangely enough, he thought of Margery in that moment. Poor Margery. To think, she had to go through that every day.

He’d never see her again, either. Any of the people who had welcomed him into their home and their hearts. They’d found their way into his, all of them.

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.