It was early morning, light flooding through the window in the barn wall. The pigs jostled for attention a few stalls over. Broc wondered if the men who cared for the beasts had been ordered to stay away.

Randall would either have to move him elsewhere or kill him soon. The poor pigs couldn’t go for days without food and drink. And from the stench of it, their stalls or pens or whatever it was they lived in needed mucking. Badly.

He wished he could breathe through his mouth. Perhaps being forced to sit in the midst of such stink was his true torture.

The manor came to life outside the barn, voices overlapping as men and women got to work. It wasn’t unlike the clamor of activity which always surrounded the Duncan manor house. He grown accustomed to it, if anything, the noise comforted him.

Except the voices weren’t pleasant. There was no laughter, no good-natured joking or taunting as everyone worked together.

Was life with the Duncans so special?

Or was life with Randall so bitter?

He could easily believe it was the latter. Randall likely treated those who worked the land and tended the animals and house little better than slaves. They were miserable, all of them.

As Beatrice would be.

He imagined her growing old before her time. Her smooth skin would become wrinkled, would lose its healthy color and turn sallow. The corners of her mouth would point down in a scowl and stay that way. Her rich, vibrant hair would go gray.

Her feisty nature would fade to nothing.

She’d be nothing but a shadow of who she had once been, and it wouldn’t take long for the change to occur.

There had to be a way for him to escape, to take her away. To spare her the pain.

What about his pain? His legs had cramped beyond the point of movement. If Randall’s men were to haul him to his feet, there would be no way for him to run. Even if they untied his ankles, he would be useless.

The same went for his arms. He’d never be able to fight off an attack when he could hardly feel anything from the shoulders down.

He was useless to himself, useless to her.

Those strident footsteps rang out again, and this time he was ready for them. Only Randall wasn’t alone, at least two men accompanied him. The men who had attacked him, most likely. After all, it wouldn’t do for everyone at the manor to know who was tied up and left helpless in the barn.

One of them, a squat little man with a crooked nose, was rough in pulling the gag from his mouth before shoving a cup of water at him. Broc did what he could to swallow some of it, but most ran down his chin and onto his bloodstained tunic.

“Let no one say I allow my prisoners to go without water.” Lord Randall waited by the window, his arms crossed as he watched Broc nearly choke.

They didn’t gag him again. A relief. He took deep gulps of air, relishing the freedom until his ribs ached in response.

The other man—tall, wiry, with a nasty sneer and only a handful of rotten teeth—dropped a crust of bread in his lap.

“How am I supposed to eat this when I can’t use my hands?” he asked, his voice little more than a croak.

“I suppose you’ll have to work it out for yourself,” Randall smiled. “Let it not be said I allowed you to go without food.”

“Why don’t ye get it over with, then? Are ye too much of a coward to do what we both know you’re simply longing to do?” he dared.

“Don’t think you can goad me into taking action before I’m ready,” Randall whispered, nostrils flaring as he did. “That would be an act of mercy, and there is no room for mercy here. I didn’t wish to extend it seven years ago, and I certainly have no wish to do so now. I’ve had too much time to imagine what I’d do to you if I had the chance.”

“Aye. And I’ve had seven years to reflect on how glad I was to beat that filthy excuse for a man to death. He deserved worse than he got, which you know is true. No matter how little you think of women, no one should do what he did and get away with it.”

“The men in the village certainly didn’t believe so,” Randall hissed. “They were preparing the rope for the noose which would’ve broken your neck, you murderous savage.”

“And you’ll finish the job for them. You’ve taken it upon yourself, rather than turning me over to those who’d see me hanged back then.”

Randall scoffed. “Those feeble-minded dolts? I’d be surprised if any one of them could remember what took place yesterday, much less a crime from seven years back. At any rate, this is about satisfaction. Personal satisfaction. I intend to experience quite a lot of it.”

“Don’t allow me to get in your way, then,” Broc muttered. “Do what you must. Perhaps I shall die of boredom while waiting for you to screw up the courage to kill me.”

Randall held up both hands when his men looked as though they’d advance on Broc, then crossed the stall and leaned down until they were face-to-face.

“Do you think I’ve never killed before?” he asked in a low whisper, eyes harder than ever. “Are you truly that naïve? Trust me, it isn’t a matter of courage, I’m under no illusions about my late nephew, and I know he was not a courageous man. And yet he killed that nameless wretch, did he not?”

Ah. So the lass had died after what Henry had done to her.

Randall didn’t know it, but he’d just given Broc a gift of sorts. The sense that the killing was warranted. The beast had murdered that poor, innocent girl who’d done nothing worse than sell herself. Like as not, she’d led a sad life.

But nothing she’d done, no sin she’d committed, meant she deserved to die so pitifully. So painfully.

Randall’s teeth shone even in the shadowy corner of the stall. “Perhaps I should thank you, in all honesty. You did what I couldn’t do myself. You did me a favor by killing Henry that night.”

And to think, he’d been certain Randall could do or say nothing to surprise him.

“Think about it,” he continued, with all the relish of a man finally able to bear his secrets to a confidant. “If my nephew had lived, he would have inherited the title. The land, the money, all that goes with the lordship. Once he was out of the way, it was just a matter of time before my brother died. If the rest of the world believes he died a brokenhearted man… so be it.”

“You killed him,” Broc whispered, disgusted.

“You helped,” Randall replied. “He did truly care about the lad, though I never understood why. The last thing he had to remember his dead wife, that type of thing. Yet another complication I’ve never understood, the attachment to women, but you and I have already had that discussion,” he added.

“Aye. We have.” The thought of Beatrice made him grind his teeth.

“So, I suppose I should thank you,” Randall concluded. “You made it possible for me to live the life I always knew I was entitled to.”

“Why all of this, then?” Broc asked. “Why this determination to destroy me, when I only made it possible for you to have what you wanted?”

The Lord snorted, shaking his head. “You truly do not understand familial loyalty. You see, it was one thing for you to make it possible for me to advance. I do thank you for that. But it’s another for me to allow anyone, especially a piece of Scottish scum who looks as though he’s never lived a civilized day in his life, to murder a member of my family. We’re too good for that. Much too good for the likes of you.”

The man was insane. Broc had always believed it so, after having witnessed his red-faced, blustering screams for vengeance after Henry’s murder, but this was something entirely different. This show of callousness chilled him to the bone. No one with a soul could speak with such contempt for human life.

An insane man was capable of anything, he knew. No show of cruelty would be too much, no perversion too brutal.

His would not be a pleasant end. Mere hanging would not satisfy the Lord’s thirst.

He stood, fixing Broc with a triumphant gaze. “I’ll give you a bit more time to think it over. Perhaps it’s in your favor that I’ve just sealed the agreement with my intended bride. There are many concerns I’m currently involved in, you’re only one of them.”

Sealed the agreement. Broc took pains to maintain a neutral expression as his mind turned this expression over and over. She had agreed to marry him? He knew she had no other choice, considering the circumstances. It was clear the lass had come to the same conclusion.

Commotion outside the barn caught everyone’s attention. Randall waved a hand, motioning for one of his men to go to the window. Broc watched as intently as the others, while the raised voices on the other side of the barn’s stone walls only grew louder.

“It seems there’s a visitor,” the squat man announced. “A woman. Dark hair.”

Broc’s body tensed reflexively. Dark hair.

“Pretty thing, with gold and copper in her hair,” the man continued, chuckling before Randall stormed over and shoved him out of the way.

“You’re speaking of my betrothed,” he hissed. “You will not speak of her that way, or at all. Ever again.”

The man’s face went white, and his throat worked as he swallowed. “Begging your pardon, Lord Randall.”

“Take your requests for pardon elsewhere,” Randall sneered, pushing past the man on his way from the stall. “It’s clear my betrothed has need of me, or else she would not have made the journey, short though it may be.”

The three of them left Broc alone, with nothing but the sounds of squealing pigs and overlapping voices outside the barn to keep him company.

What was she doing back there? She hadn’t taken it into her head to do anything foolish, had she? He prayed not. She’d promised to bring back help, but he’d assumed that was simply the sort of thing people promised in such situations. He’d have promised the same thing if the positions had been reversed.

More voices raised, shouting orders. He recognized Randall’s as one of them, rising above the others. Excited, agitated. The pounding of hooves on stone, shouting and calling out and cursing.

Until it faded to near silence. A silence more unnerving than all the rest.

What had she done? What had she said?

Rapid footsteps, running into the barn. “Broc?”

His heart stopped beating. “Beatrice?”

She rushed into the stall, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. “We have to hurry.”

“What are you talking about? Hurry where? To do what?”

“We have to get out of here while he’s gone. As quickly as possible. If we’re careful, we can escape detection.”

“And go where?” he asked. His eyes widened when she lifted her kirtle to just above one knee and pulled a dirk from beneath the garter holding up her stocking. “And where did you get that?”

“It doesn’t look familiar?” she breathed, eyes sparkling. “I suppose not. I really don’t know how these things work, to be honest.”

“What things? Have you gone daft, lass?”

She dropped to her knees, breathing heavily as she sawed at the rope binding his ankles. “I mean, if you men would recognize each other’s weapons. I suppose you wouldn’t. Derek gave it to me.”

The rush of blood flowing down his legs and into his feet was no match for the rush of understanding her words brought. “Where are they?”

“Move. I must get to your hands, somehow.” She slid behind him, between his back and the wall. Even in his state of exhausted confusion and rising anxiousness, he couldn’t help registering the way her breasts pressed against him as she positioned herself. Her hands were sure, strong as she held his wrists in place and sawed at the rope which bound them.

“I asked where they are. What happened to them?” His arms swung loose, finally free, and instantly the muscles in his shoulders and back screamed in protest. He winced, an involuntary groan escaping his chapped lips.

“Did I hurt you?” she gasped.

“Nay. I’ve been in the same position for hours.”

“Oh.” Her hands worked those muscles, causing fresh waves of agony to shoot through him. “I forgot. They told me to rub you down a bit before trying to get you on your feet. But we don’t have much time.”

He would just bet the men had told her to rub him down. Even in the middle of a life-or-death situation, he could imagine Hugh barely containing his mirth while delivering those instructions.

Even so, it helped, and he was soon able to lean forward and rub life into his legs and feet while she continued on his shoulders and back. Within minutes, he was able to get to his feet and hold himself somewhat steady. There was still a tremendous throbbing in the back of his head, and the room spun a bit, but it was an improvement over what he’d already been through.

“Where are we going?” he whispered, while she went to the window to survey their surroundings.

“We’ll cut across the fields to the farm,” she explained. “It should take no more than a few minutes on horseback. After that, I’m not completely certain. But we’ll think of something.”

“Not completely certain?” he hissed. “Where are Derek and Hugh?”

“How do you think I got Randall out of here?” she demanded, shooting a filthy look his way. “They’re riding about the village, making certain everyone sees them. He threatened harm to them if they were seen about after dawn, did he not?”

He was struck all at once with a sense of wonder, gratitude and disbelief. That they would do that for him…

“Come on,” she urged. “We must go, now. It seems as though our way is clear, but there is no telling how long that will be the case. The mare is just outside here, tied off. I’ll whistle when I have her ready and you’ll come on the run.”

He remembered the warrior woman at the door, holding a sword she could hardly lift. There was a deep core of bravery in the lass, not to mention resourcefulness. She had found Derek and Hugh and was willing to risk herself to free him.

If only there was time to take her in his arms and thank her.

She disappeared, darting out of the stall and past the other side of the window. He crept along until he reached the arched opening to the courtyard, holding his breath, listening for her whistle.

When it came, sharp and clear, he hurried out and spotted her just ahead. A gray mare waited, he nearly leapt into the saddle, excitement and necessity enabling him to move fluidly in spite of his sore stiffness. He bent, his back straining, and took Beatrice under the arms to place her in front of himself.

She surprised him by taking the reins, but then, she knew where they were going.

“Come on, girl,” she whispered, snapping the leather smartly and pulling the mare about, directing it not down the stone road leading from the courtyard but instead into the fields running alongside.

They took off at a full gallop, and he could’ve sworn the lass was laughing as they did.