Beatrice’s eyes flew open, bulging at the sound of Randall’s voice. Broc wasn’t surprised a bit, he’d expected all along that they would come across the bastard in their escape.

All that was left was to hope that no one thought to question a man of God.

“Good morning to you, Lord Randall!” Deacon Eddard called out.

The man was a born smuggler, Broc noted silently, biting the side of his cheek to silence the laughter threatening to bubble out.

Beatrice looked appalled at this. How could anyone stifle a laugh at such a time? Perhaps she was right, but he was far too exhausted and still in pain.

And there was one thing he’d learned on the sea, when things looked worst, sometimes, all one could do was laugh at the turn of events outside of their control.

“And a good morrow to you, Deacon,” the man returned.

“It’s glad I am to have met up with you this morning,” the deacon continued. “I had not the chance to thank you for your hospitality last night. It was much appreciated, I’d never slept in such a sumptuous bed before.”

“Take care, Deacon. You’ll be getting ideas above your station,” the old woman beside him grumbled.

Once again, Broc stifled a laugh. This time, it appeared as though Beatrice joined him.

“It’s right you are, Frances. Poverty is my lot in life, which I accept joyfully,” Deacon Eddard declared. “Still, there is nothing sinful in enjoying the hospitality of a friend.”

The old woman grumbled something under her breath. She was truly doing her part to make things look convincing.

“What brings you to the village this morning?” the deacon asked.

Beatrice’s hand clamped down over Broc’s. He wished he could offer her some comfort. The best they could do was remain still.

“Looking for someone,” Randall replied. Naturally, he wouldn’t tell the truth. That would mean admitting to a holy man what he’d done. “And you, Deacon?”

Broc and Beatrice locked eyes again.

“Delivering some comfort to the ill. I received word today that the Beckett family has fallen ill and Frances wished to bring food to them.”

“There’s never a rest for those who wish to do good for others, is there?” Randall asked.

Beatrice rolled her eyes. Broc could only agree with the sentiment. He thought his pretense of being a good, honorable protector to those living in the village, in the shadow of the manor, was believable.

Deacon Eddard agreed, “Indeed not, your lordship. Indeed not.”

“Lord Randall.” A second rider joined them on horseback. “There’s word of a sighting on the other side of the village, closer to the manor house.”

“Is everything in order here?” Deacon Eddard asked, feigning concern. “A sighting?”

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with,” Randall assured him.

Broc heaved a sigh of relief, believing the men close to riding off in the direction of where Hugh and Derek were leading them, before one of the horses began sniffing around in the straw.

Beatrice pressed her lips together, her face going deep red as she struggled to remain still and not shoo the animal’s nose away out of sheer reflex. He glared at her, shaking his head just enough to signal her to remain still. Not that he needed to. She knew better than to move.

Even so, his heart was in his throat and threatening to burst from him as the horse continued its exploration.

He was not a praying man. He never had been. Religion was not one of the virtues his mother had passed onto him, though she had tried her best. He was always more concerned with the rough-and-tumble life of a man of the sea.

Though he had not adopted prayer into his everyday life, he remembered enough of what his mother had tried to teach him and silently recited every word he could bring to mind, eyes squeezed shut.

There was little chance God would listen to him, the sinner that he was. A murderer.

But he wasn’t praying for his own sake. He prayed for her. She had done nothing to deserve what surely awaited her if they were discovered.

“Come. Let us see what this report is all about,” Randall decided.

Just like that, the horses were gone, the pounding of their hooves fading into the distance and soon swallowed by the noise of the village.

Broc opened his eyes to find Beatrice weeping, tears flowing down her cheeks. He wished more than ever that he might hold her, comfort her, whisper tender words into her ear until she relaxed. All he could do was squeeze her hand.

She squeezed back. It was enough.

“Come.” Deacon Eddard sounded as though he were muttering through clenched teeth. “Let us continue. Quickly.”

The cart resumed its swaying as the mule continued on its way.

It was by far the longest ride of Broc’s life, the seconds stretching into lifetimes as they passed through the village and on to the outskirts. If they were on the main road out of Thrushwood, which he assumed they were, there would be a few homes here and there, dotting both sides of the road until the landscape would open up and turn to gently rolling foothills.

That time couldn’t come soon enough.

There was no avoiding the memories of his first escape from the village, years earlier. That had been a far different event. Moonlight had been his only guide as he’d run, barefoot, from the cell and into the countryside.

They had even taken his shoes before throwing him into the cell.

His legs and feet had been cut to shreds by the time he’d reached a small, winding stream in which to clean his wounds. Strips of his tunic had served as bandages, and he’d followed the stream to a larger body of water which had led to a cluster of cottages.

The kindly people who’d called the cottages home had been too far removed from Thrushwood to know who he was or even express doubt at the sight of his ragged appearance. They’d been too concerned with helping care for him, by that time, several days had passed since he’d eaten anything other than berries and plants in the woods.

He’d spent nights huddled in a ball beneath any bit of natural shelter he could find and had walked during the day, taking care to avoid injuring his already damaged feet any further.

They’d slowed his progress, but he’d managed to put enough distance between himself and the village nonetheless.

“It seems as though we made it,” the deacon murmured after what felt like hours. “We’re well outside Thrushwood now.”

“Where did you arrange to meet Derek and Hugh?” he dared ask from beneath the straw.

“There is a wooded area a league or more from here. They should be waiting there.”

Would they? Had they escaped? Broc wouldn’t put it past them, Randall believed himself to be clever, inescapable, but he had nothing on a pair of clever Highlanders who had spent much of their lives fighting to get out of scrapes.

The threat he’d posed to them was nothing compared to some of the stories they’d told around the fire back at the Duncan manor house.

Even so, there was no telling. Villagers could be vicious, especially when it came to foreigners such as themselves. They’d already witnessed such treatment. If any of them had managed to corner the McInnises…

The cart came to a stop. Beatrice let out a long sigh, as though she’d been holding her breath. “Are we concealed?”

“You are. You can sit up, if you wish.” They did, both of them taking great gulps of air after spending so long breathing stale, dusty air beneath the straw.

“It’s apologies I’m owing ye, lass,” Broc grimaced. “I canna smell very fresh after the treatment I’ve received.”

She must have been ready to choke on the stench coming from him.

“It’s no matter,” she beamed. “I’m too happy we managed to get away.”

He looked around, noting the slim, young trees which surrounded them and the sun-dappled ground, the rays of light shining between the leaves which grew thick and green above them. It was like something from a dream, beautiful and serene.

And the lass beside him, picking straw from her hair with a rueful grin. She was like a dream, as well.

He shook himself with the reminder that their journey was far from over. He wouldn’t feel safe until they were aboard the ship, on their way from Silloth. There was still another day or more of travel before they reached the harbor, and like as not a day to prepare the ship for sailing.

Beatrice tensed at the sound of approaching hooves, her hands trembling. Broc wished he’d thought to take the dirk from her after she’d freed him, but she’d only tucked it beneath her garter once again. If the approaching horses carried a threat, he would take it from her, whether or not the gesture was entirely proper. She would have to understand.

He didn’t need to worry. When the horses emerged in the clearing, he smiled from ear to ear. “What took the two of you so long, then?”

Derek scowled. “Nothing but the fools we led on a chase throughout the village while you lot made your escape.”

“It isn’t easy, evading capture when an entire village wants your head on a sharpened stick,” Hugh agreed with customary good humor.

The old woman gasped in shock from her seat behind the mule, and for the first time, Broc witnessed the McInnis twins blushing in shame from something they’d said.

“It’s no matter, now,” Beatrice laughed, still shaky. “Oh, and you’ll be wanting this.” She withdrew the dirk and handed it back to Derek.

“Ye made good use of it, so I see,” he smiled. She took it for the compliment it was and blushed, nodding.

“Good work.” He clasped Broc’s hand. “I hope this teaches ye a lesson, ye daft… fool,” he finished, glancing at the back of the old woman’s head before the word he’d been ready to use slipped out.

“What lesson would that be, then?”

“Not to underestimate me, or what I’m able to understand.” Another look at the pair seated above them. “We’ll talk about it another time.”

“After we’ve arrived home, I hope,” Broc replied.

“Indeed, though perhaps we should discuss how to proceed.” Derek and the deacon exchanged a meaningful look.

“Yes,” Deacon Eddard agreed. “It’d unfortunate, but Frances and I cannot escort you all the way to Silloth.”

“Though a young woman should have a chaperone,” the old woman grumbled, obviously offended at the idea of Beatrice traveling with three men.

“Naturally,” the deacon agreed, obviously placating her. “However, some matters can be overlooked in situations such as this.”

“What shall we do?” Beatrice asked, looking to Broc for answers.

Answers he did not have.

“We can take you to the next village and be back to Thrushwood before dusk,” Deacon Eddard reasoned. “So long as we are not missed, it should be all right. I doubt anyone would connect our absence and your disappearance.”

“We could acquire horses there,” Broc mused. “But what if someone were to get word of a nobleman in search of three Scots and a redheaded lass traveling together?”

“We’ll go ahead of you,” Hugh suggested, patting his horse’s neck. “They’d done quite a bit of riding today, but they could manage a little speed, I think.”

“Aye, and we’ll reach Silloth in time to prepare the ship for sailing. If all goes well, we should be ready by the time you get there.”

“Would you really be able to make such good time?” Beatrice asked, looking less than convinced of this.

Derek nodded. “Aye, we don’t need to sleep much, and could always trade the horses out at some point, whenever we pass a stable with an owner willing to trade. We could be there late tomorrow night, if we start out now.”

Judging from the sun’s position nearly overhead, that would give them nearly a day and a half, Broc observed.

“We’ll do our best to meet you there the following morning, then,” he announced.

“You think we could?” Beatrice asked, chewing her lip.

He shrugged, smiling in the hopes of reassuring her. “Do we have a choice?”