Beatrice turned her head to the side, but she still heard the sound of the bodies hitting the water when Hugh and Derek worked together to throw them overboard.

They’d both been injured, and similarly. Hugh’s shoulder was slashed, but she’d helped him clean the wound and had heeded his instructions in treating it. He had clearly learned a lot from Sarah. She’d bandaged it, feeling clumsy in spite of his assurances to the contrary.

Derek had shed no blood, but there was bruising all along his shoulder and upper arm. “I wrenched it pretty well,” he chuckled in an attempt to hide his pain. He could move it, meaning there was no break, but the muscles were all torn. He fashioned a sling which Beatrice helped him slide around the arm, holding it steady.

It had taken a dose of one of Sarah’s pain-relieving tinctures to even allow that slight amount of motion.

They were lucky to have two young men aboard who could manage the heavy labor necessary to man the ship, young men who’d come in with them and were dedicated to the men who paid their wages. “We can trust them to remain silent,” Derek assured her. “They’re no strangers to the rougher side of life.”

It was cold comfort to Beatrice, who couldn’t seem to shake off the shock and horror of what she’d witnessed. Two men were dead, had died before her very eyes.

Men who’d intended to hurt her. To kill her, even. Who had roughly, callously pulled her from her room at the inn and all but dragged her to the rowboat, then onto the ship. No one had come to her aid, though she had been certain of witnesses all along the way.

Randall was a nobleman, after all. He’d dressed like one, too. None of them would have dared defy him or even question the way he’d treated her.

Things might have ended far differently.

She went below deck after watching the clumsy, makeshift burial at sea, having satisfied the need to watch Randall slip beneath the waves. Though she’d witnessed his death, had watched him breathe his last, there had still been the desire to make certain he’d never come back to hurt her.

What did that mean? What did it say about her? Would she go to hell for being glad he was dead and gone?

Did it matter?

She wasn’t certain of anything anymore.

No, that wasn’t true. As she descended the ladder which led to the lower decks, she reflected on the one thing she knew for certain.

The man she loved waited for her, his eyes slightly glassy, she knew it was a result of the tincture she’d given him earlier, in the hopes of relieving his pain.

“It isn’t that bad, really,” he’d insisted. “A scratch.”

Yes, a scratch. One which extended from just below his left shoulder to the center of his chest, then curved down to his navel. A scratch which had caused him to lose enough blood that he’d lost consciousness moments after Randall died.

She’d believed Broc to be dead, too. And in that instant, she’d wanted to die with him.

She loved him. It was as simple as that, if such a thing could be simple.

“It’s done,” she announced in a quiet voice, sitting beside his cot.

He looked at the ceiling, sighing. “Good riddance.”

“I feel so much guilt for believing the same thing,” she confessed. “But I can’t help myself.”

“Nor should you,” he murmured.

The hand closest to her slid across the straw-filled tick mattress and onto her lap, where her hands rested. She turned one hand over to clasp his.

“You did nothing wrong,” she whispered. “Killing him, I mean. It was necessary.”

“Aye,” he replied. “I didn’t feel that way about the first one, of course. I wasn’t protecting myself that night.”

“You were trying to protect another,” she reminded him. “Which is noble.”

“Would you feel that way if I were a stranger? A brutish Scot?”

Her cheeks colored as she remembered her original impression of him. “If I knew the truth of what happened, yes. I would.”

“What if I told ye I enjoyed it at the time?” he asked. “I didn’t need to beat the man as I did. I could’ve stopped. Should have stopped. He was no longer a threat to the lass. But I simply couldn’t help myself. I’ve never been able to help myself when it comes to men who harm women. What sort of man is that? And yet, what sort of man beats another man to death?”

She drew a long, shaky breath. “You did what you felt had to be done. When I look at the man Randall was and think of how his nephew might have been—knowing what he was, really, seeing what he did to that girl—I can understand it. And so could Deacon Eddard. He told me so.”

Broc chuckled. “I wondered why he was so keen to help me. And how you found out about it.”

“He thought I should know. I’m glad he told me.”

“The knowing of it…” He looked out the small, round porthole above the cot, where stars seemed to choke the sky. “Knowing it didn’t make you hate me?”

“Hate you? How could I ever hate you?”

“I know how you were raised. With religion and such.”

“Does it seem as though I hate you?” She tightened her hold on his hand. “Do you think I would’ve raced out to the Randall house on horseback to free you from that barn if I hated you? Or that I would’ve traveled alone with you if I hated you, or was frightened of you?”

His eyes met hers, and she thought she’d never seen him look so glad, even when they escaped detection, in that straw-filled cart. “I don’t know that I could’ve borne your hating me, lass.”

Suddenly, it was as if all the air left the room. She could no longer breathe. Did he notice how her palm grew slick with perspiration? He had to, for he released it.

Only to reach for her, to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Her eyes drifted down to his torso, which was bare except for the bandages which she’d wrapped around it. In spite of the injury he’d suffered, in spite of its ugliness, she had thrilled at the feeling of him beneath her hands. She rested one palm on his chest, careful of the wound beneath the bandage.

“I believe I know your heart,” she whispered, wishing she could think of something better to say. Something which would suit the strength of emotion which seemed to boil in her core. “I know how good it is, how true. I’ve known it since the first, since you came to the house and were so kind to me.”

“Though you held a sword,” he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I remember thinking how magnificent you were.”

“You did?” she asked, giggling softly as her heart beat faster than ever.

“Aye, lass. The most beautiful, wonderful thing I’d ever seen. I believe…” He held her chin in his hand, letting his fingers run over the curve of her jaw. “I believe I loved you then. That very day.”

“You love me?” she breathed, a lump in her throat.

“Aye. I love ye most terribly. I know I’m not the sort of man you want to hear speaking those words, but—”

“I love you.” The words poured out without her thinking them, as though it was her heart speaking for her.

Using the hand cupping her chin, he drew her face closer. She leaned down, as he was unable to come to her, and allowed him to pull her in for a soft, gentle kiss.

She had never been kissed before, had nothing to compare it to. But what could be compared to the burst of sensation which raced through her, until she tingled to the tips of her toes and fingers? What could be better than the warmth coming from him, the firm smoothness of his lips against hers?

The way his hand curled at the back of her neck, holding her closer? And her hand, moving up to his shoulder, clutching at the bulging muscles there?

Was this passion, the heat which swept over her, which made her tremble so? Was that what seemed to pull a soft sigh from the back of her throat, was it what made her want more?

He pulled back, taking a shaky breath as he did. “It might be for the best I’m injured, lass,” he chuckled, his voice deeper than normal. “I might not be able to control myself.”

She opened her eyes, finding his so close to hers. “I would never agree with you otherwise, but perhaps you’re right.” Because she wasn’t certain she’d be able to control her passion, either.