“It’s been a fortnight since we left home.”

Broc thought he’d never heard a more miserable announcement in all his days. Derek rode beside him, Hugh just in front, through a densely wooded area between Silloth and Thrushwood. They traveled east, and the sun was at their back. The day would end soon, and they would have to make camp within the hour.

He left the scouting up to Hugh, who kept watch on the condition of the would-be road and the safety of their mounts, and turned his attention to the miserable man to his left. “It has, already?” He feigned ignorance. “It doesn’t seem as though so many days have passed.”

“They have. I’ve kept count.” His normally laughing, bright eyes had dimmed a bit more with each day away from his wife.

“We’ll reach Thrushwood tomorrow,” Broc reminded him. “Every day that passes moves us one day closer to your being reunited. Remember that.”

“Not knowing,” he growled. “It’s the not knowing. That’s the worst of all.”

“Do you trust Sarah?”

“Of course, I do. She’s one of the most trustworthy people I’ve ever known.”

“That trust does not extend itself to her care of your wife and child, however.”

For the first time in days, Derek laughed. A quiet laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “You’d understand if you were in my position.”

Broc turned his face away just enough to conceal the rolling of his eyes. If he had two pence for every time he’d heard either of his traveling companions make that very statement comparing themselves to him, he’d be a wealthy man.

Was that what happened to a man once they wed? Did they suddenly believe themselves above the petty concerns of the unmarried—even if they’d harbored such concerns in earlier days?

Then, he replied, “I understand what it is to put another’s welfare above my own. I do not need to sign a marriage contract in order to place myself in your position.”

“Fair enough. Though it still isn’t the same.” He raised his voice. “What do you think, Hugh?”

A laugh similar to Derek’s rang out as Hugh called out over his shoulder. “I think his time is coming. One day. And he’ll know.”

“Unlikely, seeing as how I’ll go back to living as we once did. Remember those times? It wasn’t very long ago.”

“Aye,” Derek murmured, staring out into the woods as he thought back.

“Never being home for more than a few days at a stretch—during good weather, of course, not the winter months when the waterways clogged with ice. Even then, you were always busy, keeping track of the shipments and their arrivals and collecting from the merchants. Securing new shipments. Making new contacts, expanding the routes the ships traveled. Collecting payment and keeping track of the records.”

Derek nodded in acknowledgement. “You don’t have to remind me. It was all of that and much more.”

Broc spread his arms in a shrug. “You expect me to find a lass of my own who’d be willing to suffer through such an existence? Or who would remain steadfast when her man was away for so long?”

Derek snorted, shaking his head. “Remember old Angus?”

Broc’s face fell. “How could I forget?”

“Who’s this Angus?” Hugh asked.

Broc exchanged a pained look with Derek. “He was an old seaman who worked aboard one of your brother’s ships. A good man, trustworthy, as skilled as though he’d been born at sea.”

“Very likely he was,” Derek murmured. “A bit of a drifter, as well. He never stayed in one place very long, but I suppose there comes a time in every man’s life when he decides he made a mistake and wants to make up for it. He wanted to make up for never having settled down. He wanted a good woman waiting for him when he came home, someone to tell his stories to. Someone to care whether he made it home at all.”

“He married a lass far too young for him,” Broc remembered, rubbing his chin as he thought back. “None of us considered it a likely marriage. I don’t believe there was ever a question in any of our minds of whether it would end well. But he made a good living and faithfully sent the money he’d earned home to his wife.”

“Who spent it on herself and nothing else,” Derek growled.

“Herself and the man she took up with,” Broc amended. “Which Angus learned all about on a surprise visit. He thought she’d be happy to see him. He actually believed that.”

“I suppose she wasn’t alone?” Hugh guessed.

“Not only was she not alone,” Derek murmured. “She was in bed with the man.”

When neither of them finished the story, Hugh prodded them. “What did he do?”

Derek looked at Broc. Broc looked back at him.

“He killed them both. Split the man’s head open with a log from beside the hearth, then strangled her… before hanging himself,” Broc concluded. “Now, ask me again why it’s never been a priority for me to find a wife.”

The three of them fell into silence for a time, there being little to say after such a tale was shared.

Broc remembered the shock they’d all gone into at how violently the sordid situation had ended. While no one in Angus’s acquaintance believed he’d married well, they hadn’t seen such a terrible conclusion coming.

“It wouldn’t have to be that way for you,” Derek insisted after a while. “As you said yourself, everyone knew it was doomed to failure from the start.”

“Aye,” Broc muttered, staring straight ahead. “Everyone but Angus.”

The conversation ended there, which was just as well. The sun had nearly slid behind the foothills and the sky was darker by the minute. Hugh pointed to a group of trees whose branches seemed to grow together, they were so closely intertwined. The effect was that of a roof under which they could bed for the night.

Hugh tended the horses while Derek shook out the bedrolls and Broc built a fire a short distance from the canopy of branches, out in the open. The McInnis twins joked back and forth, Derek’s mood having improved with the promise of food and sleep. Good thing, that, since Broc wasn’t certain how much more of his friend’s brooding he could stand.

His own mood, on the other hand, had darkened at the recounting of Angus McGuinness’s terrible tale. He’d been a good man, a solid one, one Broc had always been able to count on whenever they manned the same ship. They’d enjoyed more than their share of close calls on stormy seas, had shared more than a few mugs of mead.

All it had taken for him to break was one unfaithful woman.

He’d wondered at the time what had gone through Angus’s head in those final, brutal minutes. When he’d seen his wife in bed with another man. Had he suddenly realized how wrong he’d been all along? Had he remembered all of their tender moments in a single rush of understanding, had he questioned her sincerity?

Had he felt like a fool, the sort of pathetic man neighbors whispered and laughed about? No doubt they’d laughed, too, watching men parading in and out of the home he’d purchased for his unfaithful wife. She’d used him and flaunted her using of him.

Had any of the unthinkable pain in his head and his heart eased once he’d split the bastard’s head open? Had that made him feel any better?

Had there been any love left in his heart for her even as his hands closed around her slim throat and he choked the life out of her? Had he felt vindicated as the light in her eyes faded to nothing?

Had he hanged himself from the rafter out of guilt? Had he come out of his blind rage, blinking fast and wondering who had caused the death all around him?

Or had he done it as an alternative to what was surely to come?

Had he done it because he was embarrassed by the fool she’d made of him?

The fire leapt to life, shooting flames upward into the air. Broc fed it a handful of dry twigs before standing and wiping his dirty hands on already dirty trousers. They would all need to change into clean clothing and wash up before visiting Beatrice. Like as not, the presence of three strange men would already have a jarring effect on the lass. They didn’t need to frighten her any further with the roughness of their travel-weary appearance.

“At the rate we’ve managed to progress to this point, we should be able to make Thrushwood tomorrow evening,” Derek mused, skewering the last of their roasted rabbit on a stick before placing it over the fire to warm through.

Broc wouldn’t mind a day without rabbit. He’d eaten enough of it on this trip to last him a lifetime.

“And we’ll set out for the farm at first light?” he asked, perhaps more hopeful than he should’ve sounded.

Both of his companions noted this, if the way their eyebrows arched meant anything.

“Why so eager?” Hugh asked, uncorking his flask and drinking deep of the water inside.

“No reason. I’m only concerned for Derek, reminding how close we are to turning around and starting for home.”

It was a lie, an inexpert one, but it seemed to do the trick. Derek’s eyes lit up at the prospect of getting home quickly, back to his wife. This was enough to shift the tide of the conversation away from Broc.

Which was all he needed.

* * *

The horses were fatigued close to the point of collapse by the time they reached the outskirts of Thrushwood nearly a solid day later.

“How that lying bastard could look us in the eye and tell us these beasts were up to the challenge of such a journey is beyond me,” Derek grumbled as they walked the exhausted animals past the first few outlying buildings. Light glowed in the windows, the light of fires and lanterns and candles.

Broc’s stomach growled when the scent of roasted meat and stewed vegetables and fresh bread floated from home after home. He hoped there would be food available at the inn, or at least a tavern nearby which would provide sustenance. If he never saw rabbit again, it would be too soon.

“We won’t do much riding tomorrow,” Hugh reasoned, patting his gelding’s neck. “It will be a good rest for them.”

“I ought to give the man a piece of my mind when we return,” Derek grumbled, brows drawn close together. “Thinks just because we’re Scots, he can push these three off on us.”

“Well, he did push them off on us,” Hugh observed with a wry smile. “Perhaps it would be best not to start a fight when we reach the harbor. No need to complicate things further. If the horses get us there, they get us there.”

“If,” Derek barked. “If they do. I’ve half a mind to switch them out for fresh here in the village and tell the man where to stick his complaints when we reach Silloth.”

It was all background noise to Broc as they continued to ride further into the village. Memories pressed in on him from all sides as they passed the blacksmith, the baker’s. A row of small, modest cottages. They were all still there, in the same place as before.

Was everything the same?

What about the filthy, rat-infested pit in which criminals were held?

“Margery described the location of the inn,” Derek reported, breaking through the chilling images which fought for control of Broc’s mind. “It should only be a few minutes ride down the main street, which she said is twice as wide as any of the others and impossible to miss.”

“Other things impossible to miss,” Hugh noted, his sharp eyes scanning the area around them. “Three strangers riding into the village.”

Sure enough, they had attracted attention. This was no surprise. They’d be distrusted simply because of who they were. Thrushwood was rather removed from the rest of the world, too, surrounded by woodlands on all sides, so one couldn’t blame the villagers for their suspicions.

Even so, the utter contempt on the faces of those watching from doorways and windows as they passed was unnerving. An old woman, busy sweeping her doorstep, spat in their direction before stomping back inside without finishing the job she’d started.

“Perhaps it would be best for us to hurry about our business,” Broc observed in a low voice after a pair of young men snarled in their direction, then continued walking past.

“Things will be better when we reach the inn,” Derek promised.

“How can you be so certain?” Broc asked, glad for the presence of a dirk at his hip. They’d been careful to conceal their weapons so as to avoid trouble, even so, his was just beneath his tunic and could be freed in a matter of moments.

Isn’t that the sort of thinking that nearly ruined your life? The voice in his head was clear, sharp, knowing. He tried to ignore it, to no avail.

Defending oneself wasn’t a crime. If any of the villagers decided to react to their visitors with violence, the three of them would have no choice but to fight back.

The problem would lie in convincing the rest of the village that they didn’t deserve to hang for it.