If only there was a way to check on her.

Derek rolled to his side with a growl in the back of his throat. If he managed to get a single moment’s sleep, it would be a miracle.

At least she was safe for the night, or so he tried to tell himself. She wasn’t out in the elements, getting rained on, curled up in a ball as a way of protecting herself. Perhaps in a doorway or beneath an overhang.

No. She was only sleeping in the back room of a tavern. Quite a step up.

He squeezed his eyes tightly closed, willing thoughts of her out of his brain. He needed to sleep if he were to have his wits about him when he visited the village shipping business in the morning. He’d already wasted nearly an entire day.

A fact Broc wouldn’t allow him to live down.

Upon his return to their shared room, his first mate had fixed him with a keen eye and his usual sharp observation.

“What went wrong this time?” he’d asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

“What makes you think anything went wrong?” Derek had replied, a grateful groan escaping his lips as he sat on the edge of the bed.

It was nothing compared to the luxurious accommodations back at the Duncan manor house, but it would beat sleeping on the muddy ground any day of the week.

“You have those lines between your eyes.” Broc had gestured to the space between his eyebrows, above the bridge of his nose. “I know that look. I’ve seen it too many times. When a merchant was trying to swindle ye, or a storm was brewing on the horizon.”

“Perhaps it’s been a long day, and I’m merely tired.”

“I’ve seen tired. You’ve been tired since not long after we started out from the manor house—I know, because I’ve felt the same way. We spent far too long growing soft in front of a winter fire.”

Derek had chuckled at the truth in this. “Aye. There’s nothing so dangerous as a comfortable fire for men such as we. Especially when it’s a five-month-long fire.”

The truth was, spending nearly half a year without strenuous activity had made him easily fatigued compared to how he normally behaved—vital, energetic, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice. He wasn’t nearly as trim as he’d been the night Hugh and his bride had ridden into town, either.

Broc hadn’t ceased pressing the matter. “No, this is more than fatigue. What happened out there? Did you find her?”

“Did I say I was looking for her?”

“You never had to say it, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t know all along. I’m hardly feeble-minded.”

“Then perhaps you should know better than to press me when I’m in a mood such as the one you claim I’m in,” he’d snapped, rising to go to the basin and wash his face and hands.

A good, long swim would’ve done a much better job of cleansing him—he knew better than to dream of a washtub by the fire, as he’d grown accustomed to back at Phillip’s—but there was nothing to do but make the best of what was available.

Broc had held his tongue while his captain had washed, staring out the open window at the rain-drenched night. It was better than snow, at any rate, and left the air smelling fresh.

“Will you go with me in the morning?” Derek had asked, drying his face on a strip of linen hanging by the basin for just such purpose.

“Aye, of course. I wouldn’t allow you to go alone. Why do you think I’m with ye?”

“I thought it was for the pleasure of my company.”

Broc had chortled. “I wouldn’t use those exact words, begging your pardon.”

The two of them had fallen into a companionable silence as they’d stretched out on their respective beds. They were lumpy, stuffed with straw which had flattened in some places, but not entirely uncomfortable. A small fire had burned, warming the room and casting dancing shadows on the wall opposite the fireplace.

Even with the peace which hung over the room, Derek had known Broc was merely waiting for him to confess the truth of his evening walk. And the truth was, in spite of his reluctance to share his thoughts, he’d needed to get them out of his head.

So he’d told Broc of following her, of watching her spirits fall a bit at a time as she’d made her way through the village. Of bribing the woman in order to secure a position for her, and of losing the sixpence for no good reason.

To his credit, Broc had remained silent throughout the tale—even when Derek had confessed to squandering the money, money they might have need of before their journey came to a close.

The room had fallen silent again, only the crackling of the logs in the fireplace and the soft, steady rain outside the window providing sound. That, and their breathing.

Derek had been certain his companion was asleep, which made the sound of his voice a surprise.

“I have to give the lass credit for being hard-headed,” Broc had grumbled, almost grudgingly.

He’d never had much time for women aside from the ways in which a man normally appreciated women, so Derek knew this was high praise.

“Yes, but her hard-headedness is going to get her killed.”

“It hasn’t yet. She made her way to Kirkcaldy.”

“Purely by accident. And it was a purely lucky accident which led her our way. I don’t think I have to tell you what would’ve taken place had I not stepped in prior to those sailors doing what they intended to do.”

Broc had let out an almost animal snarl—they were of the same mind when it came to such behavior, which was one of the many reasons Derek trusted him so implicitly. “Aye. She wouldn’t have been long for this world.”

“She would’ve been fortunate if it had ended early for her,” Derek had agreed, his stomach twisting at the mere idea of her being so ill-used. “You see what I mean, then.”

“I do. But I also see that she’s not your responsibility. Which you don’t seem to see.”

That had been the end of the discussion, as Derek had felt the beginnings of an argument he was not of a mind to begin—nor had he the energy. He’d allowed Broc’s flat, matter-of-fact observation to be the final word for the time being, which was wildly against his nature. Not many men ever got the last word when Derek was involved.

This was different. She was different.

And Broc was right.

Derek rolled to his other side, groaning inwardly as he reflected on how much of the night had passed without sleeping so much as a minute. He faced the wall, where the shadows were much fainter than they’d been when Broc’s breathing had turned to snores. The fire was all but dead, just another piece of proof that the night was slipping by.

Margery wasn’t his responsibility.

Why, then, was it impossible for him to forget about her?

Why did the image of her lying there in his bed, tucked up against his body, fill him with something deeper and more primal than lust? To be sure, the beginnings of desire unfurled in his core, causing his manhood to stir, but there was more to it than that.

When he closed his eyes and imagined hard enough, imagined her being there in his arms with her small, warm, soft body tucked firmly against his, a sense of peace came over him. Calm. Certainty.

It was enough to help him finally sleep.