It was full dark by the time Beatrice and the deacon reached the manor house. Had it been possible to cut through her fields and into his, the trip would’ve taken no more than a few minutes. Over the road which bordered her land and that of the Randall family, it was a much longer ride.

And it gave her plenty of time to think. Thinking was the last thing she needed to do just then, with so many concerns competing for her attention. It would’ve been better to simply act before she became overwhelmed.

Think about the good which will come from this, she urged herself when her fingers tightened around the reins to the point of pain and her heart began to race. Think about how good it will be when things go your way. Her muscles eased slightly, and her jaw relaxed. She only realized then that she’d been grinding her teeth, a bad habit she’d been certain of breaking years earlier.

It would be a relief, having the situation with Lord Randall settled and the matter of the farm, too. He didn’t need to know that she was aware of his ties to Broc, or that she’d ever met the man. With the word of the deacon behind her, there would be no way to question her motives, or the fact that she needed to leave, immediately. Who would dare question him?

The house was even larger than she’d ever imagined, the walls made of stones held together with dried mud and stretching well above her head. How many rooms could such a house contain? Dozens, she guessed. The windows were tall and narrow, hardly allowing out any of the light from within.

A wide path, almost a road, led up to the front of the house and it, too, was paved with flat stones which made their approach louder than she had intended it to be as the horses’ hooves rang out against them. A large, vaulted door sat in front of the house. Her mouth went dry when she thought of who was just behind that door.

This could’ve been hers, or at least hers in name. Such a grand home, with so many servants working within. She heard them, a smithy worked in a smaller outbuilding to her left, just past the main house. Even late in the day, his fire glowed and the hammer he used sang against the iron he shaped.

Farther off was a stable full of horses, she heard them neighing as young boys walked to and fro with buckets of straw. The animals would need to be taken care of for the evening before the boys had their meal and got their rest.

“Have you been here before?” she asked the deacon.

“Oh, yes. Many times. The late Lord Randall and his late wife often sent for me. They lived by their faith, unlike…” His voice trailed off.

And yet they had borne and raised a monster. Just how faithful had they been? She knew Henry Randall’s mother had died when he was just a boy, barely much older than she’d been when her father died. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps he might have turned out better had his mother lived.

If that had been the case, the young woman he’d killed might still be alive. He, himself, might be alive.

And Broc would never have killed him. She needn’t have been so frightened for his sake, stomach clenching and knees shaking whenever she imagined him being discovered.

The clopping of hooves grew louder, but Beatrice soon realized it was not their horses making the additional noise. There were men approaching behind them.

For one brief, heart-stopping moment, she feared Broc and the others had come to meet with Lord Randall on her behalf. She looked over her shoulder, fear widening her eyes, but she recognized none of the four men riding their way down the stone-paved path.

There was another horse with them, riderless, led by its reins in the hand of another rider. It carried something over its saddle. Something large, bulky, which hung down over both sides of the horse’s ribs and bounced in time with the animal’s trotting.

The riders had no intention of keeping the stately pace held by the two strangers, and Beatrice had no choice but to fall behind the deacon to leave room for them to pass.

When they did, she got a good look at what was hanging over the saddle.

Not what, but who.

By the light of the moon—the only light other than that of the torches held by two of the four men—she caught sight of his face, turned toward the horse’s rear end. Blood covered half of it, blood which seemed to seep from a gash on the back of the head and darkened the already dark hair to black.

She knew him, even though she’d only just met him. He was not the sort of man one forgot easily.

Broc.

What was this all about? Why…?

Just as it had earlier at the kitchen table, cold certainty filled her. She knew what had happened just as surely as if she’d been there to witness it.

Lord Randall had gotten word of him being in the village, somehow. Naturally. Word spread quickly among the villagers.

Either that, or he had learned of the presence of the foreigners and had felt it his place to track them down.

Why hadn’t she gone to the village to warn them away from speaking to him? They might have hidden themselves. They might even have left in time to avoid Broc’s attack.

He’d kill Broc.

Her knees pressed into Cecil’s sides, the reins digging into her hands as she squeezed them. What was she to do? How could she help? For she had to. There was no question that she had to.

But the men were riding off toward the right, around the side of the manor house, while the heavy, wooden front door was opening and a tall, golden-haired man strode out.

“To what do I owe this honor?” Lord Randall’s face bore a triumphant look.

If he were anyone else, Beatrice would’ve thought him handsome. She knew many girls in the village did, she’d seen them gasp and sigh over him on Market Day, as he flaunted his wealth to all around him.

To her, he was a leering animal, ready to pounce. His muscles were always tensed, always at the ready, even when he pretended to be friendly.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

This man was able to do something as terrible as what she now knew he’d done. He had ordered Broc’s attack. He had brought him back to the manor house for the purpose of exacting his own version of justice.

Instinctively, she knew she could not let on that she was aware, and, even if he knew she was aware, she could not allow him to know she cared. The man was a stranger to her, wasn’t he? And a foreigner. If she betrayed her concern, she would be giving away much more.

“Beatrice?” Deacon Eddard prompted, clearing his throat.

She’d lost her voice. She’d lost the ability to move. What was she supposed to do? Tell Lord Randall she had no intention of marrying him? It was suddenly clear that such an announcement would fall on deaf ears. He wouldn’t care what she wanted, what her intentions were.

He was willing to attack and kidnap a man. Most likely, he’d have Broc locked away somewhere before enacting his revenge. It had been a long time coming, too, which meant he wouldn’t be satisfied with anything quick or merciful.

How did she know this? She didn’t know the man beyond what she’d heard of him and what she saw of him, standing there just inside his grand home. She knew nothing of his heart.

She didn’t know how she knew what he’d do to Broc. She simply did.

Because of that, she needed to say what was about to come from her mouth, even though she would never have believed herself capable of such a lie at any other time.

“I’ve come to accept your offer of marriage,” she announced, all of it coming out in a rush.

Deacon Eddard sounded as though he was choking. Beatrice shot him a look from the corner of her eye which she hoped was enough to make him understand. Had he seen Broc? If not, she could understand how confused he’d be.

He remained silent. A small miracle.

Lord Randall, meanwhile, looked neither surprised nor pleased. His face bore the expression of a man hearing something he had already been certain of. As though she had reported that it was night and dawn would arrive in the morning.

“Good!” he shouted, laughing. “I knew you would see what a fortuitous match this would be. Please, both of you, do not sit on horseback. I’ll have my men take care of the animals while you join me inside.”

She exchanged a look with the deacon which she hoped did not betray her panic. “Oh, no,” she demurred, smiling slightly. “We could not take advantage of your hospitality this way. I had only decided to come here on a whim, I suppose you might say, and I wouldn’t want to take up your time or that of the deacon’s.”

It sounded believable, she prayed.

“Nonsense,” Randall insisted, and it wasn’t her imagination when she took note of the less-friendly tone of voice in which he spoke. She was denying him what he wanted. He was accustomed to his desires being fulfilled without question.

Such as his marriage to a girl he didn’t know, simply because he declared it would be so.

“I believe we should drink to our good fortune, then,” he continued while his visitors dismounted their horses, making a hand signal to the old man who hovered nearby before leading Beatrice and the deacon further into the manor house.

The two of them handed the reins over to one of the stable boys, who’d come on the run, and walked side-by-side. A flash of childish terror came over her and she wanted more than anything to take the deacon’s hand for reassurance.

Instead, she curled her hands and drew deep breaths in a desperate attempt to tamp down her rising panic. She didn’t need to toast with the Lord. She needed to get to the village to warn the other two—Derek and Hugh. They had to do something.

She had to do something!

“I don’t think—” Beatrice began, but Lord Randall spoke over her.

“I’m sure Deacon Eddard would agree that this is an occasion worthy of a toast,” he insisted, assuming this was the reason for her misgivings.

Rather than allowing him to continue believing this, she went on, “I was about to say that I should go. I don’t believe we should stay. I did not wish to wait until morning to speak with you, but now, it would be best if I returned home. There is no one there to tend to it but me, after all.”

He didn’t slow his pace, leading them into a grand hall with contained a long table and more chairs than she could quickly count. Her entire home would fit into it five, perhaps six times over. The ceiling seemed to stretch up to the stars. She had to crane her neck to see it all, with wooden rafters which spanned the length.

“Do not tell me you’re considering making the ride home at this point in the evening,” he said, shaking his head as he walked to the head of the table, where a jug of wine and three cups were already waiting. “It is far too late, and too dark. There is no telling just what might decide to come out of the woods and make your acquaintance.”

His words sent a chill down her spine and made her wonder if she should be more concerned over the animal before her.

What was he doing to Broc? Would he kill him that very night, or was he planning to hold him there? He dug her nails into her palms, barely fighting off the urge to scream. A man’s life was in danger and she could do nothing but stand there and pretend not to know or care.

What alternative did she have? If she confronted Lord Randall with what she’d seen, what she knew of his past acquaintance with Broc, what would happen? He might lock her away, giving her no chance to help Broc or the others. He might do something to silence her, and Deacon Eddard, too.

At least, if he were with her and the deacon, he wasn’t torturing Broc. That was a relief, anyway.

Even so, she couldn’t stay. There had to be a way to get to the village, and immediately.

“Please, allow me to extend this hospitality to my betrothed.” He smiled, at least, his lips curved into a smile, she observed. His eyes did not reflect happiness, however. They were strangely hard. As though he were only reciting words he knew he had to offer. Custom and good manners dictated that he do so.

She exchanged a glance with the deacon, whose face remained blank.

“Oh, and you as well, Deacon Eddard,” Lord Randall continued. “Your journey would take even more time, and I wouldn’t want you to come to harm on a dark road.”

The road wasn’t dark. The moon was nearly full, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky according to what Beatrice could see through one of the narrow windows of the hall.

There was nothing she could do. Nothing she could say that would sound innocent enough not to raise his suspicions. She had no excuse and would only anger him if she refused.

When she didn’t respond, Deacon Eddard nodded. “Very well. Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

Lord Randall rang a small bell which sat at his right hand, and almost instantly a young woman came nearly on the run. “See to it that rooms are prepared for my betrothed and Deacon Eddard,” he commanded, not bothering to look at the girl. She meant nothing to him, just as Beatrice would’ve meant nothing once they were married.

He didn’t even bother to mention Beatrice’s name. She was his betrothed. His. Nothing more.

“Now, for our toast.” He handed her a cup, then handed another to Deacon Eddard. He raised his own, locking eyes with Beatrice before continuing. “To my betrothed, and our union. May it be a fruitful one.”

That was it. Nothing of happiness or even a hint of him being glad that she had accepted him. It had never been a question for him, naturally. It mattered not whether she’d accepted. He’d planned on their union, just as he’d plan on waking up the next morning and going about his business.

She managed to sip a bit of the wine for the sake of politeness, but she’d never developed a taste for it. Would the lady of the manor house have needed to do so? She would never know.

“The steward will show you to your rooms and one of the girls will take care of your needs,” he promised her after drinking deep of his wine, emptying the cup. It clanged on the table when he returned it there.

“I have no needs,” she assured him. “After all, there are no servants on the farm. Just me. I’m accustomed to caring for myself.” It would be the height of discomfort, having someone attend her. Especially when she wanted nothing more than to be alone so she could think things through.

He waved a hand as though this was nothing, a brief frown creasing his forehead as he considered life lived on his own. Or so she supposed. “You need to become accustomed to the life of the lady of the manor,” he reminded her.

“Of course. I hadn’t thought about it that way.” Best not to argue the point. Best to simply allow him to go on believing he was getting his way. Nothing was wrong in the world, everything was wonderful, and Lord Randall was going to have what he wanted.

And the rest of her life would’ve been lived that way if she had married him. Always telling him what she km new he wanted to hear, always lying. Betraying herself, betraying what she knew to be right.

Turning a blind eye when his men did something terrible at his command.

“You know,” she continued, thinking fast, “I will need to leave at first light. Someone must tend to the cow and chickens and such at dawn. They will become ill if I do not.” She held her breath, hoping this excuse would be strong enough. It was the truth, of course, but there was a chance he wouldn’t care for her concerns.

“Will they?” he asked before shrugging. “I suppose you would know more about that than I would. Of course, do what you must do. I only want to be certain you’re safe overnight. One never knows what might occur out in the dark. I wouldn’t want any danger to befall you.”

She stopped short of asking exactly what danger he referred to, deciding she didn’t wish to know.

They bade Lord Randall goodnight, and it wasn’t soon enough for Beatrice. Only when she was no longer in front of him could she breathe freely. What was it about him that made her feel as though she were choking?

Perhaps it was the way he ordered the beating and restraint of innocent men.

Broc wasn’t innocent, though. It was a terrible thing, attempting to make sense of what he’d done. It had been in defense of a defenseless woman, but the woman had already died. If he’d been defending himself, it would’ve been different. She might have been able to understand, if not condone his actions.

Then again, Deacon Eddard had admitted that he would’ve done the same thing. Did that mean it wasn’t such a terrible sin after all? Was there such a thing as a forgivable sin? One God would understand?

The old, stooped steward walked a few steps in front of them, leading the way down a long, narrow corridor hung with richly embroidered tapestries. Would Lord Randall have expected her to learn to embroider once they were wed? She knew noble ladies were expected to learn such skills from a young age, but there had hardly been time for such fanciful pursuits while she was growing up.

She cut her eyes to the side, catching the deacon’s attention. “You saw Broc?” she mouthed.

He nodded, his face pained.

She pointed to herself. “Dawn. Village. Warn them.”

He nodded, still with a pained expression, then pointed to himself with eyebrows raised.

She glanced at the steward to make certain their conversation was unnoticed before shaking her head. “Nothing,” she mouthed. “Go home.”

“No.” His eyes went wide.

“You can’t. I will go.”

“I must do something,” he whispered, a bit louder than he should have.

The steward glanced over his shoulder, but it was an innocent glance. He understood nothing, or so she needed to believed. A man of his advanced age might well have been hard of hearing.

She shook her head again. “No. Please.”

He merely sighed, shaking his head, and folded his hands in prayer.

She nodded firmly. They would need all the prayers they could get.