“You should wait here,” Deacon Eddard decided, handing off the reins to Frances before descending from the seat. “It may go easier for me to procure horses than it would for you.”

Broc all but growled. “So it’s all throughout England that Scots are hated, then?”

Beatrice winced for him.

The deacon merely blinked. “You’re wearing a blood-stained tunic, my son. And there is still a wound on the back of your head.”

Broc’s embarrassment was evident as they watched the deacon cross the road on his way to speak with the owner of a large stable just outside the village. “I feel a right fool for that,” he muttered.

“No one could blame you,” Beatrice tried to soothe him. “You’re tired and hurt, and haven’t been treated well by my countrymen.”

He snorted. “Nor by you, at first. You didn’t like the looks of me or my companions.”

She winced at the memory, and at the way he insisted on bringing it back to her attention.

“Och, I’m sorry,” he chuckled. “I shouldn’t mention it.”

“Thank you.”

“After all, I’ve no desire to feel your slap again,” he added, a devilish gleam in his eye.

Frances twisted in the seat, looking down at the two of them. “You slapped him?” she asked.

“I’m afraid I did,” Beatrice admitted, the back of her neck suddenly hot and prickly as the old woman stared with a shrewd look in her eye.

“Good,” Frances decided, turning away again. “Some lads need a bit of sense knocked into them.”

Beatrice bit her lip to hold back a burst of laughter. It had been a strange day, indeed.

The reminder of the wound on Broc’s head stirred the memory of what Derek had loaded into the cart, a bag full of treatments which Sarah had put together for the men prior to their departure. She found it in the straw, opening it to reveal an array of bottles and vials.

“I have to apply the poultice Derek recommended,” she said, examining the back of Broc’s head with a sense of dread. There hadn’t been time in the woods for either of the other men to help. They’d needed to be on their way.

She poured water over the wound, carefully parting his brown hair before doing so. “I do wish your hair was shorter,” she muttered.

“You sound like my mother.”

“She was right, then. And perhaps you shouldn’t be so sharp tongued when I’m about to put my fingers to a cut on the back of your head.” She did what she could, applying the strange smelling mixture until it appeared to cover the entire injured area.

Derek had warned her to look out for signs of infection, as Broc had spent the night in a filthy barn after being hit on the back of his head. What would happen if he became ill? What would she do? Her hands trembled as she put the contents of the bag to right.

The deacon returned, leading two sturdy-looking geldings by their reins. They pranced eagerly, sniffing at his garments and whinnying.

“I believe I procured the best two animals in all the stable,” he smiled. “The owner is clearly a man of faith. He was happy to let me have them in exchange for the promise of prayer on his behalf.”

“Nothing more than that?” Beatrice asked, awed.

Broc didn’t look as he believed it, but Deacon Eddard’s head bobbed up and down in confirmation of this tale. She wasn’t certain whether he was being completely truthful—something which would never have crossed her mind before witnessing just how skilled a liar he was that very day—or if he was merely avoiding Broc’s efforts to repay him.

Regardless of his motivation, his actions made her heart swell with affection and gratitude.

“You had best be on your way,” he advised, his eyes shifting back and forth. “Word tends to travel quickly, even from one village to the next along the main road. You’ll want to outrun news of your escape.”

“Aye, we will that,” Broc agreed, climbing down from the cart before offering his assistance to Beatrice. She warmed all over when his hands landed on her waist, his strong arms lifting her as though she weighed nothing.

Frances’s shrewd gaze nearly burned a hole in the back of her head at this show of familiarity, but she pretended not to notice.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Beatrice murmured, taking the deacon’s hands in her own. “You’ve done so much for me. Not just today or yesterday. All my life. I could never repay you.”

His gentle smile was as familiar to her as anything else. “My child, I am not asking repayment. All is as it should be. So long as you are safe and away from that which would cause you strife, I am confident that all I’ve done was done in service to God. There is little more I can hope to do in this life.”

She smiled through her tears, giving in to the impulsive desire to throw her arms around his shoulders. “Thank you, thank you. Be safe in your journey home.”

“I’m a man of God,” he chuckled, looking pleased—if not slightly embarrassed—as he pulled away. “None would dare harm me, nor Frances. And I’m certain she could take on all comers,” he added with another chuckle, lowering his voice to avoid her sharp ears.

For a woman of her advanced age, it seemed nothing got past her.

The lady herself handed Beatrice her bundle of belongings. “I’ve added the food from the basket,” she explained. “Be sure you eat it, now.”

“Thank you! How generous.” Sure enough, the scent of fresh bread and sweet cakes rose from inside the tied bedspread.

Frances glanced at Broc, who was speaking quietly with the deacon. “Be careful,” she warned.

“Frances. You’ve known me my entire life. Do you believe I would do anything to bring shame to myself? Or that I would trust someone who didn’t deserve my trust?”

The old woman’s mouth nearly disappeared when she pressed her already thin lips together, but she nodded before long. “True. And the deacon trusts him, which I suppose says much for his character.”

She didn’t appear convinced, however.

“Be on your way, now,” Deacon Eddard urged, offering her a hand up as she mounted the light brown, glistening horse. He seemed gentle, sweet but spirited, and fairly danced with eagerness to be on his way. As though he knew they were about to have an adventure together.

“Come, lass,” Broc murmured, leading the way. “We still have several hours of travel possible before darkness falls.”

She swallowed hard, looking over her shoulder and waving once more as they departed. The deacon brought the cart around in a wide circle, beginning the journey back to Thrushwood.

Her heart was heavy as she sent up a silent prayer that all would be well when they returned. They were both too good to suffer for what they’d done.

“What is it, lass?” Broc asked, slowing his pace so the two of them might ride abreast. “You look as though something’s upset you.”

A sharp, barking laugh erupted from her. “I cannot imagine what it might be. Perhaps the way we escaped the village. Or the way I’ll never see my home again. Or the fear in my heart over what might happen if Randall should find out the deacon spirited us out of Thrushwood under his nose.”

Broc didn’t look offended, in fact, he seemed to take much of what she said in stride, no matter the ill humor with which she said it. “That’s natural, I suppose. I fear for them as well. We can only hope Randall will be too concerned with finding out where we went to remember having crossed paths with him. Or that he’d assume a deacon wouldn’t be involved in such a plan.”

She squared her shoulders, knowing there was little she could do about what happened in Thrushwood. She was heading on to a new life. “Of course. We can only hope.”

And she did. She did most fervently.

It was only mid-afternoon then, the longer days of late spring giving them more than enough time to distance themselves from Thrushwood. She took a deep breath, hoping to clear her head and rouse herself somewhat. Two straight nights spent without sleep were beginning to take their toll, it was one thing when they were excited, barely escaping their enemy, but another after the excitement had eased.

“I’ve never been this far from Thrushwood in my life,” she admitted, taking in the sight of the foothills up ahead. They were thickly forested, but the road they traveled appeared to cut its way through those trees. A single, brown line in the middle of so much green.

“Really?” Broc sounded impressed with this.

“I suppose you had already been around the world by the time you reached my age,” she chuckled.

“Perhaps not the entire world, lass, but I had seen a thing or two.” He rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging. “Och, when you have a home life worth staying home for, there’s no reason to travel as I did.”

“You didn’t have a good life?”

“I know others had worse,” he amended. “Derek and Hugh, their father was a brute. They ran off as young men, determined to be rid of him. Sarah and Heather, I told you of them?”

“You spoke of Sarah,” she replied, searching through her sleepy, foggy brain. “I don’t think you ever spoke of Heather.”

“They’re sisters,” he explained. “I first made their acquaintance after they’d wed the laird and his brother, but before they came under the protection of the Duncan clan, they were terribly ill-used by a brutish stepfather.”

She shivered, rubbing one hand against the other arm to soothe the gooseflesh which had sprung up there. One thing she had never suffered, and she was grateful for it.

Even so… “I wouldn’t say that I had a loving home life,” she murmured. “Not after my father’s passing.”

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Och, lass, I could sew my own mouth shut at times. There’s a reason I so often stay silent; I can’t seem to avoid saying the wrong things.”

She merely smiled. “No need to feel sorry for saying what you did.”

“I had forgotten how lonely things were for you and your sister,” he murmured, still apologetic. “I must admit, I thought she was daft when we first met.”

Beatrice laughed, nearly to the point of needing to bring the horse to a halt. “Yes, well, I’ve sometimes held the same opinion.”

* * *

Beatrice blinked, not understanding what Broc had just announced. “Outdoors?”

“Aye, lass.”

“You wish for me to sleep outdoors.” As though saying it again would make it easier to understand.

“Aye. What did you think we would be doing?”

“Spending the night at an inn, of course!” The way he spoke, as though she were a dolt for assuming something which to her seemed like common sense. “I’ve never spent the night out of doors, I think I should warn you.”

“Not that it matters,” he muttered. They were both short-tempered and had grown increasingly so over the course of the long ride.

Not only had she never left Thrushwood prior to that day, but she had never ridden for so long at a stretch. Her thighs and backside ached terribly, along with her shoulders and back after sitting for so long in the saddle. What she craved more than anything was a soft bed.

It wouldn’t even have to be soft. A simple bed would do. Indoors. With a pillow and blankets.

Instead, Broc led the way as they left the road and followed the sound of running water. The sun was on the descent, glowing red and orange and gold, painting the countryside and crowning the tree tops. They were majestic in the sunset. It all was.

Had it not been for her terrible mood, she might have enjoyed it.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I don’t know the name,” he grumbled. “We’re going to the water. We need to drink, as do the horses, and I need to bathe.”

She was glad he was ahead of her, unable to see the way her face burned. He was going to bathe? Not in front of her, she hoped.

You’re being silly and childish, she chided herself. Even at the point of exhaustion, which she was at that moment, there was still a voice in her head to direct her. He wouldn’t have her watch. He’d maintain whatever privacy he could.

As would she, since she was also in need of a bath and a clean kirtle after the long day they’d passed. It was the least bit of comfort she had to look forward to, as her night would be passed in the open air, under the starry sky.

The thought pleased her slightly when she imagined the prospect as such, then again, she’d likely fall straight to sleep before she had the chance to look at a single star. There had been several instances on the road when she’d nearly nodded off in the middle of the ride.

The mere smattering of trees which she’d observed from the road became full-fledged woods the further they rode. The sounds of animals—deer, squirrels, rabbits—were almost as soothing to her as a lullaby. She recognized them, knew them.

“You all right back there, lass?” Broc asked as his black gelding led the way.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to turn around to find you asleep and falling from the saddle.”

“I said I was all right,” she snapped.

Why did he insist on speaking to her that way? One moment, he was kind and thoughtful, the next, he treated her as though she were no better than an infant.

Rather than glaring at the back of his head, she looked down at the ground and picked out the flowers she knew. Toadstools grew at the bases of the trees, telling her they were closer than ever to water which moistened the rich soil.

The sun’s golden rays fought to display themselves between the trees, sending beams shooting down to the floor of the woods. It was a reminder to her that God was all around, and she need not be afraid.

Though she would never have shared her thoughts on the matter with Broc, afraid he would think her daft, as he put it. He hardly seemed the God-fearing type and would likely laugh to himself, if not aloud.

“There.” He came to a halt, pointing ahead. She could hear it, louder than ever, the rushing of a stream. The sound was like music to her ears, suddenly, she was terribly thirst and felt unbearably soiled.

He led them onward, to a clearing several dozen feet from a bend in the stream. From where she sat, her back against the trunk of a rough-barked tree, she couldn’t see past the bend thanks to the thick growth of bramble and flowering bushes which grew along the banks.

“Do you wish to refresh yourself?” he asked, taking the horses in hand.

She smiled to herself at his attempt to be discreet. “I do.”

“Do it, then, while I tend the horses.”

“You won’t watch?” she asked.

“Do ye truly believe I would watch, lass?” He shot her a disgruntled look.

“No…” Still, she hesitated, and he took notice.

“Beatrice.”

He rarely said her name, choosing to refer to her as “lass” instead, and she took notice.

“I forget at times that you’ve not known many men, or many people, at all.”

“That’s true.” There was much more to it, but she was far too tired to explain. And he didn’t need to know.

It seemed as though her sister had already told him enough.

“Not everyone wishes to take advantage of ye, lass.”

“I know that. Thank you.” She rose with a groan, her body having already stiffened after only a few minutes on the ground.

His sigh was heavy, that of a man who considered himself greatly put upon. “Don’t wander too far away,” was all he replied. “I’ll call to ye, to be certain you’re safe.”

She only nodded, too tired to speak much anymore. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter where they slept, after all. She could easily have fallen asleep against the tree if Broc hadn’t suggested she bathe.

The soil was soft and fragrant on the bank of the stream. Would things smell the same in Scotland? A silly question, of course. And yet her imagination wandered as she removed her shoes, her stockings. She untied the corners of the bedspread, moving the food Frances had packed off to the side before retrieving the soap she had brought along.

It would be a wise idea to dunk her kirtle in the stream, too, she thought as she removed it. Gooseflesh spread over her arms once she was down to nothing more than her underdress, a quick glance over her shoulder told her Broc was nowhere around.

What else did she expect? Her mother’s teachings had made a deeper impression than she’d guessed, or so it seemed. Nothing he’d done had given her any reason to doubt his sincerity.

And yet there she was, behaving as though he were no better than Randall himself.

She drew a deep breath, gathering her courage before stepping to the cool, running water. She’d bathe with the thin underdress on, she decided, unwilling to shed every stitch of clothing even if she trusted her traveling companion. There was still something vaguely sinful, at least in her mind, about being nude in the open.

She worked quickly, relishing the sensation of clean water running over her legs, squatting so that it might come up past her waist. There were rocks all around her, one of which she leaned against to keep her balance. The stream rushed over the rocks as it had for years, wearing them smooth.

Once she was clean except for her hair, she unwound her braid and tipped her head forward, allowing her hair to dangle into the water.

Her hand slipped from the slick rock.

She fell forward, face-first, too quickly to catch her balance or even cry out. One moment she was crouching in the stream and the next she was scrambling for purchase, the water sweeping her away as her hands shot out for something to hold onto.

Panic took over, the air rushing from her lungs and leaving her desperate for a breath of air. She must not breathe in. She had to get her hands and knees under her, somehow, and get her head above water.

Every instinct she possessed forced her to draw a breath. She would die if she didn’t take a breath! She had to breathe!

Something grabbed her around the wrist, pulling hard, twisting until she was certain the bones would snap. But she was out of the water, sputtering and coughing with her hair plastered to her face.

“Lass! What happened? I didna think you would swim!”

Broc. He’d saved her from drowning.

She used her other hand, the one he was not holding, to peel the hair from her face and open her eyes. They were not very far from where she’d opened the bedspread. It had felt as though she’d been underwater for much longer, that the current had taken her much farther.

It must have been the effect of panic, of the desperate need to take a breath. She hadn’t been in the water for very long at all.

“Thank you,” she sputtered, still breathing hard. “I slipped.”

“So I can see,” he grumbled. “I heard a splash and called out for ye. Good thing I was close enough to reach you quickly.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Good thing.”

It only occurred to her in that moment that she wore nothing but a soaked underdress which clung to her otherwise naked body. She wrenched her wrist from his hand and crossed her arms over her chest. “Please, I need a moment to dress.”

He cleared his throat, she was looking away, ashamed, or else she might have been able to tell from his expression what was going on in his mind. What must he think of her?

“I’ll wait for ye by the fire I built,” he offered. “It might grow chill during the night, and both of us drying out.”

She only nodded. There was little else she could bring herself to do.