That was a surprise.

The three of them stopped in their tracks, feet from the front door of the modest farm house. It looked like a pleasant enough place, if a bit rundown and remote. Broc understood how two young lasses could feel removed from the rest of the world in such a house.

His eyes darted back and forth, from Derek and Hugh back to the darkhaired warrior standing in the doorway. She wore a worn-out kirtle which had obviously seen better days, and strands of long hair—embellished with gold and auburn streaks—had worked their way loose from the braid which hung over one shoulder.

“Did you hear me, or are you all unable to understand English?” she demanded, her chin high. Blue eyes flashed fire as she glared at them. “I’ll not be coming with ye, so ye might as well leave this land and never come back. The land belongs to me, as well as everything on it. Be gone.”

Was it possible that she knew why they were there? No. It couldn’t be. They hadn’t told anyone in the village of their plans. How could she know, then, that they’d come to take her with them?

Unless she thought they were a threat. Which meant she was in fear of such a threat. It would explain the sword she tried valiantly to heft as she stared them down, her feet spread shoulder-width apart so she nearly filled the doorway.

She was magnificent, even in her worn clothing, even struggling to lift a sword he’d be willing to wager she wouldn’t be able to swing.

His brain clearly worked faster than that of the others, for he found his tongue before they did. “We mean you no harm, Beatrice.”

“No harm?” she laughed, tossing her head back. “You mean to take me with you. Isn’t that it? Why don’t we come out with it and say what we mean?”

“How do you know that?” he asked, glancing at the other two. “We shared knowledge of our plans with no one, lass.”

Her forehead creased slightly. “Lass? Where are you from?”

“Scotland,” he replied, taking pains to keep his voice low and soothing, as though he were calming a skittish animal. She was little more than that very thing at the moment. A dangerous animal.

Though the only one she posed a danger to was herself. She would slice into her own leg or arm with that blasted sword, like as not.

“We’ve come to take you to your sister,” Derek explained, finally coming to the heart of it. “She is my wife. My name is Derek McInnis, and we were wed three fortnights ago.”

Her expression softened, her mouth opening slightly as she absorbed his words. For a moment, Broc had hope. She would thaw in light of this turn of events and they would be on their way within the hour.

So he told himself.

Her jaw tightened. “I don’t believe you. Why would my sister be wed to a Scotsman when it was London she was intending to sail to?”

“It’s a very long story,” he explained as he reached into his tunic for the letter.

“Stop right there!” she ordered, lifting the sword a little higher.

It shook slightly as her arms weakened. She wouldn’t be able to hold onto it for much longer, but from what he’d already seen of her, Broc had the feeling she’d find a way to fight through her weakness.

“I have a letter from her,” Derek murmured, holding his hands out to show her he meant no harm. “I am not here to harm you. None of us are.”

“I don’t believe you,” she spat.

Her eyes were wide, wild, moving from one of them to the other. She was close to panic. What had happened to her during her sister’s absence? Margery had said nothing of Beatrice being unstable or quick to jump to irrational conclusions; in fact, everything she’d said up to that point had praised her sister’s cool head, her deeply rational mind, her clear sense of reason.

Who was the lass standing before them? What happened to a woman to drive her half-mad?

“Just read the letter,” Derek urged, his voice low and soft. “I have it here, in my tunic. Margery made me keep it here at all times, so as to ensure I didn’t lose it. It was so very important to her that we make it here, to you, and that we tell you she’s well and she wants you to join her. All of us, in fact.”

“Why didn’t she come for me, then?” Beatrice demanded. “If she’s so well, why did she send three men in her place?”

“She’s with child,” Derek explained. “And she could not be away from home for so long.”

Her eyes softened, lost some of that half-crazed look. “A child?” she whispered.

“Yes. She longs for you most desperately. You are all she’s been able to think about.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Beatrice tensed once again. “Why hasn’t she contacted me prior to this time, then? Why did she lead me to believe she was… No. I want you off this land immediately. Or else.”

Somehow—perhaps panic granted her strength she wouldn’t otherwise possess—she lifted the sword and managed something close to a fighting stance.

“We’d better go for now,” Hugh muttered. “It’s clear there’s more to this than we knew.”

Broc disagreed, but saw no other choice. He turned to Derek. “Leave the letter.”

“Of course.” Derek slid his hand into the pocket, retrieving Margery’s letter. “I’ll leave this right here. On the ground. You can get it once we’ve left. None of us mean you any harm, Beatrice.”

“Leave. Now.” She glared at them all the way to the gate, as they mounted their horses. He dared glance over his shoulder to see what she was doing and caught sight of her bending to pick up the letter.

“She has it,” he announced, but with little satisfaction. “She’ll read the letter and know the truth.”

Would it help? The question lingered on his mind as they trotted away, three abreast on the wide road.

“We can return later in the day, or, even better, in the morning,” Derek decided. “That will give her time to think things over and calm herself somewhat.”

Waiting another day. An entire day. Broc bristled at the idea, hands tightening on the reins. “Do you really feel it necessary to wait the entire day? Margery told us she was nothing if not intelligent. I’m certain that once she reads the letter, she’ll understand.”

“The lass is obviously unhinged,” Hugh muttered, shaking his head. “A shame. I hate to think of what Margery will—”

“She’s not,” Broc barked.

The other two turned to gape at him in surprise. They weren’t alone in this, as he had no understanding of why he’d reacted so strongly. He managed to calm himself only by sheer force of will before speaking again.

“She’s not unhinged,” he began again. “What she is, is frightened half to death. She accused us of trying to take her somewhere with no knowledge of who we were. The lass greeted us at the door with a sword in her hands. That’s not the action of a woman who feels safe.”

“I assumed it was because we frightened her,” Derek mused. “Three of us, coming to the door all at once. And her never having spent much time with men.”

“Even so, to fetch a sword?” Broc asked, shaking his head. Something about it didn’t seem right. “No. Something’s happened here since Margery left. She’s been all alone, fighting some battle.” The thought of a small, weak little thing like her, fighting all alone…

But she wasn’t weak, was she? The defiant tilt of her chin and the fury in her voice as she’d ordered them off her land spoke of an inner strength he couldn’t help but admire.

Even if she had held up their progress.

It simply couldn’t wait another day. If they were lucky and she agreed to leave with them, she would still need to gather her things. She wouldn’t simply step out the door without so much as a look behind her. And by then, they would likely need to wait until the following morning before starting back out for Silloth.

That was too long. He couldn’t wait all that time. There had to be another way.

“I’m going back.”

“What?” Derek pulled his horse to a stop. “What do you have in mind?”

“I only want to speak to her, but it might be best for only one of us to go at a time. I’m of a mind to believe we frightened her. Three against one.”

Hugh and Derek exchanged a look. “And you’re certain you’re the one?” Hugh asked.

“Why not?”

“I’m Margery’s husband, for one,” Derek pointed out.

“Which means nothing to her, since she only just found out her sister was wed. No. That won’t matter. You two return to the inn. I’ll come back on my own.”

“You’re certain of this?” Hugh asked, but Broc had already brought the horse around and was on his way back to the farm. There had to be a way to convince her to accompany him.

He simply had to do it.

She was frightened. Of what? He might manage to offer protection, a way out of whatever terrible threat she had been facing. He was certain of there being something. Someone.

Someone willing to take advantage of a lonely young lass, all on her own with no man to look after her. Yes, there were men such as that. It had to be a man, too, for no woman would wield such power. Not in a small village such as Thrushwood.

His heart warmed toward her the more he thought about her being all on her own. He imagined the frightening loneliness, the sense of having no one to turn to. Not even her sister, who for all she knew could’ve been dead.

Another burden for her to carry.

The farmhouse came into view once again, with the land stretching out well beyond it. It was all her land, hers and Margery’s. They would have to find a way to settle the sale without being present for it. Perhaps there was an ally somewhere who could act on their behalf. Margery had spoken of a miller, and a deacon. One of them might be able to help.

As long as they could leave, and soon. Right away. Immediately.

He hesitated at the front gate, wondering if she would still have the sword when he approached the house. There was no sign of her at the window; he’d spied her hair earlier, even though she’d tried hard to keep herself hidden.

“Hello?” he called out, looking about the place. When there was no response, he dismounted and took slow, cautious steps down the path which led to the door. No sound came from inside, no dragging of iron against the floor as Beatrice dragged the sword behind her. Daring, courageous, daft lass.

He peered through the window beside the door. A small, nearly bare kitchen with only a handful of blue-and-yellow flowers sticking out from the mouth of a jug to cheer the place up.

Something about those flowers spoke to him. They said the person who lived there still held hope.

Otherwise, the house looked empty. No fire in the hearth, no sounds of movement.

He went around the house, then, the clucking of chickens growing louder as he did. There was a cow penned in the old barn, a building greatly in need of repair. There was no man on the property to perform such repairs.

No horse. He’d noticed it near the chicken coop, on the other side of a fence which enclosed the birds. It was gone now, and the stable was empty. It used to be filled, he noted, with stalls lining either side of the impressive space.

This used to be a thriving farm. It was little more than a memory anymore.

She was gone.

He went back to the horse which he’d tied off at the front gate and reflected on the fact that they hadn’t crossed paths as he returned, which meant she’d gone in the other direction. She was fleeing somewhere, to someone. Asking for help.

It looked as though he had to find her.