A Highland Sailor: Highland Heartbeats

by Adams, Aileen

  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 onl
y 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.

  9

  She staggered her way up the short, stony path which led to the front door of the deacon’s modest home after hobbling Cecil by the low, stone wall which ran along the road, separating church grounds from the rest.

  “Deacon!” she gasped, leaning against the door as she banged on it with the side of one fist. Poor Cecil would likely need a good, long rest after being ridden so hard. She could barely breathe, panic and fear sitting on her chest as they were.

  Old Frances opened the door, squinting her faded, failing eyes. She had served as the Deacon’s housekeeper and cook all Beatrice’s life and likely for far longer than that.

  “Beatrice?” she asked, surprised. “You look all a fright.”

  “I’m certain I do.” I feel all a fright, too. “Is the Deacon in? I must speak with him.”

  “He’s in the church, sweeping up before services in the morning. Are you quite well? Do you need to sit down? Perhaps a cup of tea?” The kindly old woman stepped aside, as though to leave room for Beatrice to enter the house.

  “No, thank you.” She managed a smile. “I’ll meet him in the church. It’s quite urgent that I speak to him now.” She trotted off down the path which connected the two buildings without another word to Frances, for fear of having to answer more questions and waste even more time.

  As it happened, Deacon Eddard was leaving the church as she approached. When he saw her, taking in the full sight of her flushed face and sweat-stained kirtle, his expression registered his surprise. “What is it, my child?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know!” She sank onto the stone steps which led up to the door, holding her head in her hands. She was so tired, not just from a sleepless night, but from the strain of carrying so much on her shoulders for so long.

  How was one woman supposed to carry so much, all alone?

  To her surprise, he sat beside her and didn’t force her to speak. She collected herself enough to stop shaking before apologizing for arriving in such a state. “I didn’t know where else to go. I suppose there is nowhere else. I have no other friends.”

  “What happened?”

  “Three men came to the house. I hurried here as soon as they left.”

  “Three men?” He rose, and the surprise at the anger in his voice went a long way toward shocking her out of her panic.

  “They didn’t cause harm,” she assured him, shaking her head. “But they… claimed to come from Scotland, bearing a letter from Margery.”

  “Your sister is in Scotland?”

  “I don’t know!” She looked up at him, the confusion in his face reflecting her own. “That isn’t where she was supposed to go. How can I believe them? I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know who they were or why they came. I’m afraid I… was rather rude.”

  “How so, my child?”

  “I… threatened them with Father’s sword.”

  There was silence as the deacon’s face went blank. Then, to her eternal shock, he chuckled.

  “You did?”

  “I could hardly lift it, and my arms ache terribly, but yes. I had to at least make it appear as though I could defend myself.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, warming her from the inside out. Even the brilliant sunshine streaming down on them hadn’t managed that. Before long, she was laughing, too.

  “Three Scotsmen, and one young woman with a sword. I can only imagine what they must have thought.” He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “I haven’t laughed this way in many years.”

  As for her, the laughter helped wipe away the panic she had suffered through all the way from the house. “They left without much fuss,” she explained, “but they did leave a letter.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “I didn’t take the time. The moment they were out of sight, I took Cecil and headed here as fast as I could. I didn’t feel safe there anymore, all alone. I thought they were there to take me away, to the manor.”

  “My dear.” Deacon Eddard sat beside her again, patting her arm. “I do not believe Lord Randall would behave in such a brutish manner. He seemed quite intent on creating a happy home life for you both.”

  “Yes, he would when speaking to you about our marriage, wouldn’t he?” She noted the stricken expression on his face and relented out of guilt. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult. I’m so unhappy.”

  “Perhaps you should read the letter from your sister,” he suggested. “It may help you understand.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, yes.” She had folded it in half and tucked it into her sleeve before fleeing, and slid it out at the deacon’s suggestion.

  He was discreet, looking away in order to give her some privacy. Her hands trembled as she unrolled the piece of linen.

  Dearest,

  I regret I’m unable to fetch you myself. My husband, Derek, will explain why I was unable to be with you.

  Our plans did not turn out as we’d expected, my sweet sister. I boarded the wrong ship and landed in Scotland. I can tell you more when you join me, or you can ask Derek and he will explain.

  Derek is a good man, as are the others. I trust these men with my life and with yours.

  I miss you terribly and hope this finds you well. Forgive me for taking so long to get word to you. It’s a story I will relish sharing with you when we’re together again. We always said we wanted adventure, did we not?

  I love you very much and pray for you every day. I pray you’ll have a safe journey to my arms. I know we will be happy here together.

  Margery

  Tears blurred the words as she read them again and again. It didn’t reveal much, this letter. It told her nothing which others would not want her to believe in order to lure her elsewhere.

  “My child?” Deacon Eddard expressed his interest. “What does it say? Is she well?”

  “I simply do not know,” she admitted. “I do not know. There is nothing personal. Nothing to tell me that it was my sister who wrote it, or if she wrote it of her own will. Many people want adventure in their lives. That means nothing.”

  “What is it you’re fearful of? That these men forced her to write to you?”

  Hearing it spoken aloud made her feel quite foolish, but that did little to ease her fears. “I simply do not know,” she said again, shaking her head mournfully.

  They both looked up at the sound of an approaching horse, and Beatrice sprang to her feet when she recognized the man on horseback as one of the men who’d come to the house.

  “He’s one of them,” she whispered, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

  The deacon tilted his head to one side. “I feel as though I’ve seen him before.”