by Fiona Faris
Chapter Four
Beatrice woke an undetermined amount of time later to find herself shrouded in darkness. She also had a piercing headache, and when she tried to move, found both her shoulders and back extremely sore.
The soreness brought the memories of earlier that night back to her. Eddie and Harold being held at gunpoint, the highwayman stealing her jewelry, rifling through her belongings.
Did I really punch him? she thought, unable to believe herself capable of such a thing. But when she flexed the fingers of her right hand, she found pain there.
She couldn’t see much of her hand; her vision was still adjusting to the darkness of the carriage and the night beyond.
Eventually, as her vision adjusted, she noticed the trunk across from where she was lying. It was open on the seat across from her, but all the dresses, petticoats, and such that had stuffed it to the gills earlier were gone. A lone piece of cloth was draped over the side. Beatrice squinted and thought it might be a stocking.
A lone stocking without its mate. What a fitting metaphor for my life, she thought bitterly as she sat up.
Her body ached as she moved her skirts underneath her and stretched her legs out. Her neck was stiff, no doubt from lying on the floor for hours, but when she tried to stretch it, tipping her head to one side, she felt a sharp pain from the back of her head.
Reaching up, she felt a lump the size of a small rock underneath her hair—which was tumbling down her back, clearly having fallen out of its coiffure.
Beatrice’s hands dropped to the square neck of her gown, and she was relieved to find no rips or tears in the fabric that might indicate that strong hands had tried to pry the dress from her body, whether to steal it or her dignity.
At least they didn’t ravish me, she thought. She had heard horror stores of highwaymen taking advantage of the noblewomen they came across, raping them, and then leaving them aching and vulnerable on the side of the road.
Thus satisfied with her own good fortune, she turned to that of Harold and Eddie. Listening now, she couldn’t hear any voices from outside. It was quiet as a graveyard, and not even any of the town’s infamous bovine residents were making any noise.
Beatrice worried about what she might find when she ventured outside. She thought again of the guns the highwaymen had wielded, the shining metal glinting in the early evening light.
Surely I would have heard one if it had gone off? she thought, but then, she had been hit somewhat hard. She’d been out for hours by the look of it, and any number of things might have gone on while she was unconscious.
Therefore, she moved carefully to the carriage door, bracing herself for the very worst outcome. And when she finally set foot on the cold, muddy ground, that was precisely what she found.
Harold and Eddie were lying on the ground, Harold’s head on Eddie’s chest. Both their eyes were wide open but unmoving, their mouths locked in silent screams. Beatrice looked at their chests, trying to see if they were rising and falling with the intake and outtake of breath, but nearly a minute of careful observation showed no signs of life.
They’re dead, she realized with a sinking heart.
Harold had been James’ driver before their marriage. He was a middle-aged man who had been thrown in jail at a young age for stealing cloth with which to shield himself and his siblings from the cold of a London winter spent on the streets. James had hired him the day he was released from jail, having heard about his plight from a friend who had also started out on the streets.
Harold was a kind, quiet soul. He loved to read, and Beatrice would often find him in the library in the evenings, devouring literature at a faster rate than anyone she had ever known. The servants were always allowed whatever food and books they could find from the house. Beatrice knew how important both were to happiness, and she had loved seeing Harold with his nose in a book, a pleasant smile on his face as he sipped at a cup of tea and relaxed in one of the chairs by the fire.
He had no family; his siblings had all either died on the streets or in various jails for petty crimes that the poor were often forced to commit for their own continued livelihood. But though he was alone, he was not lonely. He treated all the footmen like his sons—Eddie, most of all.
It was why Beatrice had explicitly asked the two men to accompany her on this journey. She knew they would have a pleasant time chatting, and she had given them enough money that on the way back, they could stop for a day or two in some town and treat themselves to a nice meal and a few pints of ale.
That was impossible now, of course. The only journey they would take together would be into the afterlife—if there were such a thing.
Beatrice was once again overcome with guilt as she walked towards the two men and bent down, placing a hand on each chest. It was her fault they were dead. If she hadn’t insisted on riding so late into the day, they wouldn’t have been spotted by the highwaymen. They would all still be alive, supping together in the cozy inn down the road.
As much as she would have liked to continue berating herself for her foolishness, Beatrice knew she couldn’t stay by the carriage forever. She was freezing cold, without a coat, shoes, or food. She was not even sure if she had any money. Most of it had been tucked into a purse in her trunk—the trunk that, except for a stocking, was now sitting empty in the carriage.
But then she remembered the small purse James had once had sewn into the lining of the carriage seats.
“For emergencies. I doubt we’ll ever be accosted on the road, but one can never be too careful,” he’d said at the time. Beatrice had thought him a ninny for sewing coins into the cushion, but now she shouted for joy, her voice echoing through the bare trees to her right, where a dark forest began.
Rushing back to the carriage, she tore open the fabric of both carriage seats. It took some doing. By the time she had riven the seams of the seat, her fingertips and nails were sore. But that was no matter, because glinting in the darkness was a handful of coins all tucked under the cushion.
Beatrice gathered them up and stuffed them down her bodice. She could have used her pockets, but after being robbed once already, she didn’t want to risk it. No one would be looking down the bodice of her gown, and therefore, that was the safest place to hide the only valuable items she had left on her person.
Looking up into the sky, she saw that the moon was shrouded with clouds. A few stars dotting the foggy air, and with no map, she knew she would have to tread carefully along the road, her steps small and measured to avoid ditches and divots.
Looking back down at Harold and Eddie, she whispered, “I’ll go get help, and then I’ll come back for you. I promise.” Then, she lifted up her skirts, and made her way into the dark night, hoping that someone at the inn would be willing to help her. Else, she didn’t know what she was going to do.
Chapter Five
“Another ale for ye?” the barmaid asked Brodie, leaning suggestively over his table. Her breasts were on full display in a gown so tight and so low cut he could see the hint of a pink nipple poking out. To be sure, he barmaid was bonny, with long brown hair and a wicked smile, but Brodie was not in the mood for any bedsport. All he wanted was another ale and a long night’s sleep in a clean bed.
“Aye, lass. Thank ye,” he nodded, pushing his glass toward her. The maid leaned exaggeratedly over the table to get the glass, pushing her breasts into Brodie’s face. She looked down at him, clearly expecting a reaction, but he just leaned back and smiled placidly. Taking this as his refusal, she uttered a sour “hmph” before walking back to the tap. Brodie imagined his next pint was going to come with a hock of spit in it, but he could not find it in himself to care.
His business in England had gone well, and the trip had indeed taken his mind off things. Off Gavin.
He knew he needed to move on from the child’s death, for his family’s sake if no one else’s. Marcus, Helena, and Padraig needed him, needed his company, and he’d been sorely neglecting them of late. He might have los
t one child, but he still had another in Padraig. He couldn’t keep pulling away from his loved ones, not when they were the most important people in the world to him, and Padraig most of all. His godson had been the light of his life when he was first born, but Brodie had forgotten the joy the little lad could bring after Gavin’s death.
Indeed, his godson and nephew was a marvelous bairn. He was the happiest lad Brodie had ever seen, a constant smile on his face and a mouth that seemed more able to laugh and babble than cry and scream. He’d just started walking, and Brodie knew ought to be helping the lad waddle around the castle on his wee chubby legs. Instead, he’d ignored this milestone in Padraig’s life, for it reminded him that Gavin would not be so blessed to walk about the castle. He would never walk again. His life had been taken far too early.
But while seeing Padraig might remind him of another happy little lad, Brodie knew this was no reason to avoid his brother’s son. He had to accept that Gavin was gone, and stop blaming himself or begrudging everyone else for getting on with the business of life.
Therefore, he was going to drink down this last, possibly mucus-laden pint, and then retire to bed, so that he could wake up the next morning ready to start reforming himself. It was only a day’s ride to Castle Eilean from The King’s Arms, and Brodie planned to spend that ride thinking up ways of how he could be a better brother, uncle, and laird.
Ten minutes later, his glass was empty, and he was standing up from the table in the corner of the room, near the fire, where he had ensconced himself since dinner, when the tavern door blew open.
Every head in the room turned toward the source of the noise as a muddied, bedraggled looking woman limped inside.
Brodie’s eyes quickly scanned her body. There was a large bruise on her left cheek and under-eye area, glowing a mean purple and blue. Her hair was hanging half out of whatever style it had been coaxed into that morning, frizzing around her face and fanned out in black curls all down her shoulders, reaching nearly to her waist.
Her gown was soiled, smudged here and there with light brown dirt, but the lower third of her dress was ruined. The fabric there was completely soaked through with mud that looked caked on, no doubt weighing the lass down. As Brodie’s eyes traveled lower, he spied a glimpse of what looked like a pale digit peaking out from the hem.
The lass isnae even wearin’ shoes! he realized with a start, noticing her toes. She was dirty, disheveled, and barefoot, which would generally typify her as a vagabond or beggar. However, Brodie knew her to be no such thing. This lass was a noblewoman; of that he was sure.
Brodie was out of his chair and walking toward her before he even registered that he was moving; an instinct to protect her, to care for her, ignited in his bones and pulled him toward her until they were only feet apart.
“Lass? What happened tae ye?” he asked, scanning her face for clues. “What has befallen ye, that ye’ve come here in such a way?”
As he waited for her to answer, he glanced down at her gown. It was a fine red cotton walking dress with shiny gold buttons down the front of a jacket that blended seamlessly into the attached skirt, whose petticoats and bustle had not diminished in size despite whatever tragedy had made them so wet and muddied. Her collar and sleeves were accented with formerly delicate white lace that had, like her skirts, been ruined by what were no doubt unforeseen circumstances. The entire dress was accented with a gold-thread design reminiscent of vines and flowers, making the woman look something like Mother Nature covered in all her spoils.
Helena would love such an outfit, Brodie thought ruefully. His new sister delighted in regaling her husband and brother with all the latest fashions of London gleaned from the society pages delivered all the way to the castle in Scotland. Marcus, who was enamored of his wife and everything she said, listened with rapt attention, and because Brodie was sat at the same table, he had unfortunately also absorbed much of the needless information. Though perhaps it was not so needless, now since it helped him identify the social standing of the mysterious woman.
That the woman was noble was also clear from the patrician slant of her nose and the creamy pale of her skin, which looked like it had not been touched by the sun in some time. Other than her dirty gown, the only other thing that betrayed her image was her gauntness. As a nobleman himself, Brodie knew that the upper classes were prone to excess; of food, of fashion, of women, and all sorts of hedonistic pursuits. But the woman before him looked like she had not eaten a full meal in some time. Her collarbones stuck out from her chest, her cheekbones were too prominent, and her jawline was sharp. There was none of the softness he would expect on such an upper-class creature.
“My carriage was attacked by highwaymen,” she finally said, her voice betraying a hint of the emotion she had thus far kept hidden, feeling that must have made it hard for her to tell her tale of woe. “There were four of them. They killed my driver and footman and took all my possessions. The carriage was also driven into a small ditch, so I took one of the horses and rode it here. I tied him up outside, but he’ll need shelter. We were meant to change horses this evening, and I expect he’s tired and scared. As am I.”
Brodie winced at the lass’s misfortune and her lingering fear. The highwaymen did not often frequent this stretch of road, but he had heard of them troubling travelers further south. No doubt they saw the lass’ elegant carriage and jumped at the chance to make off with her finery. That they killed the footman and driver was shocking—usually, the highwaymen left their victims alive since their faces were sufficiently covered to make any identification impossible. This lass was clearly the victim of some terrible luck indeed.
“What can we dae tae help ye?” he asked in a lowered voice, hoping to calm her, for her color was now high, and her breaths were coming in fast. Was she about to cry? Laugh? Shout? He could not tell.
“I…” she faltered, sounding confused. She looked up at him again, their eyes meeting, and Brodie saw concern there. It took him a moment to realize why. Brodie was a six-foot-five Scotsman with shocking red hair that came to his shoulders, which were nearly twice as broad as hers. Because he had spent the last few months thinking himself a weak, pathetic man, it was easy to forget that to the outside eye, he looked like something of an intimidating, brutish beast—especially to women who had already dealt with far more horrors in a day than most saw in a lifetime. It did not help that he had unknowingly taken a few steps toward the lass, closing the distance between them, until he practically loomed over her.
“I willnae harm ye, lass. I mean only tae help. I know these parts, an’ I have coin an’ clout enough tae ensure that sod o’ a barman gets ye whatever ye need,” he assured her in a whispered tone.
It felt essential to reassure the lass, and this inclination went beyond mere chivalry. Brodie had a sudden urge to comfort this lass, to care for her. The listlessness and inability to care he had felt these last few months was gone, replaced by a fierce protective instinct.
“Thank you.” A small smile of gratitude flashed across her face. Brodie noticed that she relaxed slightly, the tense posture of a moment ago giving way to sagging shoulders and a general look of exhaustion.
She’s nae so afraid now, he thought with relief, glad that she no longer saw him as a threat, if she ever had. He wanted her to think well of him. Though he hardly knew her, he wanted this lass to like him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so concerned about someone’s opinion of him. As laird, he was used to being liked and feared in equal measure, and neither bothered him. But now, the need to make a good impression was almost painful in its intensity.
“I’ll make sure yer horse has a stall for the evenin’, an’ I’ll send someone tae fetch the other beast along with yer servants,” he said, lowering his voice further at the mention of the recently deceased. “I’ll also ask the barman about a room fer ye, an’ make sure ye get a hot meal in ye. I suspect ye need it, especially after th’ day ye’ve had.” Brodie realized he was talking fast, f
aster than he had in months, and with an excitement that had rarely colored his speech of late. Not that he was excited about the lass’s misfortunes, of courses; instead, he was eager to help her, take care of her. It made him feel good, useful. He finally had a purpose again. Even if it was just for a night.
“Th-thank you.” Brodie was surprised to see tears moistening her eyes. A moment later, they fell, spilling down her drawn cheeks. He wanted to catch them with his fingers, to swipe them away and kiss each path of moisture they made on her face. He hated to see her upset; to know she was hurting made his stomach turn.
Och, what is she daein’ tae me? he wondered. She made him feel so…much.
“I’m sorry,” she said, quickly wiping them away. “It has been a rather trying day.”
“I can only imagine, lass,” Brodie said, looking at her. He had thought her lovely before, but now, so close to her face and form, he could see how inadequate a description that was.