Chapter 10 #2
“You’re a fool,” Margaret said quietly as they crossed the courtyard toward the servants’ quarters. “Getting close to the governess. The widow sees everything. Knows everything. And she doesn’t tolerate anything that threatens her control.”
“I didna ask for your opinion.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended, but he was too wrung out to soften them.
“No, but you need it.” Margaret stopped near the entrance to the quarters, moonlight silvering the grey in her hair. “Duncan tried to keep his head down. Worked hard. Never complained. But he made one mistake—he fell in love. With one of the slave women.”
Brodie said nothing, but she continued anyway.
“The widow found out. Sold the woman’s contract to one of the brothels in Port Royal. Duncan went quiet after that. Stopped eating. Stopped talking. Just went through the motions like he was already dead.”
Her voice dropped lower. “Three nights ago, Sarah—one of the kitchen girls—saw the widow’s men taking him through the gardens.
Not toward the road. Not toward the docks.
Toward the old garden, the place we’re told never to go.
” She paused, her hand tightening on his arm.
“No one’s seen him since. No body. No announcement. Just... gone.”
The image settled in Brodie’s mind with terrible clarity. Duncan being led through darkness toward something unknown. The widow’s men. The old garden where Maddie had first appeared.
What had the widow said? I had to make certain adjustments.
“The governess is marked now,” Margaret continued.
“Same as you. The widow’s decided you’re dangerous—not because of what you’ve done, but because of what she thinks you might do.
Together.” She released his arm. “So either you stay away from her completely, or you both disappear like Duncan.” Then she sighed.
“I know ye think I told her, but she already knew. I saw it in her eyes.” She shrugged.
“Might as well get a few coins for telling what’s already known. ”
She left him standing there in the moonlight, her confession and warning hanging in the air like the scent of smoke.
Fists clenched, he made his way into the stables, nodding to Thomas. There was a simple straw pallet, a nail in the wall for him to hang his clothes. He undressed in silence and lay down on the thin mattress.
But sleep wouldn’t come.
The widow collected beautiful things. Everyone knew that she liked everyone to be pleasant to look at. But what else did she collect? What else did she do in the shadows of her plantation, where no one was allowed to look too closely?
Either you stay away from her completely, or you both disappear like Duncan.
The smart choice was obvious. Keep his head down. Avoid Maddie entirely. Work in the stables and wait for his contract to expire or for some opportunity to escape that wouldn’t endanger anyone else.
The smart choice had kept him alive through Edinburgh, through the slave ship, through four years of piracy and violence and moral compromise.
But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Maddie standing in that drawing room, terrified but defiant, meeting the widow’s threats with a steady voice even though he’d seen her hands shaking.
She reminded him of someone he’d been once. Before Anne’s betrayal. Before he’d learned that survival required forgetting who you used to be.
Maddie still believed that right and wrong mattered. That kindness was worth the cost. That people were worth protecting even when protecting them was dangerous.
And despite everything—despite the widow’s threats and Duncan’s disappearance and the cold logic that said staying away was the only way to survive—Brodie knew with absolute certainty that he wouldn’t abandon her.
Couldn’t.
The realization settled in his chest, heavy and inevitable.
He was already gone. Already lost. Had been since the moment in the courtyard when she’d said, because it was right with such simple conviction, as if there were no other possible answer. That was the moment he’d fallen for her, even though he’d sworn never to care for another woman again.
Margaret was right. He was a fool.
Maddie had woken hope inside him. Or mayhap ’twas the memory of honor. Or the stubborn belief that some things were worth fighting for even when fighting meant losing everything.
Outside, the plantation bell rang the hour—midnight, or near enough. Somewhere in the great house, Maddie lay in her small room, probably as sleepless as he was. Probably frightened, wondering if he’d heed the widow’s warning and stay away.
He wouldn’t.
The widow wanted to keep them separated, to make them believe they were alone and powerless. That was how she maintained control—by isolating people, by making them think survival required submission.
But she’d shown her hand tonight. Revealed that their connection threatened her, which meant it had power she feared.
Brodie stared at the ceiling, at the shadows cast by moonlight through the single small window, and began to plan.
Because some things—some people—were worth the risk.
And Maddie Carter, with her strange notions and her refusal to accept that cruelty was simply the way of the world, was worth everything.
The widow thought she could control them through fear and separation. She’d learn that some bonds couldn’t be broken by threats or distance. Some bonds were forged in fire—in impossible choices and quiet defiance and the shared understanding that survival without principle wasn’t survival at all.
Just another kind of death.
And Brodie MacLeod had died enough times already.