Page 19 of Bound to Her Highland Lord
7
THE CREEKSIDE RECKONING
Oliver’s back burned from holding himself ramrod straight for so many hours. He’d had little choice in the matter. There was hardly half an inch separating his chest from Sorcha’s back while in the saddle. And every time that half of an inch vanished, a jolt of awareness ran through him.
She was a lightning strike that he only dared touch so many times before his body couldn’t handle it anymore. He had prided himself on more than one occasion of being a Marquess trained with the same ruthless fighting skill as any warrior. But if he spent another second in the saddle, pressed against the stunning woman in front of him, he was likely to go insane.
“We will rest here,” he told her.
“I am fine to keep going,” she answered through clenched teeth. “Dinnae feel the need to stop on my account.”
Despite her objections, he could feel the tension in her back, the way she winced every time they crossed uneven terrain. Trekking through the northernmost part of English soil meant nearly the entire journey was spent on winding roads through thick trees. There were no gravel roads to ease her suffering—however, much Oliver wished there were.
“I thank you for your permission, but we will stop all the same. My horse needs watering and a chance to cool off. He is unaccustomed to carrying two riders.”
It was a paltry excuse, but the best one he could think of under the circumstances. All three of them required some rest, some space for each other.
Leading his stallion over to the base of a wide oak tree, Oliver slipped from his seat before reaching for the reins to throw over a low-hanging branch. Once satisfied that his horse wouldn’t take off on him, he reached up for Sorcha’s waist in an effort to help her down. Before his fingertips could stretch to touch her muddied and stinking shirt, her hands swatted away his.
“I am more than capable of getting myself down from here,” she told him, that fire back in her eyes.
At some point between the Baron’s home and his own, Oliver was sure that he must have turned into a moth, for he could not stop himself from stoking the flames he saw in her eyes.
“I am quite sure that you are able to dismount without issue when you are not black and blue. But seeing as your cheek is so swollen that your eye can hardly open or that your back has a knot the size of a man’s boot, I thought you might have appreciated the assistance.”
Her mouth snapped shut in a satisfying moment of defeat. It didn’t last long.
“How gentlemanly of ye to point out all the ways my injuries have made me weak and unattractive. How would ye prefer I say my thanks? Would any amount of groveling do, or would ye rather I?—”
He cut off her snarky answer with a firm grip on her waist and a gentle lift out of the saddle. She let out a string of curses at the sudden movement that would have made his mother blush. He could only find it endearing. And concerning.
“As soon as we get to my estate, I will send for the healer. She will be able to help make you a good bit more comfortable until your injuries heal,” he promised, an apologetic edge to his words.
Watching her limp to a fallen tree to sit on only made him regret insisting they stop. Clearly the best thing for her would have been to press on if only to get the tonics and treatment that would make her feel better sooner. But they had already stopped. He might as well make the most of it.
Studying her face, Oliver reached out, the backs of his fingers nearly grazing the bruised cut that sat high on her tall cheekbone. She jerked away and then promptly winced at the sudden movement, swearing again. He could do nothing to stop the smile that crept onto his face.
“Ye are just like Baron Dudley and all the others.”
“I beg your pardon?” He spat out.
“‘I beg yer pardon?’” she mocked with a dismissive sigh. “Ye heard me well enough, Blackwood. All English nobility are the same. Ye take a sick pleasure in seeing those ye deem lesser than ye in pain. That is why ye all insist on tormenting us Scots.”
“Is that what you think I am doing?” His question came out a low growl, pairing well with his menacing figure as he stepped closer. “Am I tormenting ye,Sorcha?”
“I am sure ye are giving it yer best effort. Dinnae fash. Any lass more green might be intimidated by yer bonny bright honey eyes or that infuriating smirk ye always wear. Ye can always ask the Baron for a lesson or two in torment if ye want to get yer skills up to snuff.”
Biting down on his tongue, Oliver smiled yet another smile, stepping closer still to Sorcha. He supposed her jabs should have angered him. In some way, they did rile him, but he doubted it was in the manner she had intended.
No one spoke to him this way—no one except his mother. They were all too worried about putting their foot wrong in front of a Marquess to dare speak with such insolence. He had long since grown weary of the sniveling and bowing. It was refreshing to meet someone who didn’t care for his title. At least, it was at first.
But the more they passed these barbs back and forth, the more tired of it all he became. She needed to realize that she was not in a position of power here. In fact, she was little more than his prisoner. She had no right to question his intentions or motives. She was his to do with whatever he pleased.
The thought turned his stomach and sent a fire through his blood.
“In case you do not recall,” Oliver drawled, “the Baron has no power over me. He is not my equal. Why would I bother taking any instruction from him?”
“Nae yer equal?” she scoffed. “Do ye even hear yerself?”
