Page 20 of Bound to Her Highland Lord
He arched a brow.
“The only defense ye can give me for yer despicable actions is that the Baron is beneath ye in rank and so ye would nae listen to what he has to say?”
“You are the one who has brought up rank, not I.”
“Och, dinnae be daft. Ye said he is nae yer equal. What else is there to mean by that?”
“I would think it a very good thing in your eyes that I do not consider the Baron someone to take notes from. Unless you would like a matching bruise across your other cheek?”
Her eyes grew wide. The outer edges of her deep brown irises tinged gold with fear. If he hadn’t been standing so close, if he hadn’t been studying her face so closely, he might have missed the look before she blinked it away. But he had seen it. And he hated himself for it.
Suddenly aware of the fact that they were mere inches apart from each other, their breaths mixing in the air between them, Oliver took half a step back. He fought for control over his heaving chest, half wondering when was the last time a woman had vexed him so completely. He no longer found any spark of amusement in her sharp words, only a driving need to show her just how entirely wrong she was. The only problem he had but one idea on how to get her to stop talking long enough to do just that, and it wasn’t a very chivalrous idea.
Oliver’s gaze dropped from her eyes, her flushed pink cheeks, and finally landed on her full, rosy lips. Though he allowed himself to linger there for only a moment, it was enough to make those tempting lips twist into a sneer.
“I see what kind of man ye are now,” Sorcha told him.
He knew that had her hands been free of the ropes still wrapped around her wrists, they would have been stubbornly perched on her generous hips.
“And what kind of man is that?”
Feigning disinterest, Oliver tore his eyes off Sorcha and towards the trees around them. He needed a distraction, anything to get him out of this back and forth with her.
“Ye dinnae enjoy hurting people the way the Baron does,” she explained with a cool calmness that he knew neither of them felt—the flush in her cheeks and the pounding in his veins gave them both away. “Ye would much rather see those under ye fear ye. That is what?—”
Oliver launched himself at Sorcha, tackling her to the ground, knocking whatever she was about to say out of her mouth. His ear stung, but he was too focused on unsheathing his sword to notice much. Sorcha let out another string of curses, her bound hands pushing against his chest to get him off her. She fought against him with every ounce of strength she had, hoping to land at least a few good hits while she could. Hemanaged to avoid them all with ease, hardly even paying her any attention.
“I swear if ye so much as lay a finger on me, I will?—”
Her threat died as soon as her eyes found the arrow lodged in the tree mere inches from where her head had been only seconds before. Oliver was already on his feet with his back to her, sword pointed in the direction of their attackers. It made no sense to her. He had just undoubtedly saved her life. What she couldn’t fathom is why he would go to such lengths to keep her safe if she was no more than a prisoner to him. Their attackers didn’t give her time to contemplate the answer as they came creeping out of the tree line.
She scrambled to her feet, refusing to allow herself to be any easier of a target than she already was with her hands tied and no weapon to wield.
“Are we on enemy land?” she whispered to Oliver, counting the men as they emerged.
He shook his head and then told her, “We are riding near the Scottish border, but no. I did not think I had any enemies here.”
“Then who are?—”
Again, her question died on her lips as she spied the same three guards who had first caught her outside the Baron’s estate. These were Dudley’s men, of that she had no doubt. It made no sense to her why they would attack Lord Blackwood. He was one of Dudley’s allies. She had heard him swear his allegiance in exchange for her. That made him one of them, right?
“Dudley,” Oliver muttered the name like a curse.
“Aye.”
Six men stared them down, still inching their way across the clearing and towards where Oliver and Sorcha stood together. Not wasting a second, Oliver spun around and sliced through the ropes at her wrists.
“Think that she will give you a chance at surviving us?” one of the guards taunted.
“She will run as soon as you turn your back,” another added. “No matter to us. We will kill you and then track her down anyway.”
Ignoring them, Oliver handed her the sword he had been clutching before crossing back to his saddle in three long strides to pull his second sword out from its sheath there. Sorcha came after him, her steps sure and confident as she adjusted to the weight of the weapon in her grip.
“We cannae let them separate us. That is the only way we will survive this,” she explained as she moved closer still.
“Trust me,” Oliver seethed, his eyes locked on the guard whose fist was responsible for the mark on Sorcha’s cheek. “I have no intention of dying in the woods at the hands of these vermin.”
“Those are some big words from a man who is outnumbered with nothing but a wench to help you.”
