Page 23 of Bound to Her Highland Lord
She fell to her knees at his side and pressed her palms against his wound.
“Ye are bleeding too much,” she told him. “Ye will nae survive the night if we dinnae get ye help soon.”
The frantic concerned look she wore for him melted his heart, warming his countenance towards her.
“Blackwood,” he croaked out.
“Aye, I ken yer name. What am I supposed to do with ye?”
“My home,” he answered, a faint smile on his lips. “It is not far. The healer will be able to tend my wounds. Less than an hour.”
Pushing back on her heels, she scoffed and moved quickly to retrieve all of the fallen and forgotten swords.
“Ye mean to tell me that ye insisted on stopping to water the horse less than an hour away from yer home? I kent ye were English. I did nae ken that ye could be so foolish.” She shot him a glance as she led his horse over to where he lay. “I swear, if ye survive this and tell me that ye stopped for my sake, I will run ye through with a sword myself.”
He chuckled, and then winced. Without a second thought, Sorcha ripped the bottom of her long tunic into strips and wrapped it around his middle. He let out his own string of curses as she worked, but was grateful for her ministrations as he felt the blood flow start to slow.
“Put yer arm over me. We will get ye on yer feet and then into the saddle.”
It took them far longer than he could have ever imagined, and his chest burned as though he had been set on fire, but somehow, the fearless girl had managed the task. They were both seated in the saddle, she with the reins in her hands, he leaned against her back. The pressure her body gave against his wounds helped staunch the bleeding.
“I have no intention of binding your wrists again,” he whispered in her ear as she reached for a length of rope. “One of us has to be able to steer.”
She laughed softly, the sound a melody he would have never expected from a woman like her. It was a balm that helped soothe his frayed mind. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so grievously injured. No doubt he was sure to get an ear full when he returned home. That bothered him almost as much as the wound itself did.
Twisting in her seat, Sorcha looped her arms around his waist, taking the rope with her hands. The feel of her fingers against his back was another kind of balm, one that he had no business entertaining. Though she didn’t run, though she had chosen to stay and help him, he knew very well that she had a home to return to. No matter what she thinks, he knew he could never keep her.
“There,” she announced, having wrapped the rope around her own waist before knotting it off, effectively tying them together. “Now if ye faint, ye at least will nae fall off the horse, and we will nae have to repeat that Herculean task of getting ye on the horse.”
“I will not faint,” he grumbled, loathing the thought of ever being so weak.
“We shall see. An hour is a long time to bleed. Just hold on and tell me where to go.”
It took only a few minutes before Oliver was sagging against her back. The jostle of every step his horse took was an agony that drained him of any remaining energy and resolve he might have had. Sorcha made no complaint of his weight pressed against her or of the blood that now soaked her clothes too.
“Keep to the east through this pass. Once you cross the river, you just have to stay on the road until ye see the bolder with the carved sign.”
“Rest easy, Lord Blackwood. I will see ye home,” she promised, her voice once again soft and reassuring.
It was discomfiting the way she sought to comfort him now. He much preferred it when she bickered with him, exchanging sharp barbs back and forth. At least then he knew where he stood with her, that she wasn’t convinced he was dying.
Letting a sigh escape his nose, Oliver rested his cheek on her shoulder. Her hair brushed against his face in the breeze. There was a distinct smell left from her time in Dudley’s dungeons, but beneath that, he could almost make out the scent of rose and cedar soap. The flowery perfume was such a contrast to the stubborn, fierce woman he had come to know that it only made him want to know her more. He wanted to discover the softer sides of her, the ones that made the roses make sense.
The landscape became a blur as he stopped fighting the urge to let his eyes drift shut. Snow cover tree branches morphed into streaks of white, brown, and gray. The rocks that stood proudly beneath them turned into a sea of stone. He was lost to his pain, so much so that when Sorcha shifted her shoulders, he jolted upright before moaning.
“I assume that is the boulder ye mentioned,” she told him, pointing to the marker on their right.
“That’s it. Take a left. Blackwood Manor will come into view just behind those trees.”
He tried to imagine what it would be like for Sorcha to see his home for the first time. He wondered if she saw the ivy his grandmother had planted on the east side of the manor. Or the lion that greeted them when they entered the drive, missing an ear from the time he had slingshotted a rock into it. To him, he couldn’t help but note the few places in the roof that needed patching or the stone on the north face of the building that needed replacing before the next winter. But beneath the ever-growing list of things he needed to do for the manor, even he had to admit his home was a beautiful one.
An expert gardener, his mother had spent a lifetime cultivating the gardens into a lush paradise that looked welcoming and warm even in the winter. His father had had a penchant for expensive things, and so it was his touch that added the ornate gold lion door knockers to the front of the arched wooden doors that stood twelve feet tall as the entrance to the manor.
Freshly scrubbed, the limestone varied in shades of cream that contrasted with the iron framed windows and shrubbery that lined the perimeter of the house. Despite its size, boasting of two dozen bedrooms, at least half that many sitting rooms, a ballroom, a formal and informal dining room, and a kitchen big enough to feed an army, there was a distinctively homey feel to it all.
For some reason, it mattered greatly to Oliver that Sorcha saw it not as a fortress that would act as her prison, nor as evidence of yet another frivolous and greedy English lord, but as a home—hishome. He wanted to tell her how his family had won the parcel of land from one of the kings of old as an act of favor, how they had all managed to grow it under careful stewardship. He wanted to show her that he was a generous Lord who treated his tenants with respect and kindness. He wanted to prove that he was just as capable of taking care of his inheritance as his forefathers.
Why he cared so deeply for her good opinion, he couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t. And seeing as his vision was growing hazy, black spots dancing in his eyes, he didn’t have the mental capacity to examine his inner feelings—not until his external state was dealt with.
