Page 25 of Bound to Her Highland Lord
For the first time since Sorcha had noticed Oliver’s wounds, her attention was wrenched from him. Her eyes scanned and studied the woman, looking for any clues of just who this woman was.
She peeled herself away from Oliver’s side, giving the woman space to work and herself room to think. In a situation where she knew so little, it was difficult to make sense of things. But at the very least she knew a few things.
The first was that she had not been treated like a prisoner since she had arrived. Even after admitting how she came to be with Lord Blackwood, no one, including the Marquess, seemedkeen on treating her like a captive. There were no orders for her to be thrown into a dungeon or have her wrists bound again.
The second, and perhaps most confounding thing, was that Lord Blackwood, a Marquess, a man of the English peerage, was not who he had claimed to be. His signature had been attached to the Baron’s plans to invade Scotland, to do untold damage to it. A plan that sprouted from a bone-deep hatred of the Scots. Yet, the accent was undeniable proof. No longer able to hide his heritage, either from exhaustion or pain, she didn’t know. It didn’t matter, for it made something apparent: Lord Blackwood was, at the very least, some part Scottish.
9
BETRAYALS AND BLOODLINES
Sorcha’s back burned and her legs had grown stiff hours ago. The afternoon had come and gone while she had stood in the far corner of Lord Blackwood’s chambers, watching as the healer treated his wounds.
She was methodical and gentle in the way her old, wrinkled hands washed the blood away, clearing out the dirt and debris from the cut. The healer tsked and chided him gently, though they both knew he had fallen asleep almost as soon as she had begun to work on him, telling him how gravely these kinds of injuries affected her. Sorcha thought it odd for a healer to be so ill-equipped to deal with wounds, but kept her mouth shut.
The woman’s stitches were neat and tight as she worked across his chest, sewing the wound up so well that Sorcha doubted it would leave much of a scar when it was all said and done. She had just finished applying a salve to stave off infection and was wrapping his chest in clean bandages when Sorcha decided she needed some air.
“Och, there ye are. Mrs. Farnon,” the healer said as the housekeeper bustled back into the room.
With a tray in hand covered with a steaming bowl of stew, an equally hot cup of tea, and a chunk of bread, Mrs. Farnonlooked quite determined to do whatever she could to set her lord to rights.
“I brought his favorite. Do you think it will be enough to rouse him?”
“Aye. The wound was nae as deep as we feared. Some rest and some food with see him fit before the evening meal. At the verra least, he will be up and walking around. I am sure he will wish to check in on everyone now that he is home.”
“And it will do the others good to see him back. No doubt word of his injuries has already spread. They will want to see for themselves that he is well.”
Seemingly forgotten, Sorcha listened as the two women talked over the man in question. Unlike the servants in Dudley’s estate, there was no fear, no cowering, or tiptoeing around Lord Blackwood. In fact, both women spoke of him with something not at all unlike affection. It baffled Sorcha how such a man could ever align himself with the Baron.
“Excuse me,” she muttered before slipping from the room.
The smell of the stew had roused her stomach and suddenly reminded her that she was still covered in blood. Most of it was the Marquess’ but she had no doubt that there were splatters on her face from the guards she had felled. She was in desperate need of a wash and a meal. Afterwards, she would feel sorted enough to come up with a plan. Or, at the very least, have the wherewithal to ask the right questions.
She had only made it a few steps out of the chamber before a voice called after her.
“Ye are injured.”
Although not a question, Sorcha still turned to give her answer.
“It is nothing I have nae recovered from before. Dinnae fash yerself about me. I will be fine after a wash.”
“Ye will nae,” the healer argued with a stubbornness that reminded her sorely of Aila. “That cut on yer face is sure to fester if we dinnae put something on it. And that says nothing of the soreness. And then there are the burns on yer wrists that I presume are from being held captive. Need I mention the ribs ye have been holding the entire time, ye stood vigil?”
Sorcha couldn’t argue. She had thought the healer too consumed with Lord Blackwood to have paid any attention to Sorcha’s wounds. And with the near immediate relief Laura’s salve had given, Sorcha was hesitant to deny help.
“Come with me. We will go down to my rooms so ye can have privacy. I will call for a bath and after ye are clean, I will treat yer wounds. Then we can see about some food and yer hair.”
Self-consciousness crept into her cheeks, but Sorcha pushed it aside, her curiosity overtaking it. She had an endless list of questions, and the only way she was going to get answers was if she did exactly as the healer bade her.
“A bath does sound nice,” Sorcha admitted a bit sheepishly.
“Aye, well, that is as much for my sake as it is for yers. Come on, lassie. We have much to discuss. Let’s start with names; I am called Mairi. Who might ye be?”
“Sorcha.”
Mairi nodded as she put a guiding hand on Sorcha’s arm.
“Come then, Sorcha, and let’s get ye settled.”
