Page 64 of Bound to Her Highland Lord
“I figure she has a right to as much of your hide as she can get. Why? Frightened she might best you without your cronies holding her to the floor?”
Taryn sucked in a gasp through her teeth, holding back her disgust, but just barely. Oliver knew exactly how she felt. He had felt just as disgusted when he had been in the room, watching, unable to do anything to stop it. Under his arms, Sorcha tensed. She clearly hadn’t told her friends just what had happened while she was out in search of Taryn. Oliver made a quick mental note to apologize later for speaking so candidly.
Despite Dudley’s failed attempts to get under Oliver’s skin, it appeared as though Oliver’s retort had struck its mark. The Baron’s already ruddy complexion turned blotchy with anger. His horse stamped its foot, whinnying under the tight grip of its rider.
“You traitor,” Dudley spat. “I should have known better than trying to make an ally out of a half-blood.”
“The only traitor here is ye,” Sorcha seethed. “Or do ye forget that we have evidence of all ye have done?”
Oliver put a hand to her back, trying to communicate that the Baron’s venom had no sting. At least not for him.
“This is absurd,” Dudley scoffed. “I will not stand here and be scolded by the likes ofyou.You are all beneath me. Step aside. Let me pass.”
Dudley urged his horse forward a tentative step, his bluster, and bellowing clearly all for show. Oliver merely shook his head and adjusted his sword.
“I dinnae think so,” James crooned, clearly thrilled to have the man trapped.
“Need I remind you,” Oliver added cooly, “that even before the Crown assuredly strips you of your title and lands, you are still just a baron? I would suggest you are careful in how you speak to your betters.”
“Betters?” Dudley spat. “You could be crowned the King of England and you still would not be my superior. You’re nothing more than a half-blood bastard, soiled by your mother’s foul heritage and your father’s dim wit. You make an excellent combination of them both, I must admit.”
“Careful,” Oliver warned.
He could withstand attacks on his own character without fail, but the moment Dudley began to go after his parents, to slander their names, was nearly more than he could tolerate. Fury, white-hot and vengeful, boiled in his bones.
“I should never have been surprised at your betrayal,” Dudley continued as though Oliver hadn’t spoken at all. “How could you be loyal to any one side when you are not good enough for either of them? It must be a devastating blow to know that you are not wanted or welcomed by the English or the Scots. Tell me, what is it like to know that your mother is the only one who will have you?”
Oliver growled. Taking no heed of his position—trapped and completely surrounded by those who wished to see him dead—Dudley kept on. The longer he ranted, the more irate and incensed he became.
“I am quite sure your father would have been so pleased to see that you have turned out just like him. He was just as soft and stupid as you are. Always siding with his wife’s people rather than his own.”
“Do not speak of my father,” Oliver hissed.
“I was a fool for not seeing it sooner. I should have guessed that you would take after him and defend these heathens. This,” Dudley said, throwing his arms out to gesture at everything around him, “could have all been yours if you had only kept your word to me. If you had followed me into battle as you promised, you would have reaped great spoils. Instead, you had to go loseyour head to the first girl to look your way. I should have killed you the night you slept under my roof. I should not have waited.”
The admission slipped out of his mouth so easily that Oliver wondered if the Baron even recognized what he had just said. Oliver felt Sorcha tense again, memories of their encounter with his guards in the forest flashing through his mind.
“You admit it then,” Oliver pressed, gritting his teeth as the last grip of control on his temper wavered. “You tried to have me killed.”
Dudley tossed his head back and laughed, dry and barking and cruel. When he leveled his gaze on Oliver again, it was with a hatred so black the Baron was hardly recognizable.
“Of course I did. Did you truly think I would ever let you get away with thwarting me in my own home? In front of all my men?”
“Ye mean,” Sorcha bit out, “ye set those guards after us to kill Oliver and bring me back to be yer captive?”
Dudley shrugged, ignorant of just how furious the four were becoming.
“I couldn’t let you slip out of my fingers, now could I? A third Scottish lass escaping my halls. What kind of man do you think I am?”
“A vile one.”
The venom in Taryn’s answer shocked them all, though her words rang true. For the first time since Dudley had been cornered, he bothered looking over towards Taryn and James. His face twisted with horrid thoughts Oliver didn’t dare to consider.
“The only mistake I have made in all of this,” Dudley spoke with a cold disregard that sent chills down Oliver’s spine, “was that I sent those useless buffoons after you. I should have killed you like I killed your father.”
Oliver’s heart slammed against his ribs as his mind fought to make sense of what his ears were telling him they heard.
“I should not have waited for you to leave my lands. I should have pulled my dagger and thrust it into your back that very night, standing in the hall, in nearly the same spot I killed your father.”
