Page 3 of Bound to Her Highland Lord
“Laugh all you please, but it is their inability to keep their word that makes these Scots such a danger to our land and lives.” Baron Dudley’s menacing words shifted the mood to something a bit more somber. “For now, it is a string of broken engagements. Before long, we will be staring down evidence of broken alliances. And when that happens, none of you will be laughing. You will be cursing the day we ever allowed them to get away with such barbaric behavior. They must be civilized. Before we are too late.”
“What does the King say?” Earl Thornwyck asked after a beat of silent contemplation.
Nearly letting a growl of frustration, the Baron turned to the man.
“Did he not say enough to you when you received your title? We are the men he has called upon to uphold the laws and the standards he has set in place for this magnificent empire. Wehave all been burdened with the task of seeing that each of his subjects obeys his rule and answers to his justice.”
With every declaration, the Baron made a point to look every nobleman in the eye, driving his point home further.
“It is my privilege and honor to take on such a task. I strive only to do my best for my King. I need not bother him with my issues when he has already granted me everything I need to put an end to them.” Shrugging, the Baron looked back at the Earl. “If you feel it necessary to become a thorn in the King’s side, then by all means, do so.”
Another beat of contemplative silence and Oliver knew the Baron had won them all over, as he had intended.
“Shall we discuss strategy? I know that if we can gather our numbers together, those savages will not stand a chance against us. We will wipe them out entirely.”
“I thought the purpose was to educate and civilize them,” the Warden of Blackmere pointed out, confused and innocent. “Now you talk of killing them all?”
“You misunderstand me, man. I mean to say that we will scour the land of their heathen ways. It will be as if they are new people.”
Appeased, the men launched into a heated debate about the benefit of a land or naval attack first. The Baron went down the list of lords, making note of how many men were in each of their armies and the other supplies they had to offer; though each man was clear that they weren’t ready to commit to anything just yet.
The Baron finally turned to Oliver with the same list of questions he had asked all the others. Ready to provide all that he could, Oliver opened his mouth to answer, but before he could get a single word out, the monstrous wooden doors to the castle screeched open, the hinges announcing their displeasure at being moved by whoever was interrupting.
Dudley let out a string of curses and threats, telling the trio of guards who had caused the disturbance. “You better have a good reason for interrupting. I thought I made myself perfectly clear when I told all of ye that we were not to be disturbed unless?—”
A wicked grin spread across the Baron’s face that had Oliver searching for the cause of it. On her knees with wrists tied behind her back, a woman crouched behind the guards. From where he was sitting, he had a clear view of the blood spilling from her split cheek and onto the rushes that covered the floor.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
The guards draggedSorcha further into the Great Hall, wrenching her up by her shoulders, only to throw her back down on the ground in front of the dais.
So this is the grand Lord Dudley.How pathetic.
In enough trouble as it was, Sorcha kept her thoughts to herself. A metallic taste filled her mouth as she felt her bottom lip with her tongue. One of the guards fisted his hand in her hair and pulled her head back, forcing her to look up at the Baron. Unable to stop herself from one last act of defiance, she spat the mouthful of blood out, content to see it splatter on the ground in front of her. Her deep chestnut eyes oozed the disdain she felt for the man, but she didn’t care. At least, she told herself that she didn’t.
“We found her trying to sneak in through the servant’s entrance. Likely trying to steal food or silver.” His voice was droll, clearly thinking himself better than her. “There were no others, but she fought like a hellcat.”
“You mean to tell me that it took three of my best guards to subdue a lone woman?” Lord Dudley demanded, eyes narrowed on the guard.
“I-I mean, we… That is to say… Well, Lord, I?—”
Throwing a hand up, the Baron cut off whatever the stuttering guard was trying to say and turned his attention back to Sorcha.
“It is clear to me that you are not an English rose but a Scottish heathen,” Lord Dudley accused.
She could feel the weight of every pair of eyes in the room landing on her muddied and blood spattered face. Her cheek smarted from where one of the guards had hit her in a rudimentary attempt to silence her. And more than any physical pain she felt, she was nearly consumed by the fear that she would never be able to get Taryn out of this castle now.
Aila had warned her time and time again against her rashness. Sorcha had learned many life lessons about not rushing into things without a plan, and especially without a way out. Yet, in her desperation to save Taryn, she had done exactly that.
But no matter what she felt, no matter how the fear in her belly clawed at her resolve, she refused to let an ounce of it show. The Baron had already gotten many a broken soul to kneel at his feet. She would not be another one.
“Stealing into my home, ready to deprive someone else of their meal only to satisfy your hunger, if that is truly what you were doing here.” He eyed her carefully, dismissing her as a threat altogether. That was a small grace, at the very least. “This, gentlemen, is precisely the kind of behavior we must wage war against.”
Needing her only to prove his point, Lord Dudley turned his attention to the rest of the room, giving the Lords he had gathered together all a knowing look.
She studied him, searching for any apparent weakness, any small detail she could store in her mind for later, should the opportunity arise. Unlike Lachlan and the other Scottish Lairds, Baron Dudley had been made fat by inactivity. His tunic stretched far over his belt, concealing the center buckle entirely. He was a man clearly accustomed to sitting in his gilded high seat while he bade other men to do his job.
She supposed, with his deep brown hair and startling blue eyes, he would’ve been handsome in his younger years. As he was now, nose crooked and sagging from a break never set correctly, a ruddiness in his skin that so often accompanied the belly he carried, and a jaw line that flapped every time he spoke, Sorcha felt him merely ridiculous.
