Page 38 of Bound to Her Highland Lord
He called out orders one by one, assigning tasks so clearly fit for the person’s skills and knowledge that Sorcha couldn’t help but be amazed with how well he knew his people. But despite his ability to lead his people well, there was one nagging question that Sorcha couldn’t keep silent any longer.
“What happens when the battle is over?” she asked softly, cutting into Oliver’s order giving.
The room fell silent once again as they all turned to look at her. Brows furrowed from some while Mairi offered an understanding look. It was Oliver who answered her.
“We will go back to life as normal, I suspect. Of course, if there is any damage, I will see to the repairs. But I truly do not believe that Dudley will attack us. At most, I assume he will merely use the land as a bridge to get into Scotland.”
“And what about yer neighbors? The ones who are nae fortunate enough to live on the right side of the border to avoid raiding. What are they do to?”
It came out sharper than she intended, an accusation rather than a thought-provoking idea. But Sorcha couldn’t bring herself to regret the words.
“Excuse me? I am afraid I don’t understand.”
Oliver’s brogue had slipped into his words the more comfortable he became, the more settled in his role as Marquess he got. And again she would catch glimpses of the Scottish lilt whenever he was too angry to control it. Now, however, he spoke with the English of a perfect nobleman, born and bred to rule. It put an odd kind of distance between her and him, one where she was very much on the outside, and he was comfortably surrounded by friends and family who would defend him to the ends of the earth.
“I mean, ye have made ample considerations for yer own people, but ye care not a bit for those just across the glen. Ye said it yerself, ye are going to sit back and allow Dudley to useyer lands as a bridge so he can infiltrate Scotland with ease. We are nae talking about some child’s toy caught in a spat between selfish children. We are talking about people’s homes, their lives—myhome, the land yer own mother comes from. How can ye so casually turn yer back on their suffering?”
She watched as his jaw clenched and worked around his frustration. Her own frustration grew as she spoke. He had invited her here under the pretenses that she would be allowed to speak freely, yet now that she was doing so, it was abundantly clear that her insight was less than welcome.
“This is the way the Blackwood lands have always been managed,” he explained as though he was speaking to a petulant child. “We have survived this long without choosing sides, and we will continue to do so now.”
“Survival,” she scoffed. “That is all ye can think about. Ye say whatever ye think the person ye are talking to wants most to hear, ye align yerself with men ye admit are blackguards, and ye ready the defenses, all in an effort to survive. Ye hide yer accent, yer heritage, and the truth about who ye truly are so that ye might survive. But survival is nae living.”
At some point, and she wasn’t entirely sure when, Sorcha had risen to her feet, her palms flat on the table in front of her. With every word, she had leaned over it, Oliver matching her every move, until they were scant inches apart once again. Their closeness garnered a cough from one of the others in the room, giving Sorcha a jolt of self-awareness once more. She pulled back and crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to end the confrontation merely because a nosey old woman might be uncomfortable with it.
“Ye could do something, Oliver,” she told him, her tone shifting until she was no longer accusing but pleading. “Ye have the chance to save lives, to stand against the same kind of men who killed yer father. And instead of taking it, ye are keeping tothe shadows in the hopes that nay one notices ye, that nay one asks anything of ye. But I see ye and I am asking—do something. Please. For the sake of my family. Dinnae let Dudley do this. Join our forces in the Highlands. Join me and the Kincaids and the other clans. Dinnae turn yer back on this evil. Dinnae turn a blind eye. Ye are better than that.”
Oliver stared at her, unmoving and unblinking. She could see the war happening in his eyes as he wrestled with her words. She could almost hear his heart softening to her cause. But when he spoke, his words rang with such a coldness, it shattered any hope she might have carried that he was a good man.
“You all have your orders. This meeting is finished. Go. We do not have much time. I want it all seen to before the day is done.”
Sorcha’s heart sank to the floor, crashing against the cold stone she stood on. One by one, the members of the council left, offering a comforting touch or a quiet word to Oliver. But he didn’t budge, he didn’t take his eyes off Sorcha. She stayed just as frozen.
Only once they were alone, did Oliver break the trance they were in. Rising to his full height, Oliver tugged on his coat and left the room without saying a word. It took the span of two heartbeats for Sorcha’s disappointment to morph into frustration. This anger took even less time to get the better of her.
Staying close on his heels, Sorcha took off after Oliver. Painfully aware of the looks they were receiving as they made their way through the castle and into the courtyard, Sorcha kept her mouth shut. She had already irritated Oliver enough by arguing with him in front of his council. She knew well enough not to make the same mistake. Instead, she would simply follow him until they were alone. There, in complete privacy, she would make it clear just what she thought of him.
“I am nae finished with ye,” she hissed in warning.
He cast her a dismissive glance over his shoulder, sending her blood boiling. She didn’t know what it was about this man that had her so out of sorts, but she had never before met someone capable of riling her so completely. It was as if he alone had the ability to make her go stark raving mad. She balled her hands into fists and continued after him.
Her boots slapped the swept cobblestones of the courtyard loudly, but she had no need for stealth now. She didn’t care about the men staring after them or the way Oliver pressed on without acknowledging her or anyone else. He kept on towards the stables, only slowing his stride when he reached the stall that housed his horse.
Once again, Sorcha crossed her arms over her chest and waited while Oliver stroked the horse’s snout affectionately.
“Why will ye nae fight back?”
Her question echoed through the rafters of the barn. A mare a few stalls down snickered at Sorcha’s interruption before turning her attention back to the hay in front of her. Oliver busied himself with brushing down his horse before checking the condition of his tack. Pleased with the strength of the leather, Oliver set to work bridling his horse, whispering encouraging words to the beast as he went.
“Here you are, sir,” a young boy spoke warmly, arms laden with packed bags.
“Excellent,” Oliver acknowledged, speaking audibly for the first time since they had left the council meeting. “You can set them on the barrel over there. Run to the kitchens for a biscuit. Tell Cook I said you could have one. And then hurry back to your mother. She will be needing your help soon.”
The boy gently placed the leather bags on the barrel next to Sorcha. She spotted what looked to be a change of clothes anda bundle of food, but before she could investigate further, her attention was wrenched back to Oliver.
“Are ye truly nae going to defend yer actions?” she pushed once they were alone again. “It is one thing to make a deal with a man like Dudley when ye feel there is naught else ye can do. But dinnae stand there and use that excuse with me. I saw how easy it was for ye to thwart him. Ye had nay trouble crossing the man. So why hesitate now? Why are ye so unwilling to?—”
Oliver threw his saddle over his horse’s back and bent to tighten the straps. Sorcha huffed, throwing her hands in the air.
