Page 10 of Bound to Her Highland Lord
“You are far from plain. You are beautiful.”
The spark that danced between them carried her back down to the Great Hall and on for the rest of the night.
4
THE BLADE BETWEEN THEM
It was impossible to tell how long she had been stuck in that cell. With no windows and no torches, there was no light to tell Sorcha what time of day it was. Judging from the heaviness in her bones and the quiet that exuded from the rest of the castle, she had a good idea that it was well past any reasonable hour. Her stomach roiled with hunger and for the dozenth time, she reprimanded herself for not eating before trying to sneak into the estate. She had only herself to blame for the situation she was in now.
Things could have been much worse, she tried to remind herself, casting a wary look over to the cell the guards had first put Sorcha in. At least she had a clean bed to sit on, thanks to Laura, even if Sorcha refused to allow herself to lay down and sleep. No matter how much her body demanded rest, she knew she couldn’t give in. It was too dangerous to fall asleep in enemy territory. Sooner or later, she would have to, but not before she got a better understanding of the things happening around her.
So far, the guards had changed posts once. The men snoring at the door to the dungeon were due for a reprieve soon. And she couldn’t help but wonder if the Baron was ever going to deign to feed her. She didn’t have much hope for it. Although, sheno longer was the Baron’s prisoner. Technically speaking, she belonged to the Lord who had spoken up to claim her.
Sorcha scowled at the thought.
She didn’t have time to ruminate on it for too long, though, as footsteps echoed down the hallway, rousing the guards from their nap. Jumping up, Sorcha pushed back to the far wall of her cell, refusing to be within arms length of whoever was approaching.
“Is this how you guard my treasure?” a cold, hard voice asked.
Chills went down Sorcha’s spine. This was the same cold, hard voice that had stood against the Baron—and won. This was the man who had bartered his army, his support of the Baron’s cause for her freedom.
“Apologies, my lord,” the guard rushed out.
From where Sorcha watched, she could have sworn the man had started to tremble. The sight had her eyes cast skyward, even as she swallowed against her suddenly dry throat. She refused to be intimidated by any man, least of all one who believed he could barter for her life.
“O-our shift is almost over, and we have not retired to our beds all night.”
“Do you think I want to hear your excuses? Do you think it means anything to me that you are tired?” the cold voice snapped.
“N-no, Lord Blackwood. Forgive us.”
Moved by curiosity, Sorcha moved from her spot on the musty cot to the farthest corner of the cell, giving herself the best view of the man, this Lord Blackwood. With the torchlight behind him, she could only see his silhouette, but even that much was impressive. He had at least six inches on the guards, forcing him to look down his nose at the men. His shoulders nearly filled the doorway, and the way he held himself,impossibly straight and tall, made her think that he had spent his entire life trying to prove himself to others.
What he had to prove, she couldn’t guess. Everything from the straight, prominent nose to the sharp, angled jaw, and the coifed dark hair all pointed to him being the perfect English gentleman.
It wasn’t until he turned his eyes on her that she sensed something more brewing under the surface of his cool and controlled demeanor—something wild and untamable. Something that called out to the very same wild nature that coursed through her blood.
Lord Blackwood stalked into the dungeon, his boots silent in the muddy floors. She watched him like a hunter following her prey, despite the fact that she was the one locked behind bars, bruised and bloody.
“Come to claim yer reward like the heathen ye are?” she spat out at him, her words full of vitriol. “I suppose it does nae matter to an English lord like ye whether yer women are free or nay, in a cell or chained to yer bed, as long as ye get what ye think is owed to ye.”
He said nothing, staying perfectly still as her accusations rolled around the stone walls.
“Leave us.”
The guards looked at each other in doubt before they turned to him, clearly not believing they had heard him correctly. She couldn’t blame them; Lord Blackwood hadn’t taken those amber eyes of his off her from the moment he first saw her.
“Are you deaf as well as incompetent?” he questioned, finally turned his head with the precision of a falcon locked onto its next target. “I said, leave us. Now.”
Clamoring up the steps and into the hallway beyond, the guards headed the order, neither willing to risk the man’s ire. Sorcha had no such qualms.
“So a cell does nae matter to ye, but privacy does?” she taunted.
Her mother had always warned her that her sharp tongue would be the death of her.
“One day, ye will push a man too far with that razor of yers. Ye will say something that ye cannae take back. And there will be nay one there to save ye. Tread lightly, lass.”
Sorcha could hear her mother’s words in the back of her mind. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, Sorcha supposed. In a moment like this one, her options were to shrink back and weep or fight with every fiber of her being. She was terrified that this man would turn out to be as vile and wicked as the Baron, that he had come to flay her alive or bring her back to his castle to chain her to his bed. She wasn’t sure which was worse. And Sorcha had never been one to shed a tear over anything. So if she were to be abused that night, she refused to make it easy on the man.
