Chapter 2
THE BARTERED AND THE brOKEN
“Do you have some previous claim on the wench that we are unaware of Lord Blackwood?”
Every word of Dudley’s question dripped with disdain.
Sorcha didn’t think it was possible for the man to grow more peeved, but somehow, this Lord Blackwood had accomplished the feat.
There were only two reasons a man like Dudley would bow a knee, even temporarily, to another man—either Dudley was afraid of Blackwood, or Blackwood outranked him.
Sorcha didn’t much care to uncover which of these was the truth in this case. Neither boded well for her.
“Consider it your gift to me. An act of goodwill.”
His words were cool, sharp, and unyielding like the metal of the sword Sorcha knew he undoubtedly carried.
“An act of goodwill?”
“Dudley, I do think you have an echo in here,” the faceless voice taunted. “You might try adding a few more tapestries to your walls to rectify such a problem.”
A scattering of chuckles came from the other men that only served to deepen the angry splotches on Dudley’s face.
From her lowly position on the floor, it seemed that every square inch of wall space was covered in richly threaded tapestries and gilded frames.
The Baron couldn’t seem to help but proclaim his wealth to all who stepped foot inside his hall.
Over the blazing fireplace, two columns of at least a dozen swords were mounted to the stone, a declaration of strength and might if she had ever seen one.
Yet, all the grandeur the Baron had poured into his feast had little effect on Lord Blackwood.
She itched to turn her head, to seek out the man who had claimed her as if she were no more than a prize heifer up for sale. But she didn’t dare take her eyes off Dudley. He was too irate to risk it.
“If I am going to risk my estate, being the man with the land closest to the border, not to mention my large army,” Lord Blackwood continued, as if he were explaining basic concepts to a petulant child.
“Then I expect some kind of acknowledgment of such a sacrifice. A reward in advance, if you will. She will be payment enough to secure my agreement to your plans.”
Sorcha’s teeth ground together, her own ire growing at being discussed like chattel.
She should have expected that Dudley would surround himself with other men as vile as he.
She could only hope that the Baron would deny Lord Blackwood’s request. If she was going to rescue Taryn, she had to stay here, where she would be able to find her friend.
Better the devil ye ken, she thought to herself.
To her horror, she glanced up just in time to see Baron Dudley considering Blackwood’s words.
She could see his eyes calculating the risks and rewards of denying the man what he wanted.
Lord Blackwood must be a very dangerous man to cross, Sorcha decided, as she saw Dudley finally give way to the Englishman’s demand.
“Fine,” Dudley bit out, sore from being bested in front of all the others. “You may take the chit. There will be plenty of other women, more alluring than this one, I am sure, for the rest of us.”
Bile rose in Sorcha’s throat. She forced herself to swallow it down, alongside the horror at what the Baron was implying.
“Once we take the Highlands, with your support as pledged,” Dudley threatened through a thinly veiled smile, “there will be no need to bicker over one harried lass.”
The color drained from Sorcha’s face. She had heard far too many tales of all the horrible things Dudley had done to the women he’d captured before.
She had seen for herself the damage this man wrought on all those he turned his fury to.
Lachlan’s clan had barely managed to survive his first attack.
Arran’s family had been slaughtered before the boy’s very eyes.
If even one of these English Lords pledged allegiance with the Baron, there was no telling the destruction they would wreak on the Highlands.
Sorcha could only hope to stay alive long enough to warn her friends, to be able to fight alongside them.
Forgive me, Taryn. I dinnae see how I can save ye and our family.
“Take her to the dungeons. The Marquess will collect his prize when he is ready to leave.”
Before the Baron’s order could register in her mind, the same guards who had beaten her, leaving her bloodied and bruised, grabbed her by the arms and pulled her out of the Great Hall.
Her heels dragged against the floor, leaving a trail of bright red splatters and disturbed rushes as the only proof that her life had been bartered away.
“I can walk! I can walk!”
Her cries made the guards stop just long enough for Sorcha to get her feet under her before they readjusted their grip on her arms and were pushing her forward once again.
With legs twice as long as hers, she had to take two steps for every one of theirs, but even that was better than having the heels of her boots shredded against the stone floor.
Untold dread crawled up through her sore feet, eating away at the cold that had snaked into her veins and took up a permanent residence there sometime between Kincaid Castle and the Baron’s dungeon.
By the time the guards had escorted her to her cell, she was covered in a cold sweat.
Out of all the foolish and crazy things she had done, often with Aila and Taryn at her side, Sorcha had never seen the inside of a dungeon before. She didn’t like what she found now.
Where the floors had been clean and peppered with mint twigs to give the whole room a fresh scent, here the stone floors were coated in a strange muck that squelched under her boots.
The smell that emitted from the far corner had her nearly doubled over, wondering if something—or someone—had died there.
The door to her cell slammed shut with a clang that had her ears ringing.
She couldn’t hear the lock turn, but the guard certainly made sure she saw it.
“The only one who will let you out now is Lord Blackwood. And the only thing you can count on from him is some kind of trick. The man is a snake. You would have been better off with the Baron.”
With a schooled face, Sorcha refused to let the guard see just how deeply his words had shaken her. He had simply affirmed everything she already thought to be true. If Baron Dudley was intimidated enough by Lord Blackwood, then she certainly had reason to fear.
She watched her jailers saunter out of the cold, damp air and back towards the blazing torches that lit the hallways above. Their laughter echoed back down to her, sending her emotions spinning all over again.
Never one for sitting still for long, Sorcha rose and walked the length of her cell, careful to stay away from the questionable corner.
It was only three and a half paces long, nothing like the vast expanse of the Kincaid lands she had grown accustomed to exploring whenever her thoughts needed quieting.
But three and a half paces was all she was going to get for the time being, so she spun on her heel and walked back down the cell door.
“This is verra bad. Och, Sorcha, ye fool,” she chastised herself, her breath a ghost in the air. “What have ye gotten yerself into?”
Round and round in circles she went, creating a path in the muck on the floor, feeling as much like a caged animal as she probably looked.
Pausing her pacing for a moment, she reached a ginger hand up to her cheek.
The first guard’s punch had bruised her.
The second blow split it open, sending a trail of blood down her face that had now dried.
The Baron’s ensured that the wound would turn into a scar. She cursed the man all over again.
Mentally, she examined her injuries, taking stock of what hurt and just how much she could push her body in case she was granted her freedom.
Not that she had any hope of Lord Blackwood being the compassionate sort.
Her back was promising to show black and blue come morning, and she had a sore spot on her right leg, likely the size of a guard’s boot.
And then there was a gash on her arm that she couldn’t quite remember how it had gotten there.
All she could recall was her desperation to get to Taryn, fighting with her life to break free from the guards, and their indifference at fighting back against a woman.
Suddenly weary, Sorcha eyed the cot on the opposite side of the rank corner. She had only just started debating whether or not it was worth laying on it while she had the chance to rest alone when the nearly silent pitter-patter of slippered feet came into the dungeon.
“I would nae if I were ye. The straw is rife with bugs that will leave ye itching for weeks.”
Sorcha’s eyes danced between the bed and the slight woman coming towards her.
There was a reserved warmth in her words that made Sorcha feel as though she could trust the girl, though it was Sorcha’s instincts that had gotten her into this mess, so she was hesitant to trust them now.
She watched through narrowed eyes as the girl grabbed the keys off the wall and slid them into the lock of her cell door.
“I am here to clean yer wounds. If ye stay down here without treating them for too long, they will grow infected. But before I open this door, I must have yer word that ye will nae bolt. There are guards stationed outside the dungeon entrance, ready to exact their revenge on ye. So ye must nae flee. Aye?”
Sorcha eyed the dimly lit entrance and nodded slowly.
“I would have yer word, please.”
With a raised eyebrow, Sorcha pledged that she would not run, earning a satisfied nod from the girl.
“Come over here then. The men have put ye in the worst of the cells and I cannae bide to step foot inside it.”