Chapter 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, she no 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.
“I did you a favor, you know.”
His words were ice over her fiery skin. Adrenaline had already poured into her veins, readying her for a fight he seemed to have no interest in engaging.
“I beg yer finest pardon, my lord.” The polite title was acid on her tongue.
“Ye did nothing but barter me for yer services as though I am wee more than a heifer. Ye traded my life for the lives of yer men, like I am a currency instead of a person. Ye call that a favor? Am I supposed to now fall flat on my face to show ye my undying gratitude?”
Despite her mother’s warning, she couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut. There was something about this man, the set of his shoulders and the cocked brow on his devastatingly handsome face that shouted his entitlement. It made her stomach twist and her hackles rise.
He stepped closer to the bars that separated them, dropping his voice another octave, making his words impossibly low. Words that he clearly didn’t want anyone else to hear, including the guards who still stood out in the hallway.
“I saved you from the Baron’s cruelties.
Do you really think he was going to let you leave the hall without further injury?
Do you think he is the kind of man to let you survive the week after you so blatantly thwarted his authority?
In his own home in front of the men he is desperate to prove himself to, nonetheless.
I think not. So yes, I do believe that I have saved you, regardless of how you feel about the matter.
And a little gratitude would not be amiss. ”
She could hardly believe the words she was hearing.
Not only did Lord Blackwood think that she needed rescuing, but he believed himself to be the hero in all of this.
His claims incensed her. Her feet moved before she knew what she was doing.
And from the look of surprise that covered the Englishman’s face, he hadn’t anticipated the move either.
Her hand snaked through the bars and reached for the collar of his tailored navy jacket, slamming him against the biting steel of her cell door. With her free hand, she slipped his dagger out from its sheath on his belt and pressed the edge into his throat.
A satisfying drip of red emerged and ran down his neck. A single droplet of blood fell onto his white cravat, staining the otherwise flawless, ridiculous garment. In the span of a single heartbeat, she had him completely at her whim.
“Give me one reason, one good reason,” she ordered through gritted teeth, “why I should nae kill ye where ye stand?”
An inch, maybe two, separated them and suddenly, she felt as though she was the one being held at knifepoint. His eyes bore into her, their shade of amber one she had never seen before. They reminded her of a wolf, biding its time to strike.
“Because,” he drolled, his voice even and unaffected by the weapon she pressed into his skin, “I am your only chance of getting out of here alive. If you kill me now, Dudley will most assuredly kill you tomorrow. And that is only if he is feeling merciful and does not wish to torture you for information first. You cannot kill me. You need me.”
Stunned by the veracity of his claims, Sorcha let her guard down for a moment, relaxing her grip on the hilt of the dagger.
In that singular moment of hesitation, Lord Blackwood pounced.
His large, calloused hand encompassed hers, pushing the blade away from the thin layer of skin covering his neck before he forced her wrist down at a painful angle.
She yelped and let the dagger go. Seamlessly, Lord Blackwood caught it and slid it back into its place on his hip with a satisfying click. His grip on her hand never faltered, his eyes never wavered. He didn’t even bother wiping the few drops of blood from his neck.
“Sleep well, Sorcha,” he all but crooned, releasing his grasp on her hand one finger at a time.
She hated the way her body reacted to hearing her name on his lips. She hated his smug smile of victory. Most of all, she hated that he was right—she needed him.
“Lord Blackwood,” she called out when he was nearly to the door of the dungeon.