Chapter 4 #2
He stopped his confident stride, pausing for a moment before he cast an indulgent look over his shoulder.
“If ye really wanted to do me a favor, ye should have driven that dagger through Dudley’s heart. Dinnae fash yerself,” she told him with an air of ease she couldn’t possibly feel. “There is still time for ye to do so.”
It was a dangerous game, she knew, to speak of such treachery to a man who had pledged his loyalty to her life.
But to her surprise, Lord Blackwood showed no spark of anger at her brazen suggestion.
Instead, the corner of his mouth pulled up, revealing stark white teeth that gleamed in the firelight.
Before she could decide if it was a smile or a smirk, the man stalked out of the dungeons, leaving her alone once again.
“Back to your posts,” Oliver demanded with an edge. “And do not let me catch you slipping again, or I shall be forced to tell your master.”
The guards rushed back to the door of the dungeon without so much as looking him in the eye. But Oliver was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice their scurrying.
He had taken all but three steps out of the dungeon and could go no further, his mind completely consumed by the enigmatic woman he had just gone toe to toe with.
His hand reached up to his neck where a scant few beads of blood had dried on his skin and brushed them away, too distracted by everything that had just happened to truly be upset about it.
It had been ages, perhaps since he was a young man still in training, that someone had been able to take him by surprise so completely.
One of the benefits of being taught to always assume the worst of people meant that he was always ready for an attack of any kind.
But Sorcha had been a flame burning against a midnight sky, and he was a moth, helpless to his nature.
Never before had he seen a woman so alive, burning with a passion for life he envied.
It had been evident from the very first moment Oliver had laid eyes on her.
Watching those blasted guards drag her in as if she were little more than a prize catch had infuriated him more than he thought possible.
And when the Baron had resorted to violence against her, it had taken every ounce of willpower he had not to jump from his seat and throttle the man.
Sorcha’s suggestion that he kill the Baron was so like his own desires that she elicited a smile from him, a feat he didn’t think her up to.
He could only credit his mother’s lessons in strategy for his ability to sniff out a solution as quickly as he did.
The hours they had spent bent over the chessboard as she had taught him worthy risks and losses had given him the confidence he needed to make such a claim on Sorcha’s life.
It didn’t take a mastermind to see that the Baron did not like his authority questioned, much less thwarted.
But Oliver also knew how much the Baron would need Oliver’s support for his plans to attack the Scottish clans.
At the time, it seemed like a worthy trade.
The last thing he had expected was for the girl to attack him over his noble sacrifice.
But she wasn’t a girl. She was a woman in every sense of the word, and from the fury that poured out of her mouth, a woman who knew her worth well.
He simply couldn’t stomach someone like that, a woman so beautiful and free to be caught in Dudley’s web, where the man would have leeway to abuse her as he saw fit.
Even now, the thought had Oliver’s fists clenching at his sides.
Stalking to the shadowed corner of the hall, Oliver propped his shoulder against the cool stone, letting it soothe his fevered thoughts.
Have you allowed yourself to become undone by a woman simply because she is beautiful?
There was no stopping the accusatory thought from entering his head.
Just as there was no denying that Sorcha was beautiful.
Perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Even with her hair matted with mud and bruises blooming on her high cheekbones, there was no disguising it.
Every man had noticed the golden red gleam of her hair in the firelight, like calling to like.
Up close, she was even more astounding. Her eyes had been a rich brown with depths he longed to explore.
Oliver shook his head against the very idea.
There would be no exploring Sorcha—her eyes, thoughts, and everything was clearly entirely off limits to him.
She loathed him. That much she had made entirely clear.
Whether it was merely his noble English blood or something beyond that, he didn’t know, but he didn’t have to.
A woman like Sorcha would never shift her views on a man like him.
He was much better off putting her out of his mind.
Despite what he had alluded to in the Great Hall, Oliver had no desire to claim her, to make her his like the brute they all thought him to be.
He had merely played into the Baron’s tendencies.
The man had a penchant for violence and Oliver had tried to satisfy that when he staked his claim on Sorcha, regardless of the fact that he had little intention of following through on his threats.
He had taken a calculated risk; one he still believed was well worth it.
But there was no denying that Sorcha was proving to be much more than he had bargained for.
From the indelicate accusations she had slung to the dagger she had held at his neck without a second thought, she had shown that she had more mettle in her than most men he knew.
Oliver had taken a chance on Sorcha, pressed his luck with the Baron, and now, he had to live with the consequences of it all. The only thing left for him to do was to figure out just what he was going to do with Sorcha.
Content with his place in the shadows, Oliver contemplated his options.
All the while, he kept a sharp watch on the dungeon and the two buffoons the Baron had appointed as her guards.
She had been mistreated enough within these walls.
He was going to make sure she didn’t encounter any more pain while she was here.
And so he stood, watching her pace the cell from his concealed position, settling himself in for the rest of the night.