Chapter 6
ONE LEFT BEHIND
Sorcha’s eyes were bleary, exhaustion blurring her vision. It had been days since she had last gotten a decent night of sleep, last night being the worst of all.
Her cheek throbbed, the bruise making her eye swell up.
Every time she blinked, she nearly winced.
And that was nothing to say of the other injuries she carried on her arms and legs.
She hoped that Laura would be back down with more salve to ease the ache in her body, though she doubted she would be afforded such reprieve.
And the salve would do nothing to thwart the pounding headache that had crept in sometime at night.
She suspected it was from all the yanking the guards did on her hair that caused such pain.
But it was more than her body that had kept her from sleeping.
Her thoughts were still running rampant, replaying everything that had occurred in the last few days.
She couldn’t help but think she had done something wrong, some great misstep, to have wound up in such a predicament.
When she left Kincaid Castle, she had been so sure that she would be successful in her endeavor to rescue Taryn.
The last thing she had imagined was that she would wind up in the Baron’s dungeons with no sign of Taryn and no way out.
No, that wasn’t quite true.
The last thing she imagined was that some other English lord was going to be present during her capture, stand up and claim her life, and then visit her in the cells only to tell her that he had bartered for her life in order to save it.
Nothing about the man made any sense. He was unlike any Englishman Sorcha had ever had the displeasure of meeting.
And that made him dangerous. If she couldn’t anticipate his next move, how would she ever be able to protect herself from him?
Rolling off the cot, Sorcha groaned. Her head spun, forcing her to catch it in her hands. The only benefit of not having been offered any food since her capture was that she couldn’t lose it on the cell floor now.
“Breathe, Sorcha. Ye have been through worse.”
She whispered the words through clenched teeth, trying to bolster herself for whatever the day might bring.
But at that moment, she couldn’t remember a time when things had been so bad.
Even when she had left home, leaving behind everything and everyone she had ever known, she hadn’t been alone.
Aila had stood by her side every step of the way.
It was a stark contrast to the utter lack of company she had now.
Even the guards had been moved to stand outside the dungeon doors at some point in the night.
That she hadn’t been roused from sleep when they changed their positions sent a jolt of nervousness through her.
Her thoughts couldn’t help but drift back to Laura.
Whether from the pain in her wounds or something else, Sorcha couldn’t be sure.
What she did know was that it seemed unfathomable that Laura had survived in the Baron’s estate all this time by herself.
Laura was not only an indentured servant, a bargaining chip between two men who cared very little about her life, but she was an outsider—a Scot in the world of the English.
Sorcha felt a strange kindred connection to Taryn’s friend. Their current circumstances were eerily similar, both motivated by a deep desire to save Taryn.
Before Sorcha could give it any more thought, voices angry and demanding came from the dungeon entrance. Refusing to be caught unawares, Sorcha stood and gritted her teeth. She wouldn’t let them know just how wounded she really was. She wouldn’t let them see any weakness from her.
“I am sorry, my lord, but the Baron has not—”
“The Baron is not here. I am. And I am telling you to open this door or hand me the keys so I can do it myself. It was not a question.”
Chills spread over Sorcha’s skin at the sound of the harshness in Lord Blackwood’s voice. He seemed to be the Baron’s match in every way—almost every way. Age had not yet stolen the Marquess’ good looks yet the way it had ruined the Baron’s appearance.
A moment later, the sound of keys clinking filled the dungeon along Lord Blackwood’s purposeful steps down into the darkness.
She could only guess that his appearance meant that it was morning.
The lack of windows stealing her ability to gauge time.
Her lack of sleep further skewed her grasp on time.
She felt as if she had barely closed her eyes before being woken up.
However, she knew better than to think that any member of the English nobility would rise early.
In all likelihood, Lord Blackwood had spent a lazy morning in bed, warmed by a large fire and hot tea.
Some poor man would have helped him dress for the day before the Marquess ventured into the Great Hall to break his fast, where he would have no doubt eaten his fill.
And only once he was good and ready would he have bothered to come fetch Sorcha.
Her imaginings had her scowling at the man before she could see him.
“You are up. Very good. It is time to go.”
As though she were rooted to the spot, Sorcha folded her arms over her chest, ignoring the burning in her back at the movement, and looked him up and down.
He was dressed plainly enough—dark brown riding breeches and a cream-colored shirt tucked under a mahogany waistcoat and matching doublet.
His black boots gleamed even in the darkness of the cells, no doubt at the great effort of his wretched valet.
Impervious to her gaze thanks to the unruly bent and wavy hair that fell into his eyes, Lord Blackwood stood motionless.
But it wasn’t his presence that brought a menacing smile to her face. It was the armed guard that stood behind him, she had to thank for that. The man’s hand was not too casually resting on the hilt of his dagger while his eyes watched her every move.
“Ye are a coward,” she said, partially because she was astounded at the realization and partially because she couldn’t quell her defiant streak.
Last night, nothing had been enough to get a reaction from Lord Blackwood. Even when she had held his own dagger against his throat, there had only been the slightest flash of anger in his eyes. He hadn’t reacted or retaliated.
Perhaps he is nae Dudley’s match.
“Did ye think it necessary to bring another man to defend ye? Are ye incapable of doing so yerself?” she pushed.
She didn’t know why it was so important to her that she get him to say something, to do anything that might break his cold, controlled demeanor, but it was. She was going to keep pushing until he gave her some other clue into just what kind of man he was.
“I had no trouble defending myself from your childish ploy last night. Why would you think this morning would be any different?”
His words had an effect on her that she didn’t like to contemplate. She wasn’t an inexperienced fighter, and she resented his implication that she was.
“Dudley sent the guard,” Lord Blackwood explained, dismissing her insult as though it were nothing more than a pesky fly. “Something about wanting to ensure that you are unable to escape so that our deal holds.”
“Och, aye. The one where ye barter my life for the lives of all the other Scots Dudley is threatening. How gallant of ye.”
Venom was soaked into every word, and she did nothing to stop it. She loathed the man and didn’t care to hide it. Once more, Lord Blackwood didn’t bother to respond. In fact, his only answer to her sharp words was to raise a singular eyebrow and wait.
“The horse is saddled. My men have already left,” Lord Blackwood said, his tone mimicking that of one speaking to a petulant child. “I have this.”
He dropped a piece of rope from his fingers and let it hang in the air between them. The skin around her wrists was already raw and stinging from where the guards had tied her hands behind her back the night before.
“Do I need to use it to bind your hands once more? Or will you manage to behave yourself while we leave this place?”
She scoffed.
“The only kind of behavior a place like this deserves, the only right thing to do in the presence of Lord Dudley,” she spat, “is to try to kill the man. Him, and whoever else tries to stand in my way.”
Narrowing her eyes, Sorcha issued her challenge, letting the unspoken threat hang there beside the dangling rope. Lord Blackwood sighed.
“Unlock it.”
The guard waited only a moment before following the command. He swung the metal door open, the hinges creaking with the movement. Lord Blackwood wasted no time in his task. As soon as there was room, he stepped into the cell and gathered both of her hands in the fingers of one of his.
Sorcha was taken aback at not only the speed and assurance of his movement, but just how large his hands were.
There was nothing she could do to stop herself from wincing when he grabbed the inflamed skin.
Almost as soon as the hiss escaped her lips, Lord Blackwood relaxed his grip on her, shifting his fingers higher.
“Do not make me regret this,” he muttered, his eyes locked on her even as his free hand wound the rope around her wrists.
She didn’t bother pointing out that he was binding her, so there was little she could do, even if she wanted to, the pain from the movement stealing her words.
By the time he had finished knotting off the rope, she realized why he had uttered such a thing—the binding was loose.
It would have been a simple enough task to free herself from the rope and slip out of his control.
At least, it would have been had her body not been protesting every breath she took.
Locking her jaw, in an effort to silence any more sharp jabs at the Marquess and to contain her groans of pain, Sorcha gave a slight nod.
“Time to go,” he announced loud enough for the guard to hear. “I am ready to return to my own home.”