Chapter 7
THE CREEKSIDE RECKONING
Oliver’s back burned from holding himself ramrod straight for so many hours. He’d had little choice in the matter. There was hardly half an inch separating his chest from Sorcha’s back while in the saddle. And every time that half of an inch vanished, a jolt of awareness ran through him.
She was a lightning strike that he only dared touch so many times before his body couldn’t handle it anymore.
He had prided himself on more than one occasion of being a Marquess trained with the same ruthless fighting skill as any warrior.
But if he spent another second in the saddle, pressed against the stunning woman in front of him, he was likely to go insane.
“We will rest here,” he told her.
“I am fine to keep going,” she answered through clenched teeth. “Dinnae feel the need to stop on my account.”
Despite her objections, he could feel the tension in her back, the way she winced every time they crossed uneven terrain.
Trekking through the northernmost part of English soil meant nearly the entire journey was spent on winding roads through thick trees.
There were no gravel roads to ease her suffering—however, much Oliver wished there were.
“I thank you for your permission, but we will stop all the same. My horse needs watering and a chance to cool off. He is unaccustomed to carrying two riders.”
It was a paltry excuse, but the best one he could think of under the circumstances. All three of them required some rest, some space for each other.
Leading his stallion over to the base of a wide oak tree, Oliver slipped from his seat before reaching for the reins to throw over a low-hanging branch.
Once satisfied that his horse wouldn’t take off on him, he reached up for Sorcha’s waist in an effort to help her down.
Before his fingertips could stretch to touch her muddied and stinking shirt, her hands swatted away his.
“I am more than capable of getting myself down from here,” she told him, that fire back in her eyes.
At some point between the Baron’s home and his own, Oliver was sure that he must have turned into a moth, for he could not stop himself from stoking the flames he saw in her eyes.
“I am quite sure that you are able to dismount without issue when you are not black and blue. But seeing as your cheek is so swollen that your eye can hardly open or that your back has a knot the size of a man’s boot, I thought you might have appreciated the assistance.”
Her mouth snapped shut in a satisfying moment of defeat. It didn’t last long.
“How gentlemanly of ye to point out all the ways my injuries have made me weak and unattractive. How would ye prefer I say my thanks? Would any amount of groveling do, or would ye rather I—”
He cut off her snarky answer with a firm grip on her waist and a gentle lift out of the saddle. She let out a string of curses at the sudden movement that would have made his mother blush. He could only find it endearing. And concerning.
“As soon as we get to my estate, I will send for the healer. She will be able to help make you a good bit more comfortable until your injuries heal,” he promised, an apologetic edge to his words.
Watching her limp to a fallen tree to sit on only made him regret insisting they stop. Clearly the best thing for her would have been to press on if only to get the tonics and treatment that would make her feel better sooner. But they had already stopped. He might as well make the most of it.
Studying her face, Oliver reached out, the backs of his fingers nearly grazing the bruised cut that sat high on her tall cheekbone. She jerked away and then promptly winced at the sudden movement, swearing again. He could do nothing to stop the smile that crept onto his face.
“Ye are just like Baron Dudley and all the others.”
“I beg your pardon?” He spat out.
“‘I beg yer pardon?’” she mocked with a dismissive sigh. “Ye heard me well enough, Blackwood. All English nobility are the same. Ye take a sick pleasure in seeing those ye deem lesser than ye in pain. That is why ye all insist on tormenting us Scots.”
“Is that what you think I am doing?” His question came out a low growl, pairing well with his menacing figure as he stepped closer. “Am I tormenting ye, Sorcha?”
“I am sure ye are giving it yer best effort. Dinnae fash. Any lass more green might be intimidated by yer bonny bright honey eyes or that infuriating smirk ye always wear. Ye can always ask the Baron for a lesson or two in torment if ye want to get yer skills up to snuff.”
Biting down on his tongue, Oliver smiled yet another smile, stepping closer still to Sorcha. He supposed her jabs should have angered him. In some way, they did rile him, but he doubted it was in the manner she had intended.
No one spoke to him this way—no one except his mother.
They were all too worried about putting their foot wrong in front of a Marquess to dare speak with such insolence.
He had long since grown weary of the sniveling and bowing.
It was refreshing to meet someone who didn’t care for his title. At least, it was at first.
But the more they passed these barbs back and forth, the more tired of it all he became.
She needed to realize that she was not in a position of power here.
In fact, she was little more than his prisoner.
She had no right to question his intentions or motives.
She was his to do with whatever he pleased.
The thought turned his stomach and sent a fire through his blood.
“In case you do not recall,” Oliver drawled, “the Baron has no power over me. He is not my equal. Why would I bother taking any instruction from him?”
“Nae yer equal?” she scoffed. “Do ye even hear yerself?”
He arched a brow.
“The only defense ye can give me for yer despicable actions is that the Baron is beneath ye in rank and so ye would nae listen to what he has to say?”
“You are the one who has brought up rank, not I.”
“Och, dinnae be daft. Ye said he is nae yer equal. What else is there to mean by that?”
“I would think it a very good thing in your eyes that I do not consider the Baron someone to take notes from. Unless you would like a matching bruise across your other cheek?”
Her eyes grew wide. The outer edges of her deep brown irises tinged gold with fear. If he hadn’t been standing so close, if he hadn’t been studying her face so closely, he might have missed the look before she blinked it away. But he had seen it. And he hated himself for it.
Suddenly aware of the fact that they were mere inches apart from each other, their breaths mixing in the air between them, Oliver took half a step back.
He fought for control over his heaving chest, half wondering when was the last time a woman had vexed him so completely.
He no longer found any spark of amusement in her sharp words, only a driving need to show her just how entirely wrong she was.
The only problem he had but one idea on how to get her to stop talking long enough to do just that, and it wasn’t a very chivalrous idea.
Oliver’s gaze dropped from her eyes, her flushed pink cheeks, and finally landed on her full, rosy lips. Though he allowed himself to linger there for only a moment, it was enough to make those tempting lips twist into a sneer.
“I see what kind of man ye are now,” Sorcha told him.
He knew that had her hands been free of the ropes still wrapped around her wrists, they would have been stubbornly perched on her generous hips.
“And what kind of man is that?”
Feigning disinterest, Oliver tore his eyes off Sorcha and towards the trees around them. He needed a distraction, anything to get him out of this back and forth with her.
“Ye dinnae enjoy hurting people the way the Baron does,” she explained with a cool calmness that he knew neither of them felt—the flush in her cheeks and the pounding in his veins gave them both away. “Ye would much rather see those under ye fear ye. That is what—”
Oliver launched himself at Sorcha, tackling her to the ground, knocking whatever she was about to say out of her mouth.
His ear stung, but he was too focused on unsheathing his sword to notice much.
Sorcha let out another string of curses, her bound hands pushing against his chest to get him off her.
She fought against him with every ounce of strength she had, hoping to land at least a few good hits while she could.
He managed to avoid them all with ease, hardly even paying her any attention.
“I swear if ye so much as lay a finger on me, I will—”
Her threat died as soon as her eyes found the arrow lodged in the tree mere inches from where her head had been only seconds before.
Oliver was already on his feet with his back to her, sword pointed in the direction of their attackers.
It made no sense to her. He had just undoubtedly saved her life.
What she couldn’t fathom is why he would go to such lengths to keep her safe if she was no more than a prisoner to him.
Their attackers didn’t give her time to contemplate the answer as they came creeping out of the tree line.
She scrambled to her feet, refusing to allow herself to be any easier of a target than she already was with her hands tied and no weapon to wield.
“Are we on enemy land?” she whispered to Oliver, counting the men as they emerged.
He shook his head and then told her, “We are riding near the Scottish border, but no. I did not think I had any enemies here.”
“Then who are—”
Again, her question died on her lips as she spied the same three guards who had first caught her outside the Baron’s estate.
These were Dudley’s men, of that she had no doubt.
It made no sense to her why they would attack Lord Blackwood.
He was one of Dudley’s allies. She had heard him swear his allegiance in exchange for her. That made him one of them, right?
“Dudley,” Oliver muttered the name like a curse.
“Aye.”