Chapter 8 #2
An expert gardener, his mother had spent a lifetime cultivating the gardens into a lush paradise that looked welcoming and warm even in the winter.
His father had had a penchant for expensive things, and so it was his touch that added the ornate gold lion door knockers to the front of the arched wooden doors that stood twelve feet tall as the entrance to the manor.
Freshly scrubbed, the limestone varied in shades of cream that contrasted with the iron framed windows and shrubbery that lined the perimeter of the house.
Despite its size, boasting of two dozen bedrooms, at least half that many sitting rooms, a ballroom, a formal and informal dining room, and a kitchen big enough to feed an army, there was a distinctively homey feel to it all.
For some reason, it mattered greatly to Oliver that Sorcha saw it not as a fortress that would act as her prison, nor as evidence of yet another frivolous and greedy English lord, but as a home—his home.
He wanted to tell her how his family had won the parcel of land from one of the kings of old as an act of favor, how they had all managed to grow it under careful stewardship.
He wanted to show her that he was a generous Lord who treated his tenants with respect and kindness.
He wanted to prove that he was just as capable of taking care of his inheritance as his forefathers.
Why he cared so deeply for her good opinion, he couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t. And seeing as his vision was growing hazy, black spots dancing in his eyes, he didn’t have the mental capacity to examine his inner feelings—not until his external state was dealt with.
“Oh, my Lord!”
His housekeeper’s voice, Mrs. Farnon, forced him to pick his head up as it always did. She had been quite the general when he was a boy, running through the manor. Some habits were impossible to break.
“We need a healer. Do ye have one close?” Sorcha asked, concern laced in her voice.
“W-what? Oh, oh yes,” Mrs. Farnon stammered, clearly shocked at his current state.
“Send someone to fetch her. And then find me a couple of men who can help carry Lord Blackwood to his chambers. Or the infirmary. Whichever is closest.”
Seeing as Mrs. Farnon was typically the one issuing orders, Oliver was quite surprised when the middle-aged woman did as Sorcha bade.
More voices and more pairs of eyes to witness his weakness poured into the courtyard, the gravel crunching under their footsteps.
It was only a matter of seconds before Sorcha had untied the rope and rough pairs of hands were lifting him from the saddle.
“Be careful with him!” Sorcha scorned. “His is sliced open from neck to navel. I will nae have ye cause him any more blood loss than he has already suffered. Do ye wish to be the reason yer Laird dies?”
The men carrying him eased their hold. Oliver could say nothing, he could hardly keep his eyes open as they carried him through the hallways and into his room, as she had ordered.
“What happened?” Mrs. Farnon demanded, having finally regained some of her resolve.
“Dudley,” Sorcha answered from somewhere not too far behind him.
He found it curious that she had followed him so closely inside; even more curious was the comfort it brought him that she was still there.
“The Baron?” Mrs. Farnon questioned, not bothering to hide her confusion. “I thought Oliver was going to create an alliance with the man. Something about an uprising.”
“Aye. I suppose that was his intention as well. But then I showed up and ruined the plan. Dudley wanted to take me as a prisoner. Lord Blackwood spoke up and traded his allegiance for me. The Baron did nae take to being bested well. He sent six of his men after us with plans to kill Lord Blackwood, take me as prisoner once more, and spread word that it was the work of Scottish rebels who had done such a thing.”
Having reached his room, Oliver was set gently into his bed, at least, as gently as the servants could manage. His head spun in relief at finding his pillow.
“I will go see what is taking her so long. If Oliver is not seen to at once, things could be bad.”
Mrs. Farnon left with a flourish, calling out orders to bring hot water and fresh linens and broth for Oliver. He raised a hand to croak out that she should not forget about Sorcha, but the housekeeper was already gone.
“Dinnae fash,” Sorcha soothed, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. “We will see ye well soon.”
“I am not so gone as all that,” he croaked, eyes still closed.
It surprised him to feel her fingers wrapping around his hand.
“Good.”
The singular word Sorcha murmured caused a flurry of activity in his chest. Only a few hours ago, he had been quite sure that she was plotting his death, counting on it.
At the very least, she had seen him as little more than a captor, a man on par with the Baron Dudley who viewed women like chattel to be bought and sold with ease.
That she was now sitting beside him, hoping for a quick recovery from his wounds, was more than he could have ever hoped for.
She had fought alongside him, as faithful and loyal as any of his own men, fierce and confident too.
When given the chance to run, to leave him to his death, she had stayed at great cost to herself.
Something had very clearly shifted within her. Even if she wouldn’t admit it. Even if he wouldn’t admit why it mattered so greatly to him.
“Och, laddie. What have ye gotten yerself into?”
Sorcha jerked back in surprise. The Scottish lilt to the old woman’s voice made her so suddenly homesick that her eyes pricked with tears.
“It was nae my fault, I swear to ye.”
If surprise had filled her when Lord Blackwood’s Scottish healer entered the room, Sorcha was overcome with shock to hear his accent slip into something decidedly more similar to her own.
“Did I nae tell ye to watch yer back? Did I nae warn ye to be careful?”
Watching carefully, Sorcha stayed close, her fingers absentmindedly still clutching the stranger of a man’s hand. The woman, tall and graceful, panting from her efforts to reach his chambers with haste, snipped away what remained of his blood-soaked shirt.
“Aye,” Lord Blackwood answered, gruffly. “Aye, ye did.”
For the first time since Sorcha had noticed Oliver’s wounds, her attention was wrenched from him. Her eyes scanned and studied the woman, looking for any clues of just who this woman was.
She peeled herself away from Oliver’s side, giving the woman space to work and herself room to think. In a situation where she knew so little, it was difficult to make sense of things. But at the very least she knew a few things.
The first was that she had not been treated like a prisoner since she had arrived.
Even after admitting how she came to be with Lord Blackwood, no one, including the Marquess, seemed keen on treating her like a captive.
There were no orders for her to be thrown into a dungeon or have her wrists bound again.
The second, and perhaps most confounding thing, was that Lord Blackwood, a Marquess, a man of the English peerage, was not who he had claimed to be.
His signature had been attached to the Baron’s plans to invade Scotland, to do untold damage to it.
A plan that sprouted from a bone-deep hatred of the Scots.
Yet, the accent was undeniable proof. No longer able to hide his heritage, either from exhaustion or pain, she didn’t know.
It didn’t matter, for it made something apparent: Lord Blackwood was, at the very least, some part Scottish.