Chapter 9
BETRAYALS AND BLOODLINES
Sorcha’s back burned and her legs had grown stiff hours ago. The afternoon had come and gone while she had stood in the far corner of Lord Blackwood’s chambers, watching as the healer treated his wounds.
She was methodical and gentle in the way her old, wrinkled hands washed the blood away, clearing out the dirt and debris from the cut.
The healer tsked and chided him gently, though they both knew he had fallen asleep almost as soon as she had begun to work on him, telling him how gravely these kinds of injuries affected her.
Sorcha thought it odd for a healer to be so ill-equipped to deal with wounds, but kept her mouth shut.
The woman’s stitches were neat and tight as she worked across his chest, sewing the wound up so well that Sorcha doubted it would leave much of a scar when it was all said and done.
She had just finished applying a salve to stave off infection and was wrapping his chest in clean bandages when Sorcha decided she needed some air.
“Och, there ye are. Mrs. Farnon,” the healer said as the housekeeper bustled back into the room.
With a tray in hand covered with a steaming bowl of stew, an equally hot cup of tea, and a chunk of bread, Mrs. Farnon looked quite determined to do whatever she could to set her lord to rights.
“I brought his favorite. Do you think it will be enough to rouse him?”
“Aye. The wound was nae as deep as we feared. Some rest and some food with see him fit before the evening meal. At the verra least, he will be up and walking around. I am sure he will wish to check in on everyone now that he is home.”
“And it will do the others good to see him back. No doubt word of his injuries has already spread. They will want to see for themselves that he is well.”
Seemingly forgotten, Sorcha listened as the two women talked over the man in question.
Unlike the servants in Dudley’s estate, there was no fear, no cowering, or tiptoeing around Lord Blackwood.
In fact, both women spoke of him with something not at all unlike affection.
It baffled Sorcha how such a man could ever align himself with the Baron.
“Excuse me,” she muttered before slipping from the room.
The smell of the stew had roused her stomach and suddenly reminded her that she was still covered in blood.
Most of it was the Marquess’ but she had no doubt that there were splatters on her face from the guards she had felled.
She was in desperate need of a wash and a meal.
Afterwards, she would feel sorted enough to come up with a plan.
Or, at the very least, have the wherewithal to ask the right questions.
She had only made it a few steps out of the chamber before a voice called after her.
“Ye are injured.”
Although not a question, Sorcha still turned to give her answer.
“It is nothing I have nae recovered from before. Dinnae fash yerself about me. I will be fine after a wash.”
“Ye will nae,” the healer argued with a stubbornness that reminded her sorely of Aila.
“That cut on yer face is sure to fester if we dinnae put something on it. And that says nothing of the soreness. And then there are the burns on yer wrists that I presume are from being held captive. Need I mention the ribs ye have been holding the entire time, ye stood vigil?”
Sorcha couldn’t argue. She had thought the healer too consumed with Lord Blackwood to have paid any attention to Sorcha’s wounds. And with the near immediate relief Laura’s salve had given, Sorcha was hesitant to deny help.
“Come with me. We will go down to my rooms so ye can have privacy. I will call for a bath and after ye are clean, I will treat yer wounds. Then we can see about some food and yer hair.”
Self-consciousness crept into her cheeks, but Sorcha pushed it aside, her curiosity overtaking it. She had an endless list of questions, and the only way she was going to get answers was if she did exactly as the healer bade her.
“A bath does sound nice,” Sorcha admitted a bit sheepishly.
“Aye, well, that is as much for my sake as it is for yers. Come on, lassie. We have much to discuss. Let’s start with names; I am called Mairi. Who might ye be?”
“Sorcha.”
Mairi nodded as she put a guiding hand on Sorcha’s arm.
“Come then, Sorcha, and let’s get ye settled.”
True to her word, Mairi had seen to it that Sorcha was given a proper bath complete with floral smelling soaps and rich oils that did wonders in erasing any evidence of her time spent in Dudley’s cells.
While Sorcha soaked in the hot water, the fire in Mairi’s rooms stoked high to hold in the heat, Mairi worked a comb through Sorcha’s hair, coaxing the knots and debris out of it.
Only once the water had grown cold did Sorcha rise, her muscles feeling a good deal less sore.
Having seen all of her bruises and injuries without the benefit of grime covering them, Mairi insisted on rubbing a spicy scented paste all over Sorcha’s back before she was able to dress.
And now, at least an hour later, Sorcha sat on the pale blue sofa in Mairi’s room, clothed in fresh clothes, hair drying down her back, watching as Mairi ground up a mix of something or other to put on the cut on Sorcha’s cheek.
“I must tell ye,” Sorcha started, easing her way into the conversation, “it did wonders for my soul to hear another Scottish woman was here.”
“Och, aye? Far from home are ye?” Mairi questioned, her attention more focused on the mortar and pestle in her hands than Sorcha’s curiosity.
“Ye could say that. Are ye far from home too?”
Mairi shrugged. The motion sent her blond braid from its perch on her shoulder to hang down her back.
She was slender, elegant even. Not the kind of woman Sorcha would have pictured a healer to be.
She looked more like a great queen, with the proud nose and soft slope of her jaw.
Age had done nothing to dull her beauty.
“Perhaps once I would have considered this far from home. But I have lived here for too long to think such things now. This is the only place in the world I would call my home. It is where I have raised my bairns and loved my husband. It is where I have laid him to rest and where my bones will go too when I am gone. Nay, lass, this is my place.”
“How can that be so?” Sorcha blurted out. “I-I mean, how did ye come to be here? Did the previous Marquess of Dunhaven take ye prisoner as well? Did he capture ye for yer healing talents?”
Bursting into laughter, Mairi set the pestle down, unable to keep up the work she was so humored by Sorcha’s questions. Her glee only confused Sorcha all the more.
“Och, nay, lass. I am nae a prisoner. ‘Tis true that I left my homeland for the Marquess of Dunhaven. I daresay my father thought I was his prisoner for a good many years, but that is only because he could nae fathom me marrying an Englishman.”
“Marry?”
Sorcha’s thoughts whirled to make sense of what Mairi was saying.
“Aye.” Mairi smiled at her. “The former Marquess was my husband, and the current Marquess is my son.”
The floor was just as soon to fall out from under her feet, as Sorcha would have guessed that Mairi would have made such claims. It seemed absolutely ludicrous that Lord Blackwood would be the son of a proud Scotswoman.
“I can see that Oliver has kept his true identity from ye. I dinnae blame him. There are many members of the peerage who dinnae care for us Scots. He feels as though he must hide his accent. I blame his governess. She was ruthless when it came to his diction. Wanted him to sound like a proper lord. I suppose his father did too. But every now and then my Oliver will slip out, and he will sound like the Scot he is.”
Sorcha had never known such a rush of emotion.
Nothing in her mind made sense. Nothing that Mairi had told her aligned with everything Sorcha had come to know about Lord Blackwood.
She was sitting here, listening to the proud goings-on of a mother who loved and adored her son.
Mairi at least knew that her son concealed his accent, his heritage, his identity to those around him.
That knowledge only angered Sorcha more.
She didn’t understand how a man who was partially Scottish could sign his name to a war waged against the very same people. It was clear that Lord Blackwood was well-versed in the atrocities the Baron liked to commit. And yet, he had still allied himself with the villain.
That made Lord Blackwood one too, right?
But villains didn’t have adoring mothers or servants who rushed to see their masters well taken care of. Villains didn’t make bargains to save the lives of innocent, as he had claimed to do with her.
Nothing he had done made sense.
Mairi, having finished creating the paste, moved back to Sorcha’s side and began the gentle work of spreading the salve over her bruises.
Her tender touches were nearly enough to undo Sorcha.
As much as Sorcha hated to admit it, she was a stranger in a stranger’s home.
More than that, she had no way of knowing if she was in enemy territory or if she could consider herself safe here.
All she knew now was that Lord Blackwood was not to be trusted. And that meant none of his loyal servants or family members could be either.
Forcing herself to stay still with a pleasant sort of smile pasted on her face until Mairi was done, Sorcha’s anger continued to build. She needed air. She needed room to breathe. She needed room to think.
“I think I shall go for a walk. The fresh air and movement will do wonders for the rest of what ails me,” Sorcha explained.
She moved to the door quickly, not giving Mairi the chance to argue.
“Ye have spent far too much time on me. Ye should return to yer son and make sure he is well.”