Chapter 13 #2
At some point, and she wasn’t entirely sure when, Sorcha had risen to her feet, her palms flat on the table in front of her.
With every word, she had leaned over it, Oliver matching her every move, until they were scant inches apart once again.
Their closeness garnered a cough from one of the others in the room, giving Sorcha a jolt of self-awareness once more.
She pulled back and crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to end the confrontation merely because a nosey old woman might be uncomfortable with it.
“Ye could do something, Oliver,” she told him, her tone shifting until she was no longer accusing but pleading.
“Ye have the chance to save lives, to stand against the same kind of men who killed yer father. And instead of taking it, ye are keeping to the shadows in the hopes that nay one notices ye, that nay one asks anything of ye. But I see ye and I am asking—do something. Please. For the sake of my family. Dinnae let Dudley do this. Join our forces in the Highlands. Join me and the Kincaids and the other clans. Dinnae turn yer back on this evil. Dinnae turn a blind eye. Ye are better than that.”
Oliver stared at her, unmoving and unblinking.
She could see the war happening in his eyes as he wrestled with her words.
She could almost hear his heart softening to her cause.
But when he spoke, his words rang with such a coldness, it shattered any hope she might have carried that he was a good man.
“You all have your orders. This meeting is finished. Go. We do not have much time. I want it all seen to before the day is done.”
Sorcha’s heart sank to the floor, crashing against the cold stone she stood on. One by one, the members of the council left, offering a comforting touch or a quiet word to Oliver. But he didn’t budge, he didn’t take his eyes off Sorcha. She stayed just as frozen.
Only once they were alone, did Oliver break the trance they were in.
Rising to his full height, Oliver tugged on his coat and left the room without saying a word.
It took the span of two heartbeats for Sorcha’s disappointment to morph into frustration.
This anger took even less time to get the better of her.
Staying close on his heels, Sorcha took off after Oliver.
Painfully aware of the looks they were receiving as they made their way through the castle and into the courtyard, Sorcha kept her mouth shut.
She had already irritated Oliver enough by arguing with him in front of his council.
She knew well enough not to make the same mistake.
Instead, she would simply follow him until they were alone.
There, in complete privacy, she would make it clear just what she thought of him.
“I am nae finished with ye,” she hissed in warning.
He cast her a dismissive glance over his shoulder, sending her blood boiling.
She didn’t know what it was about this man that had her so out of sorts, but she had never before met someone capable of riling her so completely.
It was as if he alone had the ability to make her go stark raving mad.
She balled her hands into fists and continued after him.
Her boots slapped the swept cobblestones of the courtyard loudly, but she had no need for stealth now.
She didn’t care about the men staring after them or the way Oliver pressed on without acknowledging her or anyone else.
He kept on towards the stables, only slowing his stride when he reached the stall that housed his horse.
Once again, Sorcha crossed her arms over her chest and waited while Oliver stroked the horse’s snout affectionately.
“Why will ye nae fight back?”
Her question echoed through the rafters of the barn.
A mare a few stalls down snickered at Sorcha’s interruption before turning her attention back to the hay in front of her.
Oliver busied himself with brushing down his horse before checking the condition of his tack.
Pleased with the strength of the leather, Oliver set to work bridling his horse, whispering encouraging words to the beast as he went.
“Here you are, sir,” a young boy spoke warmly, arms laden with packed bags.
“Excellent,” Oliver acknowledged, speaking audibly for the first time since they had left the council meeting. “You can set them on the barrel over there. Run to the kitchens for a biscuit. Tell Cook I said you could have one. And then hurry back to your mother. She will be needing your help soon.”
The boy gently placed the leather bags on the barrel next to Sorcha. She spotted what looked to be a change of clothes and a bundle of food, but before she could investigate further, her attention was wrenched back to Oliver.
“Are ye truly nae going to defend yer actions?” she pushed once they were alone again.
“It is one thing to make a deal with a man like Dudley when ye feel there is naught else ye can do. But dinnae stand there and use that excuse with me. I saw how easy it was for ye to thwart him. Ye had nay trouble crossing the man. So why hesitate now? Why are ye so unwilling to—”
Oliver threw his saddle over his horse’s back and bent to tighten the straps. Sorcha huffed, throwing her hands in the air.
“I thought ye were different, ye ken. When I first saw ye, I thought ye were nay different from Dudley himself. And then last night ye said all those things and I thought, fool me, that ye were a good man. Ye invited me into yer council, claiming that they had a right to hear what I think about it all. But ye did nae truly mean it.”
She continued to rail at him as he continued to ready his horse for something. When he stretched out a hand for his bags, Sorcha handed them to him, too caught up in her rant to notice what she was doing.
“I thought ye would be willing to help me, but ye are nae. Ye are running away. Ye are pretending as though Dudley will nae attack ye the second he sees the chance to, when we both ken that is exactly what he will—”
“Will Lachlan kill me?”
His question interrupted her so succinctly that she froze, blinking a few times before finding any order to her thoughts. When none came after a few seconds, she coughed out her confusion.
“I beg yer pardon?”
“Lachlan Kincaid,” Oliver explained. “Or perhaps he prefers Laird Kincaid. Will he kill me as soon as his scouts spot me? Or will I be allowed to approach?”
“Nay. I mean, nay,” she stumbled. “Lachlan is nae a killer. He will nae do anything of the kind unless he has verra good reason to do so. Ye will be allowed to approach.”
Nodding once, Oliver surveyed his handiwork and then cast a contemplative look at her. He took her in, fresh tunic and washed pants down to her boots and back up to the bruise blooming across her cheek.
“Well then,” he said calmly, ignoring all of her earlier ranting and raving. “Are you going to come with me? Or will you be sensible and stay here with my mother, out of harm’s way and far away from any battle?”
“There is nothing ye could do to keep from fighting to protect my family,” she told him fiercely.
“That is what I thought. Come on then. We are losing daylight.”
She blinked, still not understanding what he was suggesting.
“We are going to Kincaid Castle,” Oliver told her, taking her hand gently and leading her to the side of his horse.
When she looked up at him in a mixture of awe and surprise, Oliver explained further.
“I cannot endanger my own people. I cannot ask them to get involved in a war that is not theirs to fight. But that does not mean I am going to sit on the side and watch this all unfold. I will go to Laird Kincaid and tell him all I know. I will warn him of the dangers coming. And should it prove necessary, I will lend my sword to help fend Dudley off. I will nae—”
Overcome with relief, Sorcha wrapped her hands in the front of his shirt, rose to the tops of her toes and kissed Oliver.
Their lips met in a clashing of longing and pride, of passion and carelessness.
She didn’t mean to kiss him—it was relief, overwhelming and uncontainable.
The kind that broke through before she could think to stop it.
For one breathless moment, it wasn’t about strategy or survival.
It was about not being alone in the fight anymore.
It took a scant second before Oliver had come to his senses and let his hands pull Sorcha in close.
He held her against him, savoring the feeling that at least in that span of time, it was them against the rest of the world.