Chapter 18
BEFORE THE HORNS BLEW
“Where did Oliver go?”
“If he kens what is best for him, the stables and then back to his own land,” Lachlan said dryly.
Sorcha sighed as she pushed back from the table. She stared down at all her friends with a weariness that reached into her bones.
“I meant what I said. I trust Oliver with my life. I trust him with yer lives. If ye can nae see the man he truly is, if ye cannae believe that I have nae been fooled by a bonny face, then perhaps I should leave with him.”
When no one dared to answer her, she left the room, content to let them all stew over plans of war.
Trotting through the castle, Sorcha made quick work of reaching the stables.
She hadn’t noticed Oliver slip away. Her focus had been on helping Taryn as she wrestled with the overwhelming guilt that was so clearly gnawing on her.
Oliver had shared so much more than Sorcha could have ever hoped for.
He had given them information that would be sure to change the tides of the war.
But when she had looked back to smile her thanks, he was gone.
She only hoped that he hadn’t been able to leave the stables yet.
Yet.
The word sent a pang through her chest. She knew that Oliver’s place was within the walls of his own estate. He had a family, people who trusted him to take care of them. But she couldn’t help the mournful anguish that sprouted inside her whenever she thought of him leaving.
The sight of the stables, new and gleaming from the recent rebuilding, was a beacon of hope for her.
She stood at the threshold of the kitchen door, the afternoon’s gentle breeze caressing her face.
The sun, having spent the day hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, emerged as she took her first step outside.
Her eyes stayed glued to the wide open stable doors.
For a long moment, she stayed there, her earlier rush to find Oliver stemmed by the fear of what she would do if she didn’t find him still on Kincaid lands.
And the fear of what she would do if she did.
It was not lost on her that in crossing the castle threshold, in making her declaration of trust to her friends, she had crossed a line within her own heart. She meant every word she had said to Aila, Taryn, and the others. If only she could find the courage to tell Oliver those same words now.
There was no movement, no rustling, no shadows traipsing through the stables.
Her heart hardly knew what to do with the fact that there was seemingly no sign of anyone trying to make their horse ready for a long journey.
But if Oliver wasn’t in the stables now, it meant he had already left.
There was no other place within the Kincaid Keep he could be.
Her breath caught in her chest as she tried to gather the courage to cross those few final yards between her and the castle.
So focused on seeking a sign of Oliver was she, that the sounds of the birds chirping disappeared to her.
She didn’t notice the brilliance of the blue in the sky that appeared after the clouds cleared.
Nor did she pay any heed to the gentle babble of the lake water lapping against the shore not far from where she stood.
And when, at last, a figure crossed through the stable aisle, Sorcha felt as though she could breathe again. His gait, the proud set of his shoulders, the noble tilt of his head was recognizable to her, even from this distance, even after only knowing him for a short while.
Sorcha had barely cleared through the opening in the kitchen door before she took off running.
She didn’t care if it was improper. She didn’t care if any of her friends were watching from the study windows.
Even if she had, she doubted she could have stopped herself from sprinting towards the man who had so completely captured her heart.
Barely managing to slow her steps enough to not spook the horses, Sorcha drank in the sight of him.
His coat, a deep blue that made his dark hair carry the same blue tinge, hung off his frame with tailored perfection.
In other men, she found such elegant dressing to make them look weak and docile.
But the shine of his black boots, the caramel color of his fitted breeches, the clean lines of his coat with the brass buttons holding the lapels open, only served to accentuate Oliver’s masculinity.
The fabric seemed barely able to contain his lithe muscles, their movement following his motion like the coat of a panther, dangerous, feral, and powerful.
“There ye are,” she said, breathlessly.
Whether that was from her run to the stables or the whirlwind of emotions that had been stirred inside her, she couldn’t say.
“Here I am,” he answered as he slowly turned away from his horse, already saddled and packed.
All of their earlier ease had vanished somewhere between the river and the war room. Sorcha mourned for the light heartedness she had gotten to witness in Oliver. She wanted to get it back, she just didn’t know how. She doubted it was possible with everything they had hanging over their heads.
“I wanted to say thank ye,” she told him softly, walking up to him as though he were a stranger, feeling wildly out of place.
Oliver’s eyes drifted to the ground before he sniffed once and gave a curt nod.
“It is the least I could do. I can tell Kincaid is a good man. He deserves a chance at happiness.”
“I dinnae just mean what ye did in there. I mean all of it.”
He furrowed a brow at her. Sorcha took another step forward, moving in a moment of boldness as she reached for his fingertips.
“Ye have protected me, bargained for me. Ye have brought me home when there was nay need for ye to accompany me. Ye have risked yer verra life for me, saving me from Dudley’s men. That deserves so much more than a simple ‘thank ye’ but I dinnae ken what else I can offer ye.”
He tightened his grip on her fingers, bringing them up to his lips to press a soft kiss on her knuckles.
“As I recall,” he said smiling over the top of her hand, “it was you who saved me, not the other way around. You had Dudley’s men running for the hills while I lay on the ground like a greenhorn.”
He chuckled, the sound sweet and rich. She wanted to bottle it, to etch it into the very core of her being. For a second, that lightheartedness was back. But then he blinked, and it was gone once again.
“I wish I could do more. I wish I could prove to your family that I am on their side, that I am on your side.”
“Och, Oliver,” she breathed.
His soft admission, where he revealed this part of himself, part of his vulnerability to her, was the bridge back to the closeness they had shared on their ride to Kincaid Castle.
All signs of pretense fell away. His golden eyes searched her, worry and regret lingering there.
Forgoing all propriety, all sense of modesty or decorum, Sorcha surged forward and threw her arms around Oliver’s neck.
Though her embrace had caught him off guard, he quickly returned the hold. Her shoulder cradled his head for a long moment as he breathed in the smell of her, letting her red hair shield him from the rest of the world.
“I ken,” she whispered so as to not break the tenuous peace of the moment. “Ye would have done anything to stop this.”
He nodded against her, pushing out a single growled word in response.
“Aye.”
“And I ken that ye only made the deal with Dudley because ye did nae have any other option if ye wanted to save me.”
“Aye,” he told her again, still gruff with restrained emotion.
“I need ye to ken,” she said more firmly, stepping away just enough for him to pick up his head, so their eyes could meet once more. “I trust ye. Completely.”
His shoulders sagged, as if she had removed a heavy burden from his back, giving him relief, he so desperately needed.
“I dinnae think ye a spy,” she continued.
“I dinnae think ye are colluding with the Baron. I think ye would give every last thing ye have to stop this war. Ye have proven it in coming here. Ye sharing with us all ye ken could verra well cost ye everything, but ye did it anyway. The others will come around. They simply need the chance to get to ken ye as I have. Regardless of what they think, I trust ye.”
Oliver nearly staggered under the weight of her words.
It wasn’t until she had spoken that he realized just how badly he needed her to trust him, needed her to know that he wasn’t the kind of man the others thought he was.
He couldn’t find the words to explain to her how much her trust meant, how much she meant to him.
So he did the only thing he could think of—he kissed her.
There was a slowness, a sweetness to this kiss that he hadn’t yet known from Sorcha.
His lips lingered on hers as his hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her firmly into him.
Her fingers moved from gripping the front of his jacket to weaving into his hair, as if she couldn’t get close enough, as if she never wanted to let him go.
He urged his body to say all the things he hadn’t been able to get out, to whisper how much she meant to him; to convince her that they had a chance at a future together, this impending war be damned.
His thoughts froze.
It wasn’t until now, when she was wrapped in his arms, kissing him farewell, that Oliver realized the true depth of his feelings.
I love her.
The words slid into place, a key fitting into its lock.
His grip tightened on her, afraid that she had been able to hear his mind, that his realization would send her running for the hills.
But she met his pace, fervor for fervor.
Not once did she pull away or try to untangle herself from him.
She merely tightened her own grip and rose to the tips of her toes, seeking out more closeness. He gave it to her.
Keeping their bodies close, Oliver spun her around, easing her backwards until her spine rested on the stable wall.
He crowded her in, blocking out all light, all sound, all sign of anything and anyone else from penetrating their world.
He didn’t know how long they stood there like that, embracing the other like their lives depended on it.
He was completely and utterly lost in the essence of her, kissing her with all the love he had only just discovered he had for her.
“Sorcha,” he all but moaned.
His breath came in rasps, her flushed cheeks and swollen lips nearly driving him to kiss her again. But before he could lose himself in her arms once more, he needed her to know how he felt.
She kept her arms hanging loosely around his neck, her eyes drifting shut with ease. Oliver dropped his forehead to hers. Their breaths, their heartbeats synchronized as they stood there and Oliver knew there was no other choice for him.
“I am not going anywhere,” he murmured.
Her eyes fluttered open, her surprise clearly marked.
“But, Oliver—”
Any protest she might have issued was cut off, the sound of a horn interrupting her.
He spun on his heel, looking at the door for the first time since he walked into the stable.
“What was that?”
It blasted again, then a third time. Long, low notes that bellowed across the courtyard. He was sure the entire clan would have been able to hear such a noise.
“Sorcha, what was that?”
When he looked back at her, that delectable flush from her cheeks had vanished. Her face was ashen, her eyes wide and unblinking.
“Intruders,” she whispered.
Oliver swore fluently. Had his mother been there, he would have been sure to get a boxing on the ears. He could only say a prayer of thanks that she was not, if only because it meant she wasn’t in danger.
“They are here,” Sorcha said in horror. “Ye have to go. Ye must leave now if ye are going to make it back to yer mother, yer people.”
He grabbed her hand, already pulling his sword out with the other.
“I am not going anywhere.”
“But yer place is with them,” she argued insensibly.
“My place is at your side. I am not leaving.”
She swallowed hard and nodded, gratefully.
“We have to get to the others,” he told her. “We must be as ready as we can be to fight.”