Oliver shook his head against the very idea. There would be no exploring Sorcha—her eyes, thoughts, and everything was clearly entirely off limits to him. She loathed him. That much she had made entirely clear. Whether it was merely his noble English blood or something beyond that, he didn’t know, but he didn’t have to. A woman like Sorcha would never shift her views on a man like him. He was much better off putting her out of his mind.
Despite what he had alluded to in the Great Hall, Oliver had no desire to claim her, to make her his like the brute they all thought him to be. He had merely played into the Baron’s tendencies. The man had a penchant for violence and Oliver had tried to satisfy that when he staked his claim on Sorcha, regardless of the fact that he had little intention of following through on his threats.
He had taken a calculated risk; one he still believed was well worth it. But there was no denying that Sorcha was proving to be much more than he had bargained for. From the indelicate accusations she had slung to the dagger she had held at his neck without a second thought, she had shown that she had more mettle in her than most men he knew.
Oliver had taken a chance on Sorcha, pressed his luck with the Baron, and now, he had to live with the consequences of it all. The only thing left for him to do was to figure out just what he was going to do with Sorcha.
Content with his place in the shadows, Oliver contemplated his options. All the while, he kept a sharp watch on the dungeon and the two buffoons the Baron had appointed as her guards. She had been mistreated enough within these walls. He was going to make sure she didn’t encounter any more pain while she was here. And so he stood, watching her pace the cell from his concealed position, settling himself in for the rest of the night.
5
THE WEIGHT OF WAITING
Daybreak streamed in through a crack in the deep navy panels that hung on all four sides of Aila and Lachlan’s bed.
“Five more minutes,” she yawned, stretching her arms and legs only to wrap them around Lachlan once more.
He chuckled, low and throaty, his voice not yet awake from sleep, and nestled his nose in her hair. Her chestnut colored locks were spread out across her pillow, letting the smell of her lavender soap mix with his woodsy scent.
“Aye,” he agreed. “Five more minutes would be a wonder.”
Beyond the cocoon of their bed, outside their cozy chambers and into the hall, the castle had begun to stir itself to life. Maids bustled down the corridor, carrying their pails of ashes from the fireplaces they had been cleaning. Guards stalked up and down the way, the night shift finally over. The kitchen was no doubt teaming with activity as their new cook prepared the first meal of the day. Aila could already smell the fresh bread baking in the oven. Her stomach rumbled in eager anticipation of the warm, buttered toast that was sure to accompany her breakfast tray.
“It does nae sound as though yer stomach is in agreement with our plan,” Lachlan quipped.
“Och,” Aila brushed off his gentle concern. “‘Tis nothing. I will be fed soon enough. But if we leave now, I may nae get the chance to sit in yer arms again until well after the sun goes down.”
Lachlan pulled his arms around her tighter, holding her pressed against him until nothing but the thin fabric of her nightgown separated them.
“We cannae have that, now can we?”
Aila smiled warmly, though she was unable to answer him as he tilted his head and kissed her soundly.
As much as she loved running Kincaid Castle with Lachlan, and as anxious as she was to find out where Sorcha was so they could put this entire mess behind them, these precious few moments of her day were by far her favorite. It was an unexpected joy that she would find herself the lady of a castle, responsible for the members of their clan, and helping to raise three dear orphans.
Two of those children were knocking on the door now, dashing the peace of the room away.
“Uncle Loch? Are ye up?”
Arran’s impatient voice called through the door, eliciting a sigh of resignation from Aila. Lachlan pulled his pillow over his face and groaned.
“Ye promised we could start training today,” Christopher diplomatically reminded him. “And the other warriors are already on the training field. I dinnae wish to be late.”
Another sharp pounding on the door, and Aila had to swallow her laugh.
“Ye did promise them,” she whispered softly, peeling the pillow off Lachlan’s face.
“Aye, I just did nae think they would be so eager as to rise with the roosters,” Lachlan muttered.
“Come on, Uncle Loch. Get up! We want to pick out our swords.”
Arran’s excitement was palpable, even through the door. Aila remembered well just how thrilling it had been when she had started training. Though, hers was more of a trial by fire, watching other men train from the shadows and the practicing deep in the woods where no one could see her fail over and over again. She had learned a little from her brother when she was young, that much had been a help when she was first getting started.
A surge of gratitude rose in her chest at the knowledge that Arran and Christopher would never again have to figure things out on their own. That Elsie would only learn how to wield a sword if she wanted to, and only once she was big enough to carry it.
Squeezing Lachlan’s arm, she smiled at him even as he squinted against the sunlight.
“Come on,” she urged. “Best nae keep those two waiting. We are lucky enough as it is that they have nae barged in here and pulled ye out of bed already.”
