Surprised by her question, Aila’s brows furrowed.
“I did nae think ye wanted to train,” Aila told her. “We have been talking about it with the lads at dinner, but ye never showed any interest.”
“That is because I dinnae want asword,” Elsie explained as though it should have been obvious to all of them.
“Ye want to train like yer brothers, but ye dinnae want a sword? What do ye want then?” Taryn inquired, her spirits lifting a scant little as she talked to the girl.
“I want to be like ye! I want a bow and arrow and a horse of my own.”
Aila and Taryn’s smiles were a mirror of each other as they sought each other’s eyes.
“So?” Elsie pushed. “Can I train too? Will ye teach me to ride?”
“Aye,” Aila agreed without hesitation. “If the lads get to start their training, then I daresay ye do too.”
6
ONE LEFT BEHIND
Sorcha’s eyes were bleary, exhaustion blurring her vision. It had been days since she had last gotten a decent night of sleep, last night being the worst of all.
Her cheek throbbed, the bruise making her eye swell up. Every time she blinked, she nearly winced. And that was nothing to say of the other injuries she carried on her arms and legs. She hoped that Laura would be back down with more salve to ease the ache in her body, though she doubted she would be afforded such reprieve. And the salve would do nothing to thwart the pounding headache that had crept in sometime at night. She suspected it was from all the yanking the guards did on her hair that caused such pain.
But it was more than her body that had kept her from sleeping. Her thoughts were still running rampant, replaying everything that had occurred in the last few days. She couldn’t help but think she had done something wrong, some great misstep, to have wound up in such a predicament. When she left Kincaid Castle, she had been so sure that she would be successful in her endeavor to rescue Taryn. The last thing she had imagined was that she would wind up in the Baron’s dungeons with no sign of Taryn and no way out.
No, that wasn’t quite true.
The last thing she imagined was that some other English lord was going to be present during her capture, stand up and claim her life, and then visit her in the cells only to tell her that he had bartered for her life in order to save it. Nothing about the man made any sense. He was unlike any Englishman Sorcha had ever had the displeasure of meeting. And that made him dangerous. If she couldn’t anticipate his next move, how would she ever be able to protect herself from him?
Rolling off the cot, Sorcha groaned. Her head spun, forcing her to catch it in her hands. The only benefit of not having been offered any food since her capture was that she couldn’t lose it on the cell floor now.
“Breathe, Sorcha. Ye have been through worse.”
She whispered the words through clenched teeth, trying to bolster herself for whatever the day might bring. But at that moment, she couldn’t remember a time when things had been so bad. Even when she had left home, leaving behind everything and everyone she had ever known, she hadn’t been alone. Aila had stood by her side every step of the way. It was a stark contrast to the utter lack of company she had now. Even the guards had been moved to stand outside the dungeon doors at some point in the night. That she hadn’t been roused from sleep when they changed their positions sent a jolt of nervousness through her.
Her thoughts couldn’t help but drift back to Laura. Whether from the pain in her wounds or something else, Sorcha couldn’t be sure. What she did know was that it seemed unfathomable that Laura had survived in the Baron’s estate all this time by herself. Laura was not only an indentured servant, a bargaining chip between two men who cared very little about her life, but she was an outsider—a Scot in the world of the English.
Sorcha felt a strange kindred connection to Taryn’s friend. Their current circumstances were eerily similar, both motivated by a deep desire to save Taryn.
Before Sorcha could give it any more thought, voices angry and demanding came from the dungeon entrance. Refusing to be caught unawares, Sorcha stood and gritted her teeth. She wouldn’t let them know just how wounded she really was. She wouldn’t let them see any weakness from her.
“I am sorry, my lord, but the Baron has not?—”
“The Baron is not here. I am. And I am telling you to open this door or hand me the keys so I can do it myself. It was not a question.”
Chills spread over Sorcha’s skin at the sound of the harshness in Lord Blackwood’s voice. He seemed to be the Baron’s match in every way—almost every way. Age had not yet stolen the Marquess’ good looks yet the way it had ruined the Baron’s appearance.
A moment later, the sound of keys clinking filled the dungeon along Lord Blackwood’s purposeful steps down into the darkness. She could only guess that his appearance meant that it was morning. The lack of windows stealing her ability to gauge time. Her lack of sleep further skewed her grasp on time. She felt as if she had barely closed her eyes before being woken up.
However, she knew better than to think that any member of the English nobility would rise early. In all likelihood, Lord Blackwood had spent a lazy morning in bed, warmed by a large fire and hot tea. Some poor man would have helped him dress for the day before the Marquess ventured into the Great Hall to break his fast, where he would have no doubt eaten his fill. And only once he was good and ready would he have bothered to come fetch Sorcha.
Her imaginings had her scowling at the man before she could see him.
“You are up. Very good. It is time to go.”
As though she were rooted to the spot, Sorcha folded her arms over her chest, ignoring the burning in her back at the movement, and looked him up and down. He was dressed plainly enough—dark brown riding breeches and a cream-colored shirt tucked under a mahogany waistcoat and matching doublet. His black boots gleamed even in the darkness of the cells, no doubt at the great effort of his wretched valet. Impervious to her gaze thanks to the unruly bent and wavy hair that fell into his eyes, Lord Blackwood stood motionless.
But it wasn’t his presence that brought a menacing smile to her face. It was the armed guard that stood behind him, she had to thank for that. The man’s hand was not too casually resting on the hilt of his dagger while his eyes watched her every move.
