“Easy,” he shushed again. “It will make nay difference to them that ye are a woman.”
He used the same tone on her that she imagined he used on the horses. Instead of calming her, however, it only made her snarl.
“Let me go,” she bit out.
“We will take it from here, Brandon. Get back to the stables. The lords the Baron has invited can be very particular about their horses, and we would hate to disappoint them. He needs all of his guests to be in the best of moods so they will support our lord’s cause.”
Sorcha half-heard what they were discussing, too focused on escaping to let the details of their conversation take root.
Knowing she would only have a split second to act, Sorcha exploded as soon as the guard reached for her and Brandon’s grip loosened. Having just barely managed to free her hands, she grabbed for another blade. A fist came flying at her face that she narrowly dodged. Too distracted by the first attack, she didn’t see the second fist that went barreling into her gut. Had Brandon not been standing behind her, the pain and shock from the blow would have sent her to the ground. As it was, she gritted her teeth and jabbed her weapon wildly, pleased when the dagger slid sharply across one man’s open hand.
“Get the wench,” he hissed, closing his fingers to staunch the bleeding.
Spurred by the injury of their fellow guard, the other two men stepped forward and wrestled her from in front of Brandon, throwing her to the ground. The full weight of one man’s boot landed squarely on her back, where she would no doubt find a bruise in the morning. A pair of rough hands wrenched her dagger from her, flinging it across the yard and into the melting snow. Her cheek squashed against the cold mud, an insult to injury. The same pair of rough hands passed over her body,searching her for any other knives. With every hidden weapon he pulled out, Sorcha’s hopes of escaping plummeted.
“Get off me,” she shouted, kicking to no avail.
Men gathered on the ramparts, looking down at all the noise Sorcha was making. Mud clung to the side of her face, dripping down her hair, turning the copper curls brown, as the guards yanked her to her feet. Her arms were pinned painfully behind her back. She bit back a wince, refusing to let it show just how much this defeat stung.
“We will see what you have to say when Lord Dudley gets his hands on you.”
A pit in Sorcha’s stomach formed as the smirking guards dragged her towards the hall and towards whatever fate awaited her there.
1
A COURT OF WOLVES
“Those savages do not deserve the food on their plates, let alone the land that is rightfully ours,” Lord Dudley sneered, wiping grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. “It is the natural order of things that the weakest, baser creatures are snuffed out by the strongest and best.”
At the moment, Oliver wasn’t entirely sure just who the savages were. He had never seen a Highlander eat with such lack of manners before, the way Lord Dudley was demonstrating. But perhaps a man of equal savagery was exactly what was needed to quell the supposed unrest in the Highlands. With a feigned air of nonchalance, Oliver studied the rest of the room. He wanted to know where all the other lords stood on the matter before he voiced his support of the invasion.
No less than half a dozen of English noble men sat in Dudley’s lavish hall, his three-tiered chandelier illuminating the piles of food laid out in front of them. Each man trimmed out in golden brocade, jewels pinned to their chests, the buckles of their shoes gleaming. The sight of it all was nearly blinding.
Oliver lazily let his amber eyes drift towards the silver platters overflowing with meat that smelled of thyme androsemary, cheese that wafted something sharper, and aromatic wine that boasted of spices he couldn’t name. A whole hog with an apple nestled in the beast’s jowls, roasted and garnished to perfection, sat proudly in the middle of the spread. Lord Dudley perched on his dais just behind it, sporting a similar air of pride.
“We cannot hold it against the Scots that they have not yet had the privilege of the sophistication the crown bestows on us. But it is our duty to show them the error of their ways and help them correct it. They must be shown what true civilization looks like under the rule of the English nobility.”
“And you believe that you are that lord?”
The voice of dissent garnered a sharp look from Lord Dudley. His fists clenched and opened as the Baron searched for the right words.
“It only makes sense that I am the head of our efforts, yes,” Lord Dudley responded. “It is because of me that we are all gathered here. It is my experience with those savages that has made this desperate need for reformation evident.”
“Who could forget your runaway bride?” the Earl of Thornwyck quipped with a laugh.
It was clear from the red splotches of anger that bloomed on Lord Dudley’s neck that had it been any other man, one of lower standing, he would have exploded on the man. As it was, the Earl held the largest army out of anyone else in the room, and so Dudley needed the man’s support.
Oliver watched with interest as Dudley swallowed his answer and pasted on a forced smile.
“That is precisely my point,” the Baron argued with a tight grip of control over every word.”
Obviously, the Baron was a man well-accustomed to being obeyed without question. From the way Oliver had seen the servants jump to heed every order, he had come to believe that Dudley ruled his estate with an iron fist. But in this room, asa mere Baron, Dudley had found himself at the bottom of the pecking order. Oliver’s title as Marquess of Dunhaven provided him with an invitation and respect he might not have otherwise been given. As such, he knew that his voice would sway the room, so he kept his thoughts well-guarded behind a bored mask.
“Seeing as my estate borders the Scottish territories,” Dudley explained, his words dripping with condescension, “I thought it prudent that I make allies with our Scottish neighbors. Twice I have secured an engagement with women claiming to be ladies.”
“And twice they have been run off by your ugly mug!”
The hall erupted with laughter, every lord present already too far into his cups to give much heed to propriety. Every lord save for Oliver and Dudley. Biding his time for the raucous laughter to settle, the Baron drained the last of his wine, his eyes growing harder with every thrown jab.
