“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.
14
BEFORE THE DAGGER FALLS
From the moment they set out together, Oliver regretted giving Sorcha her own horse. Of course, he knew that the journey would be easier, more comfortable for everyone involved if they rode separately. But the space between them made his hands itch. More than once he had to tell himself not to reach for her, not to pull her into the saddle with him. It was an unusual thing to be so desperate for the company of someone he was already with.
Contenting himself to watch her from a reasonable distance instead, Oliver admired her skills. Even on an unfamiliar mount, she handled the rugged terrain of the borderlands with ease. They were deep in the woods, having decided to stay off the main roads, if only to avoid running into any of Dudley’s men. But the thick trees and the uneven ground didn’t deter Sorcha at all. She sat with her back tall, head turning every so often as she watched their surroundings. He should have been doing the same, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Every so often, sunlight would stream in through the trees, catching on her hair. The auburn strands would transform into rich copper that glinted like gold. She had braided it back and out of her face, but the wind had freed bits and pieces of her hairas they rode. He longed to run his fingers through it, to feel the softness against his skin.
“Are ye listening to me?”
Sorcha’s voice cut through his hazy thoughts, bringing him back to the present. He felt his cheeks flush, embarrassed that she caught him staring, daydreaming about her. Clearing his throat in an attempt to appear self-contained, Oliver blinked with a small smile.
“I am afraid that the wind stole your words. What did you say?”
She raised an eyebrow at him, doubting the sincerity of his words, but she repeated herself anyway.
“I said there is a stream nae too far from here. We should stop and water the horses there. Some time to eat. After that, we can follow the water the rest of the way to the Kincaid lands. It will be an easy enough path to follow. I dinnae want to stop more than necessary.”
“How is it that you have come to know these woods so well? When I suggested that we set off for the Kincaid lands, I must admit, I did not imagine you would be the one leading us. I, however, would have gotten us lost the moment we left my borders, so I must say I am grateful for your presence.”
Grateful. Distracted. Consumed. All things he felt whenever she was around.
