Page 49

CHAPTER THREE

“ W ill ye stop yer squirmin’?”

The girl stopped dead in her tracks as Willelm dragged her along down the corridor.

The sudden change in motion made them both stumble, and Willelm had just enough presence of mind to keep himself steady and then tighten his grip on her to keep her upright, too.

He cursed under his breath, his irritation threatening to bubble over, but then made sure to loosen his hand on her once more so as to not hurt her.

“What?” Sorcha asked. “I did as ye said.”

Willelm gave her an unimpressed look, his eyes narrowing as he took in the self-satisfied look in her own, green ones.

He couldn’t claim to have ever kidnapped another woman before, but he was quite certain this was not how captives were supposed to behave.

She had been scared at first, of course; who wouldn’t be, when they were ripped from their home and taken to a strange place by a strange man?

Some of that fear still lingered in the distrust in her gaze, in the way she kept herself as far away from him as she could.

But this defiance, this downright taunting attitude was a surprise for which he was not prepared.

“Come on,” Willelm said through gritted teeth.

It would have been easier to simply drag her along, or even to throw her over his shoulder and carry her the rest of the way, but it seemed undignified for a woman of her status, and unnecessarily violent.

So instead, he stared at her in silence until she decided to start moving again, and then stepped in front of her once more to lead the way.

They had only known each other for a few hours, most of which Sorcha had been bound and gagged, and yet the girl was already a thorn in his side.

If her maddening demeanor and insistence on being as difficult as possible weren’t enough to irritate him, then the fact that he couldn’t take his eyes off her would surely be enough on its own to drive him mad.

It wasn’t just the clever, green eyes that looked at him constantly and exasperated him.

It wasn’t just the curve of her rosy lips that stretched in derisiveness whenever he or Rory spoke, or even the long, golden strands of hair that flowed like water down her back.

There was something else about her; a quiet grace that was difficult to find even among the noble-born, a steady confidence that made her as impenetrable as a fortress.

The cold, damp hallways of the old estate seemed like no place for a woman like her, but the room in which he took her had been prepared especially to house a guest. It wasn’t much, not anymore.

The tapestries, with their floral motifs, were peeling off the wall, hanging in tatters around the room.

The old bed with its four posts was creaky, the wood groaning in protest whenever anyone sat on it, and the porcelain washbasin was cracked and chipped after decades of use.

And yet, Willelm had made sure the blankets were thick and warm and that the fire that blazed in the fireplace was enough to heat up the entire room.

If Sorcha had any complaints, she could address them to Rory. Willelm had better things to do.

“So ye took me tae force me faither’s hand?” Sorcha asked, just as Willelm opened the door for her. His only regret was that there were few doors left in the estate which could still be locked—and this was not one of them. “What is yer stake in this?”

Willelm pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Ye were told everythin’ ye needed tae ken. All ye have tae dae now is tae stay in this room while we wait fer yer faither.”

“I ken naethin’!” Sorcha insisted. “Naethin’ o’ importance, at least! Ye never told me a single thing that mattered! How long will ye keep me here? Will I be all alone? Dae ye even have any… any food or water in this place?”

“O’ course we have food an’ water,” Willelm said with a roll of his eyes. “How dae ye think we survive here?”

“I dinnae ken,” said Sorcha, placing her hands on her hips. “Through sheer force o’ will? Or hatred fer me clan?”

Willelm could already feel the first throbs of a pounding headache in his temples. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose, but there was no stopping the flood of irritation that coursed through him, and soon he pinned Sorcha with his gaze once more.

“We have every right tae hate yer clan,” he said, venom dripping from his words. “The things they’ve done tae us… the things yer faither has done tae us?—”

“I still dinnae believe anythin’ ye say about me faither,” said Sorcha. “None o’ it can be true. I ken me faither an’ I ken the kind o’ man he is. He would never make people suffer as ye claim!”

Taking a step forward, Willelm crowded Sorcha against the stone wall. For a moment, the determination in her gaze wavered, replaced by a hint of fear, but it soon returned as she looked up at him defiantly.

Through the open door, warm light spilled from the flames in the fireplace, casting her in chiaroscuro—one side of her plunged in shadow while the other was bathed in brilliant, golden light. And Willelm, the fool he was, forgot how to breathe.

She looks like an angel.

It was not like him to be distracted from his goal. It was not like him to be thinking about such things in the middle of a mission, and it gave him pause. Sorcha must have noticed something was amiss, as she frowned at him in confusion but she said nothing as he stared at her in silence.

It took him a while and several steps backwards to find the words to speak.

“If that’s what ye think, then ye’re too naive.”

Sorcha’s gaze hardened, blood rushing to her face and painting her cheeks a bright red. “Or perhaps ye are a foolish brute, an’ ye have done somethin’ tae deserve this.”

Instantly, anger flared within Willelm, digging its claws up his throat.

To insinuate that he or anyone in his clan had done something to deserve the unthinking cruelty of Laird MacDuff was nothing short of cruel in itself, like a dagger to the back.

Sorcha may not have known a single thing, nor did she owe him any respect after he had grabbed her from her home, but neither of those facts lessened the sting of her claims.

Willelm’s face morphed into a blank, expressionless mask. When he spoke, his tone carried the same chill as the estate itself, hair-raising and bone-rattling.

“Me people have suffered more than ye could ever ken. I willnae suffer the indignity o’ bein’ accused o’ brutality by the likes o’ ye.”

Whether it was the effect of his words or his tone, Willelm didn’t know; all he knew was that Sorcha, so confident and outspoken before, was now staring at him in shocked silence.

“Go intae yer chambers,” he said. There was no point in arguing with her, not when she couldn’t see the truth. All he accomplished was giving himself a pounding headache. “An’ dinnae try anythin’ foolish.”

“What’s yer plan, then?” Sorcha asked, finding her spark and her speech once more. “Will ye simply stay out here all night? I’m sure even ye have tae sleep at some point.”

“Dinnae fash about me,” said Willelm with a saccharine smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ye just go intae the room.”

Another moment, another staring contest between the two of them that was only resolved when Sorcha decided to move. With an indignant huff, she turned her back to him and stepped into the room, promptly slamming the door behind her and making the wood groan and the hinges creak.

Willelm couldn’t help but chuckle. Even through his fury, even through the painful memories brought up by Sorcha’s insistence that her father was right, he couldn’t help but find her antics a little amusing.

He was, in fact, planning on staying right outside her door for the entirety of the night and for every night after that.

He and Rory had soldiers, of course, whom he could task with keeping watch outside her rooms, but he didn’t trust anyone but himself with this.

If Sorcha escaped, then they would lose their only leverage over Laird MacDuff.

They were out of options; even kidnapping the girl had been a choice made out of despair, and neither he nor Rory were happy it had come to this. But what else could be done when they were watching their people die and their lands be destroyed?

Nay, we had nay other choice. We did what we could.

And yet, when he allowed himself to truly think of what they had done, he was flooded with shame.

Curse him!

Sorcha threw herself on the bed with a long-suffering sigh.

The mattress was lumpy underneath her, the bed frame creaking ominously with every shift of her weight.

The room smelled faintly of must, as if the damp had seeped deep into the walls and no fire was enough to keep it out.

The entire estate was in disarray; roofs and walls crumbling, tapestries hanging in sad tatters, the wind howling through the windows.

And yet, there was one thing that didn’t escape her notice; the blankets on the bed seemed almost new, or at least newer than anything else in the room, and the fire burned bright and warm, fed by several thick logs.

Willelm could have thrown her into the dungeons.

In fact, that was precisely what she had expected—a cold, dark cell where she would be fed scraps and kept in rags, away from the light of the sun.

A room, one that was furnished with some luxuries at that, was more than she would have thought she would get.

Still… curse him!

No chambers, no luxuries could make up for the fact that she had been torn from her home and brought to this place, only to hear two strangers blame her father for something she knew he would have never done.

Her father, Alistair MacDuff, was a kind man.

Everyone had a good word to say about him and Sorcha had never heard any complaints from anyone else.

How could two men who didn’t even know him be in the right about his character when she, his daughter, saw him as a kind and just leader?

It didn’t matter. She couldn’t rely on her chances of convincing Willelm and Rory that they were wrong. All she could do was try her best to escape.

But with Willelm near her door, how could she ever hope to leave that place? He was surely standing sentinel right outside, listening to her every move and watching the door like a hawk in case she tried to sneak out.

But even he will have tae sleep. Maybe I will have a chance, nay matter how small.

Impatiently, she sat on the bed, staring blankly at the flames in the fireplace.

There was no sound in the estate other than the whistle of the wind, the soft flapping of the animal skins over the windows, the distant rhythm of water dripping from the edge of the roof.

Sorcha counted the moments in water droplets, hypnotized by the tap-tap-tapping of them against the ground.

And when she figured enough time had passed, she finally put her plan into motion.