“What if the target’s moving?” Fergus asked, his blue eyes bright with admiration as he slung an arm over her shoulder.
“All the better,” she replied, stepping out of the semicircle of Fergus’s arm, and swung the quiver to her back. Geordie tossed a small burlap sack into the air as hard as he could. Sorcha grabbed an arrow, following its flight and speed with her eyes before releasing. The arrow smacked into the bag in midair. Loud whoops filled the grounds as Fergus flung another upward to soar into the sky. She took it down with the same effortless ease, and the cheering grew.
Suddenly, loud controlled clapping interrupted the fracas. It was not frenzied with delight. No, this was cold and purposeful. Every head turned to see the scowling laird atop a giant horse with his unsmiling son at his side. A few other mounted soldiers stood in grim silence a few feet away. Most of the men scattered like leaves in a windstorm. Sorcha noticed Patrick’s gaze flick to Aisla, concern glimmering for a brief moment, before his features took on the look of stone once more.
“What have we here?” Rodric thundered. Sorcha could feel Aisla quail beside her, and she bristled.
“A bit of sport, Your Grace,” Sorcha said, releasing the bow and quiver from her grip. “Nothing more. Lady Aisla agreed to accompany me so I would not get lost.”
“Perhaps ye should have remained in the keep where ye belong.”
She frowned at his acidic, patronizing tone, but managed to keep her own civil. “At Maclaren, the women train with the men. And it’s not unusual for ladies to take the air on occasion.”
Rodric’s gaze went pointedly to her scars. “And look at where that got ye. Taking the air, and ye got yer face torn off for it.” A gruesome smile stretched his lips. “Who kens what kind of predator ye can find out here, aye? Ye’ll want to be careful, Lady Pierce, or ye’ll again find yerself as prey.” The insidious hint of threat left Sorcha cold as his reptilian stare moved to his daughter. “Get ye behind Patrick up to the keep. Yer disobedience will warrant the strap, ye ken.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened at the open promise of punishment. She wanted to hold Aisla back as she moved to climb up behind Patrick. Her face was pale, though to her credit, she did not show any emotion.
Hell. This was her fault. But Sorcha held her tongue, knowing that any response would only make it worse for Aisla. Challenging the laird and his brutality in front of his clansmen would not be a wise course of action. She did not say a word until he wheeled his horse around and rode away.
Patrick did not follow immediately, but trotted his horse toward her. “Up to the keep, Lady Pierce. The laird is right, ’tis dangerous for ye.”
Sorcha wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a certainty.
“I’m so sorry,” she said to Aisla.
“’Twill be all right,” Aisla whispered. “Some of it is only bluster.”
But not all of it, Sorcha knew. Aisla had confessed as much earlier. Foreboding settled upon her skin as though she’d walked into an unexpected web of spiders. Spiders that spun their sticky threads and waited for spoils. Shivering slightly, she rubbed her arms and began the long trek back to the keep.
Chapter Twenty
It wasn’t until later that evening, once the sun had lowered behind the craggy hills that fortified Montgomery land, that Brandt returned to the keep and the room he shared with Sorcha. He’d spent the bulk of the day on foot, walking the undulating terrain around the fortress, visiting the stables for an unnecessarily lengthy visit with Ares and Lockie, and learning the layout of the rooms and corridors inside the keep itself. All in all, he’d made a day of avoiding both his mother and his wife.
Never before had he worked so hard not to think about women. How was it, he mused for the near hundredth time that day, that he had lived a quarter of a century without ever finding himself so frustrated and confused about the female set that he wanted to pull his hair out at the roots, when in less than a fortnight now he’d been subjected to the full spectrum of torture. Both mental and physical.
On the one hand, there was Lady Glenross. His mother. A woman who had never had a face in his imaginings before, and whom now he saw so clearly. All his life, she’d been a nameless person to hate, to be furious with. He’d been so certain that his mother was a cold, uncaring witch of a woman. How wrong he’d been.
Everything was changing now that he knew the truth; everything he thought he’d known had shattered, and ever since breaking his fast that morning, Brandt had been waiting for the pieces to settle into new order. With each step he took as he roamed the keep and lands, he was reminded that he wasn’t just a stable master. He wasn’t a bastard at all. Every inch of this gorgeous, intimidating land was rightfully his. And his mother wanted him to reclaim it.
On the other hand, he had Sorcha. His wife. His beautiful, intoxicating, blood-boiling wife. She had been the one who had consumed his mind most of the day. Brandt had left the great hall after his hushed conversation with the duchess, his mind reeling, his pulse unsteady. He’d needed air and distance from the unexpected burden of truth laid down at his feet. At the top of one knoll rolling down toward the training fields, he’d had a clear view of the Montgomery men training there—as well as two slim and skirted ladies. He should have known his mighty Athena would have finagled her way into the center of a training session among Scots warriors.
Brandt had quelled his initial alarm at seeing her among those men when they’d stood back to watch her instruct Aisla with a bow. The young girl was his half sister, he knew, but he hadn’t been able to think about that. In that moment, he’d wanted only to watch his wife’s strong, trim arms as she helped Aisla nock the arrow and aim. The curve of her neck as she cocked her head and waited patiently for one of her pupil’s arrows to drive home.
And when she had taken up the bow herself, even with the distance between them, he’d imagined he could hear the sound of her breathing. He’d felt the steady and calm focus of her aim, as though he were right there at her side. The cheers and whistles the Montgomery men had rained down upon her when she’d proven her skill had given him the oddest burst of pride, too.
When the tall and burly dark-haired Scot had thrown his arm around Sorcha’s shoulders, the burst of pride had become something else entirely. Brandt had clenched his fingers into balled fists, wanting only to charge down to the group of men and rip the Scot’s arm from its socket. But that would have meant facing Sorcha, and she’d have no doubt seen his troubled expression. He hadn’t been ready to speak about any of it yet, and besides…she’d looked so light and happy, showing off her skill. Had the flirtatious Scot tried it again, Brandt wagered Sorcha would have stuck him with her dirk.
Brandt had left then, listening to the cheers in the distance as his wife had done something else spectacular. Easily done, he thought to himself as he now entered their bedchamber. She was spectacular, and not just with a weapon in hand. As his eyes coasted over the chair in which he’d sat the night before, with Sorcha massaging his muscles so reverently before coming to kneel before him, Brandt thought of several more ways she’d surpassed his expectations.
“There you are,” came her voice from the far corner of the room. He closed the door behind him and prepared himself. He had to tell her what he’d learned. And what he’d decided to do about it.
“I’ve been looking for you all afternoon,” Sorcha said as she came out of the shadowy corner. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she seemed to be holding herself tightly. Awareness prickled up his spine, and Brandt’s eyes narrowed in on her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, every last thought and worry of his own fleeing.
Why had she been hiding in the corner?
“We must leave,” she said, adding, “as soon as possible.”
Brandt crossed the room in a few swift strides and took her by the shoulders. “Tell me what’s happened. Are you hurt?”
God damn it all to Hades, what the hell had he been thinking, wandering around the fortress and groun
ds all day? He should have found her and made certain she was safe and still with Aisla. What kind of fool protector was he, to not keep an eye on his own charge? And here of all places, where Rodric ruled with an iron thumb.
“I’m not hurt, Brandt,” she answered, shaking her head.
He’d been so obsessed with everything Lady Glenross had divulged that morning, so torn about whether to stay and stake his claim, or leave and deliver Sorcha to the Brodie as promised, that he hadn’t even stopped to think.
“Was it that warrior?” he asked, the dark-haired man from the training fields leaping to the forefront of his mind as his grip tightened on her shoulders.
Sorcha frowned. “Which warrior?”
“He put his arm around you,” Brandt answered, the hot sparks of a simmering frenzy igniting in his stomach. He’d find him. He’d thrash him to within an inch of his life. He’d break his bloody arms.
Her pinched expression smoothed out, and a smile touched her tense lips. “You were watching.”
“I left too soon,” he replied, grating out the words. “What did the bastard do?”
“Nothing,” Sorcha answered, her smile now a full-fledged grin. She even laughed, the husky sound striking him right in the groin. “Not a thing.”
Brandt loosened his grasp. “Then why are you so eager to leave?” He took a glance around the room, the deep purple and blue shadows of dusk having crept in. “And why are you hiding in here?”
It would be time to go to the great hall soon, and he’d thought he’d find her getting ready. Her smile faded. The confidence and fire he’d come to expect and admire in her had paled. “It’s the duke, Rodric. I don’t trust him, Brandt.”
He peered at her, a new lance of guilt digging into his chest. “You saw him today.”
Brandt had not. He’d been told the laird would be away until sup and had been glad to hear it. Sorcha nodded.
“I angered him by bringing Aisla to the training fields.” Her lower lip quivered. “I fear he’s punished her.”
He released Sorcha’s arms to avoid leaving accidental bruises; he wanted to throttle the duke, not her.
“And you,” he asked, his voice barely audible. “Did he touch you?”
If he had, Rodric would suffer. On his life, Brandt would see the man dead before nightfall. Sorcha must have noticed the threat glowing in his eyes, too, because she swallowed hard and shook her head again. “No,” she answered. “I don’t believe he’ll harm me that way. It’s Malvern…what if Rodric has summoned him? There was something in his eyes today that made me nervous, Brandt. He looked all too pleased with himself.”
Brandt nodded slowly as he turned toward the window overlooking the fields. He’d wondered himself if Rodric was allied with Malvern, but the notion that he might have been off summoning him instead of riding out to Montgomery farms had not crossed his mind.
“You’re right to be wary of him. He’s dangerous,” he replied, and nearly laughed. It was an absurd understatement. “The man is a murderer.”
Behind him, Sorcha drew in a sharp breath. “Do you speak of the late Duke of Glenross?”
Brandt crossed his arms and turned away from the window, his eyes coming to rest on the inky-haired beauty who had become his unerring compass. All day he’d spent wandering, alone, lost in his own mind. Not ten minutes here with her now, and Brandt felt grounded to the very floor. Rooted to wherever she happened to be standing. He wanted to tell her everything, and so he did.
He unleashed it all—everything Lady Glenross had revealed that morning. All the while, Sorcha stared up at him, her lips parted in awe, her expression shifting with every new confession.
“I should have found you earlier,” he finally said, guilt wriggling back into place. “It was selfish of me to stay away, wrapped up in my own troubles.”
Her eyes flashed with temper. “Selfish? Don’t be an idiot.”
She reached for him then, her arms no longer limp with shock at her sides. The reprimand, paired with the gentle grip of her hands curling around his wrists, made him laugh. But Sorcha wasn’t in the least bit amused. Her stare remained unyielding.
“You are the true Montgomery laird,” she whispered. “The rightful Duke of Glenross.”
“Yes.”
The expression of fear he’d seen her wearing as he’d come into the bedchamber slammed down into place again.
“Mo Diah.” She blinked back sudden tears. “You’re going to challenge him.”
“He murdered my father,” Brandt said. “He would have killed me.”
“He still could,” she replied, her voice rising. “When he discovers who you are—”
“He already knows,” Brandt cut in. “He must know.”
And if that were the case, summoning Malvern would only help his situation. The marquess wanted Brandt dead, and so did Rodric. Men became allies when they had a common enemy…in this case, him.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Sorcha asked, turning around and rushing toward the bench at the foot of the bed. Their packs were there, their laundered clothes and all of their supplies and weapons. “They think we’re heading west, not north. We’ll wait until everyone’s at sup, and then we’ll take Lockie and Ares, and—”
“I’m not leaving, Sorcha.”
She dropped the pack she’d just lifted and turned to stare at him in incredulity. “You can’t, Brandt. Malvern wouldn’t have fought you fair back in Selkirk, and neither will Rodric. Challenging him is unwise.”
He went to her, the tension rolling off her in near palpable waves. She was afraid, and that was an emotion he hadn’t seen grip her before. His brave, fierce warrior would never let a pathetic thing like fear unsettle her. He cupped her cheek, needing to touch her and calm her. All day, he’d felt upended and astray. But not anymore. Here, with her, he saw his path clearly.
“I’m wounded, wife. Do you think so little of my skill?” he asked, attempting to make her smile.
“Of course not, but I don’t think you understand. If he opposes your claim, a challenge for lairdship is a challenge to the death,” she said, her voice breaking over that last word. She rubbed her cheek into his palm, as if seeking the comfort he offered. She sighed. “I know you’re strong. I know you can fight, but if you lose…if I lose you…”
She didn’t finish her thought, and she didn’t need to. The worry was written all over her.
“I understand what it would entail,” he said, his thumb caressing her skin. “I can’t run from this. I won’t leave my mother and Aisla to suffer the brunt of Rodric’s rule any longer.”
They were already living in a prison; his mother’s sacrifice so many years before to keep her infant son safe from harm had never fully come to an end. He had to see it through now. Rodric would never forgive her for what she’d done, and she’d pay the price in flesh.
Sorcha closed her eyes, and he could see she understood.
“And if Rodric has summoned Malvern, like you fear, it will be only a matter of time before he tracks us north, to Brodie lands. I will do anything in my power to keep you safe.” Brandt’s thumb grazed her lower lip. “To protect you.”
Her eyes opened, and he was relieved to see a glimmer of her usual stubbornness. “If you die trying to protect me, I’ll never forgive you, Brandt Pierce. Or Montgomery, or whatever your bloody name is.” He wanted to laugh, but she wouldn’t give him the chance. “You’ve already sacrificed too much for me. If it weren’t for my stupidity back in Selkirk, Malvern wouldn’t even know you existed. He certainly wouldn’t be hunting you.”
“We’ve already gone over this, Sorcha—”
“I should have left. I should have gone back to him and seen the marriage through.” Her eyes dropped from his, and she stared into his chest. He could see her mind whirling, her thoughts forming in their deep blue depths. He knew exactly what she was thinking—that she could still appease Malvern, even now, if she returned to him.
“Don’t,” he gritted out. “Don’t
even think it, Sorcha. I would only come after you.”
And he would.
He’d ride through hell and fight until his last breath before he let her surrender to the bastard. He brought his other hand up and cradled her cheeks, his fingers pressing firmly into her skin. “You will never be his.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The second those damning words left Brandt’s lips, another deluge arrived, begging to be released. Words he hadn’t wanted to think, let alone say. But just as everything he’d believed about his birth mother had been turned over and reordered, so had everything he’d believed about himself and what he wanted.
Brandt had thought he’d wanted his peaceful, orderly life at Worthington Abbey, and the solitude and freedom that came with being a lifelong bachelor. He’d been so damn convinced that he’d be able to leave Sorcha with her sister, say good-bye, and be on his merry way home.
How had he not seen his world crashing in on itself?
“You are mine,” he whispered, his breath coming in staccato bursts. His body pulsed as she touched him, the hesitant press of her hands as she skimmed them up his forearms feeling more like a pair of anchors in rough waters. Her eyes were guarded, and she had every right to be. He’d been a boar. “Tonight, right now, you are my wife.”
“You do not want a wife,” she said, her nails scouring along his skin and stirring up an agonizing heat within him.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
She turned her lips into his palm and kissed him. “Then don’t push me away, Brandt.”
He couldn’t have stopped touching her if the horns blew and bells tolled, signaling an attack on the keep. Brandt angled her chin and kissed her, the brush of his lips gentle but earnest, and when Sorcha answered it, parting her mouth and dragging the tip of her tongue over his lower lip, Brandt let go.
My Scot, My Surrender (Lords of Essex) Page 25
