She’d intended the kiss to be brief and chaste…not whatever this was.
Chaste would be the last word she’d have used to describe the sublime onslaught of his lips, teeth, and tongue. It made her want things she’d never dreamed of wanting…like his body, stripped of all its clothes, and his mouth on other smoldering, aching parts of her. Diah, Lord knew only a loose woman would have such lewd thoughts.
His mouth left hers to travel down her neck, and desire spiked, making her weak-kneed. Moaning incoherently, her hands fisted in the fine fabric of his coat as she fought to stay upright. His hands moved, one rounding over the indent of her waist, while the other skimmed over the torn fabric of her tunic. Gentle fingers brushed against the lace of her chemise and across the swell of one breast.
Pressed to an entire length of aroused male, his heated mouth and hands touching her so intimately, her dependable, sensible mind went gloriously blank. Sorcha couldn’t think. Her breath, along with what was left of her brain, fizzled and died.
“What the bloody hell are ye doing, ye rotten knave?”
Slowly, Sorcha became aware of angry shouts as rough hands separated them.
“Explain yerself before I castrate ye,” her brother, Finlay, yelled. “Ye’ve ruined our sister.”
She blinked as her other brother, Evan, yanked the stranger by the arm, though, unlike the man’s earlier savagery with Craig and his friends, he did not fight back. Instead, his hot stare met hers, dark and intent. The greenish-brown irises flecked with gold seemed stormier now than they had before, when they’d reflected the clear afternoon sunlight. His lips were swollen. She’d bitten and sucked them like a brazen hussy. Flushing, her gaze fell away.
“It’s not what you think, Finlay,” she muttered in a hoarse voice, clenching her hands. “I competed with the sword in the ring, and then Craig and his cousins started a fight when he lost, and this man beat them all—”
“I dunnae care who Craig fights,” Finlay snarled. “This bounder had his bloody hands on ye…on yer chest. Kissing ye in the middle of the street like some doxy. Our sister, a lady of Maclaren,” he said, advancing on the man. “Ye’ve brought dishonor to her and our clan.”
“Her tunic is ripped,” Evan hissed. “Ye right bastard.”
Sorcha glanced down, absurdly grateful that it was the right side, and not the left, that had been exposed. Not that she wished to be exposed at all, but the left side of her body would incite quite the opposite of desire. Revulsion, in fact.
Feeling the stranger’s eyes on her, she snatched the torn ends together. “He didn’t rip it. Craig did, during the fight.”
“He was fondling ye, ye daft lass,” Finley said. “In the middle of bloody Selkirk. What will the marquess think? He’ll cry off, and then where will ye be?”
Yes.
Sorcha couldn’t help the tiny burst of triumph that flared inside. Perhaps success was within her grasp, after all.
“There’s naught to be said for it; they’ll have to be married at once,” a new voice proclaimed.
To Sorcha’s horror, she noticed that their cousin Gavin, the one who had spoken, and a vicar of all things, was standing behind Evan and Finlay. The look on his face was one of devout determination. Her stomach sank.
No, no, no. This was not what she intended at all. She could see her fate stretching before her like a hangman’s noose…wedlock to a complete stranger.
Surely Gavin couldn’t be serious?
But a new expression was overtaking Finlay’s face, one she’d seen time and time again, especially when he and Evan dueled, and he was already scenting victory.
“What if the bounder’s already married?” Evan asked, glaring at him. “Are ye?”
The surge of relief Sorcha felt at the notion that he could be married slipped away as the gentleman shook his head and squared his wide shoulders. With a quick shake, he shrugged out of Evan’s grip and straightened his cuffs. His face was oddly serene, but it sent a frisson of dread through Sorcha.
This was a man of uncommon restraint…reminding her of the kinds of predators that sat in wait for prey to get dangerously close. He had not been flustered when he’d fought off Craig and his cousins. Even now, he did not seem agitated. His stoicism in the wake of her brother’s anger worried her more than if he’d decided to rail and scream.
“No, I am not married,” he said finally, and with a pointed glance at Sorcha, added, “nor do I intend to be.”
Three pairs of matching gazes swiveled toward him. “Ye’ve ruined our sister, a lady,” Finlay said again. Contrary to his tone before, now he spoke slowly and loudly as though making a proclamation to the remaining crowd, and the hint of melodrama made Sorcha frown. She’d half expected Finlay to decapitate the man in blind rage, but he suddenly seemed rapt with Gavin’s sanctimonious idea of marriage. “Ye’ll do right by her, ye ken?”
Christ’s swinging bagpipes, was this truly happening? Sorcha felt faint.
A muscle leaped in the man’s jaw. “Your sister kissed me.”
“Ye lying sack of—” Evan looked ready to murder him with his bare hands, but he was saved from that end as the local constable approached with two burly men in tow. The situation was quickly explained, and Sorcha panicked when she saw the constable nodding in unison with her brothers and cousin, who still insisted the only solution was a wedding.
Why in the blazes was the fool agreeing? She had to do something.
“No,” she said, shoving her way to the constable. “I kissed him. It was my doing.”
“Nae, Cousin,” Gavin said, also a hair too loud and dramatic. “The Sassenach kens better. Ye’re naught but a lass, and he’s a grown man. He took undue advantage when he just as well could have pushed ye away.”
“He did not take anything that wasn’t willingly given,” she said, flushing hard.
Her brothers scowled at her, but neither of them relented. They exchanged glances as Finlay set his jaw. “He will marry ye, and that’s the end of it.”
Sorcha made one last effort, her voice laced with panic. “Are the three of ye cracked? Cannae ye see he doesnae want to?”
“Perhaps some time in a cell will change his mind,” Evan suggested with a dark look. The constable nodded and stepped forward.
The stranger did nothing as a pair of irons were clamped around his wrists, though she felt the weight of his inscrutable gaze the entire time until he was led away. A massive brute of a horse with a patchwork of scars along its flanks clopped along after him. No wonder the man hadn’t flinched at her scars, if he kept a horse like that.
Guilt leached through her. An innocent man was in shackles because of her…one who had come to her aid in a brawl. And one who hadn’t looked at her as if she were the victim of a killing gone wrong. Instead, he’d responded to her kiss as if she were any other woman, unscarred and desirable.
Sorcha pressed a finger to her still throbbing lips, a plan once again forming in her head as she faced her brother. “I need to go to the seamstress—”
“Dunnae even start, Sorcha,” Finlay muttered. “Ye’ve done enough.”
“It’s for Mama,” she said, the lie burning her tongue. “Fabric for dresses. The shop is just over yonder. You will see me the whole time.”
He narrowed his eyes at her as if he knew she was lying, but nodded with thinned lips. “To the shop and back. I’ll wait here.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Sorcha, five minutes or I come after ye.”
“It will take more than five minutes to sort through Mama’s order, Finlay,” she said in a patient tone, hoping that her underlying desperation would be hidden. “’Twill be at least ten.”
When he agreed with a scowl, she hurried away, toward the lane of shops that cut through the village, feeling his eyes on her until the door to the seamstress’s swung shut behind her. Greeting the sewing girls who had seen Sorcha many times before, and ignoring the way their eyes always flared at the sight of her marred face, she hastened through the shop to th
e back door, and then turned toward the village prison. Evan, Gavin, the constable, and his two men were in deep conversation outside, arguing about the best course of action. She slipped inside and released a pent-up breath, relieved there was no one in the entrance hall. Sorcha glanced at the thick processing ledger resting on a nearby desk.
Mr. Brandt Montgomery Pierce of Worthington Abbey, Essex, England.
He had a distinguished name. He wasn’t a titled lord, but he was evidently a man of some means. The fit of his clothing had been tailored for his powerful shoulders and those long, muscular legs. She’d gotten enough of an eyeful of his bunching muscles when he’d thrown Craig’s cousin arse over heels. Sorcha pocketed the iron keys that lay on a hook near the desk and made her way down the narrow, darkened hallway.
The first two cells were empty.
“Come to gloat?” a low voice drawled.
Sorcha whirled and peered into the third cell, obscured with shadow. She pressed closer to the bars, her hands going around the rough iron, and gasped as long, ungloved fingers captured hers with leashed masculine force. An unexpected thrill shot up her arms, along with unwanted impressions of those lean-fingered hands roaming all over her body.
“Release me,” she whispered, cheeks scalding.
At first, it seemed as if he wasn’t going to, and she looked down; his shins were close enough for a swift kick through the bars. But then his grip went slack, and she stepped away, catching her breath. Sorcha wanted to run from the accusatory press of his eyes.
“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“And yet it did, Lady Maclaren.”
“I can explain.”
“I am glad to hear as much,” he replied. Then after a beat, “I’m waiting, my lady.”
But in the moment of truth, words failed her. How could she explain that she had temporarily lost her mind and initiated the scandalous kiss to get out of marriage to another man? She’d used him. It had been dishonorable and desperate. Sorcha knew he deserved an honest answer. Haltingly, she explained, and when she was done, silence reigned.
As the next minute ticked by, Sorcha flicked a worried glance down the hallway. Her ten minutes were almost up.
“Are you…angry?” she asked, uncertain as to what the man might do if she unlocked the cell door. She checked the head of the corridor again, impatient to free him already and be gone.
“You are betrothed to the Marquess of Malvern?” he asked, instead of answering her question.
She nodded miserably. “The betrothal was part of a settlement to Lord Malvern from King George. We thought the marquess had forgotten about the betrothal, but he has sent a missive that he will arrive for me in a sennight.” She fisted her hands into her skirt. “Stupidly, I thought he wouldn’t want me…” Sorcha trailed off, embarrassed to call attention to her disfigurement. “Because of my scarring. But I misjudged his greed.”
“How did you come by them?” he asked. “Those markings?”
Sorcha saw no reason to lie. Mr. Pierce would soon be gone, back to England where he belonged, and most everyone had already heard the tale of the Beast of Maclaren. “When I was nine, I found a wolf den in a hillside cave. The cubs were friendly, though their mother did not take kindly to an intruder. I barely escaped.”
His eyes glinted with surprise. “You fought off a wolf and lived? At nine years old?”
“It was foolish, I know, but I often wandered into the glens, looking for mischief. I was a headstrong girl.”
A rumble of impressed laughter filled the space between them that did absurd things to her senses. “No wonder you weren’t afraid of five paltry men.”
“Craig had it coming.” Sorcha inhaled a determined breath and unlocked the metal door. “Let’s get you out of here while we can, Mr. Pierce. You don’t need to be saddled for a lifetime with the likes of me just for falling for some clot-heided scheme.” She blushed at the recollection of her boldness.
He watched her where she stood, neither of them moving for a long moment. He approached her past the cell’s open gate. His hand rose to graze her scarred cheek, and this time she did not shy away. “You have blood just here.”
Sorcha swallowed, flinching at the tenderness of his touch. “Is that all you see?”
“Yes.”
Embarrassingly, she felt the sting of tears. No man had ever touched her scars before. No man had ever not noticed them. When she’d met the Marquess of Malvern for the first time, she’d overheard the marquess’s men making cruel remarks that her intended would have to put a sack over her head to bed her. Her own betrothed had laughed and said his solution for a satisfactory bedding would be to flip her over and bury her face into the pillows. She’d fled the hall, her face burning with shame.
The memory of Mr. Pierce’s scorching kiss flitted through her mind, heating her blood. He’d seen her as a woman, not as a monster.
“You need to go,” she whispered. “There’s a door at the end of the hallway past the privy.” She turned on her heel and made to stride down the hallway, but a hand on her arm stalled her.
“Lady Sorcha.”
The sound of her name on his lips, not the tether of his fingers, made her feet grind to a painful halt. Did he want to punish her for the way she’d used him after all? Take his pound of flesh for what he’d suffered? Slowly, she turned back to him. He hadn’t moved from where he stood. Once more, she had the impression of ruthlessly guarded control.
The sound of voices echoed toward them, and Sorcha tugged his arm. “Mr. Pierce—”
“I’d say we are well beyond formality at this point,” he murmured. “Brandt will do.”
She didn’t care what his name was, she wanted him to leave. But Brandt’s stare met hers across the narrow space between them and captured it, driving the breath from her lungs. He still hadn’t released her arm, and the heat of his palm sank through the soft wool of her plaid. His eyes were unfathomable as they bore into hers. Sorcha had never felt so vulnerable…so exposed.
“The gray in the auction paddock, Lochland Toss,” he said after a long pause. “He belongs to you?”
She blinked her surprise. “Lockie?”
“How much do you want for him?”
“He’s not for sale.”
His gaze narrowed. “Everything has a price, my lady. Including me. And that horse is my price to free you from the consequences of your unfortunate advances.”
“My unfortunate advances?” she spluttered in shock. The man was daft. She was giving him a chance to escape unscathed, and he wanted to purchase her horse? Her eyes snapped to his in sudden understanding. “Are you saying you want the horse or you won’t go?”
Brandt pulled her closer to him, his fingers firm, though not hurtful. One corner of his mouth tilted upward. “We are in a predicament. You need a groom to escape your unwanted betrothal. And I have desired that particular stallion for my stables for some time.”
He released her and with a slow forming smile, stuck out his hand. His changeling eyes remained cool. “Do we have an agreement, my lady?”
Sorcha frowned, backing up a step as the voices of the constable and her brothers grew louder. What kind of man would offer his name and a lifetime of wedlock in exchange for a horse? Even one as magnificent as Lockie. She loved him and had resisted offers of purchase for years—the stallion’s value was immeasurable, both in coin and sentiment. Then again, no one had ever offered this price…a way to escape Malvern. She should say no. The man was clearly dicked in the nob. But apparently, she was even more so.
“To be clear, you’re offering marriage for my horse,” she said. “Not anything else.”
He raked a hand through his bronzed hair, his eyes flicking to her mouth, a sliver of hesitation flashing for the barest instant before it was squashed. “Yes, the marriage will be in name only and annulled as soon as possible.”
In name only. Annulled.
Her limbs went soft with relief.<
br />
A way out, simply for the price of her most cherished possession. Her heart ached at the thought of turning Lockie over to another, but the sadness would pass. Eventually.
A marriage to Malvern would last forever.
Sorcha nodded and took his proffered hand with numb fingers.
“Aye, Mr. Pierce, we have an agreement.”
Chapter Three
The wedding was immediate and brief. Brandt’s future brothers-in-law served as grim-faced witnesses while Gavin Maclaren, thin-lipped vicar and cousin of the bride, performed the ceremony. It was a small church wedding, instead of the usual anvil wedding at the local blacksmith’s. Which might have been preferable, considering he and Lady Sorcha Maclaren were declaring fictitious intentions and exchanging false vows.
Well, at least he was getting something out of all this madness. Lochland Toss was a worthy prize. Or so he’d told himself at least a dozen times since he’d made the asinine offer.
He clenched his jaw tight as he retrieved the only ring he had in his possession from a cord around his neck—a woman’s ring his father had given him, with a green and gold crest emblazoned upon it. It had belonged to Brandt’s mother. Why Monty had kept it, and why Brandt had worn it all these years, was something he didn’t want to think about right then. As he slipped it on the third finger of his wife’s hand, he supposed it no longer mattered why. It was Sorcha’s now.
His wedded oath.
Hell.
All for a horse. An invaluable horse. One he’d wanted for years. Lochland Toss would finally be his. What was Brandt’s name worth anyway? With luck, the marriage would be annulled within a week, once her betrothed was thwarted, and Brandt would be free to resume his life and his plans.
As would she.
The unbidden image of a brave, dark-haired little girl fighting off a ferocious wolf filled his mind. A woman of her courage would not have sunk to such drastic measures if she hadn’t been desperate. And to be fair, she hadn’t suggested marriage…her brothers and cousin had. She’d initiated a kiss only to cause enough gossip for someone to cry off.
My Scot, My Surrender Page 2
