My Scot, My Surrender

by Amalie Howard

  And he knew why. The Marquess of Malvern was rumored to have a streak of brutality running through him that would make grown men cast up their accounts. The thought of this woman being possessed by such a man left him cold. The marquess would take pleasure in breaking her bold spirit until no spark remained in those vibrant blue eyes.

  No, even though Sorcha had been a stranger up until that morning, Brandt could not have stood by and done nothing, knowing what he did about Malvern. Just as he could not have stood by when he’d found Ares, trapped as a foal in barbed wire and being stoned by a few ragtag hooligans.

  She is not a horse, an inner voice whispered.

  Nor was she a child.

  A vision of delicate blond lace over a swelling bosom arose. Indeed, she was neither. But she had been in danger just the same, and Brandt’s acute sense of empathy, as Archer had often called it while rolling his eyes, had not allowed him to walk away.

  Then again, his empathy had little to do with taking advantage of the perfect bargaining chip to finally lay claim to Lochland Toss. The opportunity had fallen into his lap, and while helping the lady would have been noble, Brandt was no altruist.

  He was more than happy to let her brothers believe they had forced them to the altar. In all fairness, they could have hunted him down and threatened to beat him to mash, but no one could have strong-armed Brandt into marriage. Not even two thickly built Highlanders foaming at the mouth to defend their sister’s ruination. A ruination she had completely fabricated.

  Though it wasn’t as if he hadn’t enthusiastically participated.

  He’d wanted his mouth on hers the moment he’d seen it shape the word “Essex.” The sultry sound of it had prompted a number of lascivious thoughts, and that was before she’d kissed him. When she had, her lips had been sinfully sweet, the taste of her burning through him like a dram of the finest whiskey. That had been the only cause for hesitation in the Selkirk jail. Clearly, he was attracted to her, but he would not let lust deter him from his prize.

  Lochland Toss had no equal.

  Once his bride was free of Malvern, he would ensure that the marriage was annulled, and he and his new mount would travel south, back to Essex. It would all be a neat, tidy transaction. He’d be a stallion richer, his stables set up for immeasurable prosperity, and she would be rid of her unwanted fiancé.

  As for the wedding night, self-restraint would not be a problem. Brandt had never allowed any woman to hold such sway over him, and he wasn’t about to start now—not even for one who kissed as well as Lady Sorcha Maclaren.

  Brandt glanced at his new wife standing beside him, recalling the passionate cling of her mouth and the feel of her lithe, graceful body beneath his hands. She had fit perfectly in his arms, her hips cradling his in a snug fashion that was both intimate and arousing. A sudden sweep of lust shot through him, making him question his earlier conviction of sexual self-restraint.

  “God bless ye,” the vicar said, “and yer marriage.”

  Blessings that should have been hollow and meaningless, considering his and Sorcha’s agreement, now seemed ominous. Sorcha’s blue eyes were shadowed as Brandt led her from the church. Though she put on a brave countenance, he could feel her slender fingers trembling within his.

  “What is it?” he murmured.

  “Nothing.” She gnawed on a corner of her lower lip, her scars dark against her ashen face. Cold understanding of their new, if temporary, bonds of wedlock must have been settling in. Or perhaps she was upset only about losing her prized mount in the deal. Brandt felt a stab of satisfaction. Play with fire and you should be ready for the burn.

  “Where are ye staying?” Finlay, the larger of her brothers, asked. “At Pollock’s?”

  It was the only decent inn in Selkirk. Brandt nodded.

  “Good, we’ll have yer wedding feast there.” Finlay shot him a hard look. “Then ye’ll do yer duty as husband with the bedding.”

  Sorcha’s body pulled taut at his side at the blunt command. Brandt bristled as well, disgusted by the ease in which her brother called for the end of her virginity. Brandt squeezed her hand, but said nothing. He would tell her of his plan when they were alone and observing eyes and listening ears were no longer attuned to them. For now, she needed to eat something to put some color back into her cheeks.

  However, it seemed he’d underestimated her. Moments before they entered the inn, Sorcha squared her shoulders and smoothed the red and navy Maclaren plaid pinned to her dress. The waxen anxiety disappeared from her face and a stoic, icy calm replaced it.

  The transformation was astonishing. This was the fearless woman he’d seen in the paddock. Her confidence then had been innate, part and parcel of her skill with a sword. Now, this poise was all an act, and she wore it like armor. Her palm remained shaky and sweaty, clasped in his, but her chin angled upward as she followed her brothers into the boisterous eating room.

  “Congratulations!” someone shouted drunkenly, “on yer blessed nuptials!”

  “More like cursed,” another voice muttered. It belonged to Craig Dunbar, the man his bride had neatly dispatched earlier.

  The former chant was taken up until the noise was deafening. Some patrons eyed him with curiosity, others with suspicion, but it was clear the inn got its fair share of anvil weddings. Brandt noticed a table of Scots looking at Sorcha with unmasked grimaces. They nudged one another, and only after looking their fill at Sorcha’s face did they glance at Brandt. Their expressions shifted, changing from horror to pity, as if to say they knew he’d been shackled to her by way of some scandal. They shook their heads. One man even had the ballocks to murmur, “Poor lad.”

  The renewed tension in Sorcha’s body told Brandt that she’d heard. He hauled her up against him, his gaze hard until the men at that table averted their pitying eyes.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said.

  Brandt eyed her. “Do what?”

  “Defend me. I’m used to it. The stares, the comments, the whispers. People have been doing it my whole life. They’re not going to stop now that some Sassenach was fool enough to wed the Beast of Maclaren.”

  Beast of Maclaren? Was that what they called her? It was absurd. The scars gave her a wild, nearly savage look, but she was far from a beast.

  “Perhaps those worried looks were for you,” Brandt said in a light tone, even though he knew it wasn’t true.

  She shot him a look. “For me?”

  “You did marry a poor English stable master, after all. Perhaps all these pitying glances are on your behalf, not mine. We English tend to be dry and humorless, stingy with our coin, and predisposed to rampant cases of gout.”

  Sorcha slowed as they made their way toward a table at the back, near a low, peaty hearth blaze. Her gaze raked him from head to toe, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as her eyes met his once more. She strained against a smile. “Your claims of gout would serve you better if you had a paunch or jowls to your credit.” Her lips finally curved slightly, a sparkle blooming in those blue eyes. “Furthermore, a man without a sense of humor does not marry a woman on a whim, Mr. Pierce. Even for a horse of unequaled value.”

  “Brandt,” he murmured. “And humor has nothing to do with it. I’m making out in spades with this arrangement, wife.”

  The smile froze and faded from her lips. He cursed himself, recalling her brother’s coarse command minutes ago about Brandt claiming his husbandly rights. He might have been in this for the horse, but he wasn’t a complete scapegrace.

  “That isn’t what I meant,” he said, but she’d looked away from him, her expression only more frigid. They’d agreed on an annulment, and that would only be possible if he didn’t bed her. He’d assumed that was obvious. But perhaps not.

  Brandt abandoned the idea of explaining, given the dozen pairs of ears in such close proximity hanging on to their every word.

  Following Evan and Finlay, they took their places at a large table at one end of the room. Within minutes, it was cove
red in freshly baked breads, fruit, trenchers of thick mutton stew, an entire roasted pig, and foam-topped goblets of ale. They were joined by Gavin shortly thereafter, who had remained in the chapel to prepare the necessary documentation of their marriage vows.

  Brandt was in no mind for food, but he forced himself to consume some of the meat and bread. The raunchy comments from the crowd did nothing to stimulate his waning appetite. A silent Sorcha picked at her plate.

  “Pierce,” Evan said, folding his thick arms across his chest and glaring daggers at him after he’d drained his third mug of ale. “What do ye do in Essex?”

  “Shouldn’t you have asked that before dragging me to the altar?” Brandt replied smoothly. “What if I were a beggar? Or a poor farmer or smithy, unable to properly care for your sister?”

  Evan smiled. “The tack on yer horse costs more than a blacksmith earns in a year.”

  “Perhaps it belongs to my employer.”

  “Are the clothes on yer back his, too?” Finlay asked with a sneer.

  “Finlay!” Sorcha said, her elbow shooting out to catch her brother in the ribs. “Don’t be foul.”

  Palming his side, he shot her a glare. “I’m no’ being foul, Sorcha, and ye ken that Ronan will be far worse once he gets wind of yer wedded state, especially with the marquess on the way to Maclaren.”

  “You sent word to Ronan?” she asked.

  Brandt sat back in his chair, a tankard of ale in his hand. “Who is Ronan?”

  Sorcha straightened her shoulders, that cool mask of indifference slipping over her features once again. “Our eldest brother,” she answered, her gaze stuck on her plate.

  “Christ, how many brothers do you have?” Brandt asked, to which Evan and Finlay both chuckled, each of them eating heartily of the feast laid out before them.

  “Four brothers and two sisters. And our father is—”

  “Angus Maclaren, the Duke of Dunrannoch, chieftain and laird of Clan Maclaren,” Evan interjected. Brandt took a swig from his tankard, not mentioning that he’d already known as much. He’d heard the duke had a parcel of children in addition to his stable of fine horses, but Brandt had been more interested in the latter than the former. Perhaps he should have paid better attention. His head throbbed with the beginnings of a headache.

  Sorcha glared at her brother. “You know I hate it when you interrupt me, Evan.”

  “Ye’ve no right to complain today, sister. Once our father hears tell of what ye’ve done, ye won’t be able to sit down for a week.”

  Brandt crashed his tankard onto the wooden table, shaking the plates and cutlery. A cloud of silence rose up over the long table, the half-dozen Maclaren men looking up from their meals and ale to stare at him. Brandt leaned forward and speared Evan with a thunderous look.

  “What she’s done? As I recall, it was you and your brother who insisted on marriage.”

  And if the Duke of Dunrannoch dared lay one finger on his daughter in punishment, Brandt would happily snap it in half.

  Finlay slammed his own tankard onto the table. “Only when ye dishonored her in public.”

  Of all the idiotic notions, this was the one that irritated Brandt the most. “And what sense does it make, I wonder, to force your sister to marry the stranger you’re so certain was accosting her?”

  Glowering, Finlay shot up from his seat, knocking the chair over backward. Brandt lounged back in his and arched a lazy eyebrow.

  “Enough,” Sorcha said, standing up from her own chair, her gaze cutting between them. “I’m finished eating,” she announced, even though she’d barely touched her food.

  “You should try to eat a little more,” Brandt said, indicating the half-eaten plate.

  “I don’t require a man to tell me when my belly is full and when it isn’t,” she shot back, twin pricks of color rising high on her cheeks. “I said I’ve finished.”

  The blasted woman was as thickheaded as her brothers. Brandt pushed his chair back and stood, drawing himself to his full height. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d lost his temper. He never let his emotions boil to the surface. But now he wanted to shout. He wanted to rail at something, anything, just to release the pent-up agitation that had been simmering all day, ever since he’d made the damned offer of his name for a horse. His choice, certainly, but he was beginning to regret it.

  Instead, he lowered his voice and said evenly, “Then I suppose it’s time we retire and make this marriage true.”

  Sorcha’s eyes flared. The color in her cheeks spread like a stain of wine, drenching her, running up to the shells of her ears. She held his stare, though, her stubborn pride—or perhaps it was only her ability to act—unflinching.

  Behind her, Finlay sat down in his chair again. The scowl was still fixed upon his lips.

  “Ye dunnae have to like him, aye,” Brandt thought he heard Gavin murmur under his breath to Evan, but he could not be sure.

  Brandt frowned but stepped away from the table, taking his tankard with him. He headed for the stairs, a set of bare board steps that led to a platform overlooking the inn’s main room. From there, a turn in the stairwell would take them out of sight. As Sorcha rose to follow him, whistles and hoots rained through the room, making it almost impossible for Brandt to hear the innkeeper as he met them at the base of the steps.

  “Second room on the right!” the old man shouted, and with a nod, Brandt took up his wife’s hand. It was no longer sweaty, but like a block of ice. He closed his hand around it and pulled her along behind him, raising his tankard to the jeering crowd below. He had to at least give them a show of excitement at taking his bride to bed, otherwise, he wouldn’t put it past the drunkards and heathens to follow them up and listen at the door.

  Once they’d entered the upstairs corridor and fallen from view, Brandt could have released her palm. He didn’t, though. His hands were warm and dry, and he already felt her skin beginning to thaw. She stayed quiet and didn’t tug her hand free.

  Their chamber was spare but clean. His belongings had been moved from the smaller room he’d taken for lodgings two days before, along with a portmanteau of clothes he suspected belonged to his new bride. As he’d requested for himself the prior nights, a tub full of steaming water had been filled and placed behind a screen at one end. He eyed the floor and a lumpy armchair by the bed. Either would do for the night.

  Sorcha followed with none of the bravery she’d been able to manifest downstairs during the feast. He closed the door as soon as she entered and threw the lock. Her shoulders jumped at the sound, and she spun around on her heel to face him. What he saw nearly stopped his heart. She wasn’t just hesitant, she was frightened. Of him.

  The faster this ended, the better.

  Brandt took a step toward her. “Is there any place you’ll be safe from Malvern?”

  Sorcha’s lips pulled into a frown. “What?”

  “Here in Scotland, or even England, is there a place where Malvern won’t be able to touch you?”

  She shot him a mystified look but nodded. “My sister is a Brodie and her husband will protect us if need be.”

  “Why didn’t you go to her before?”

  “I would have, but my father would have pursued me to fulfill the betrothal contract.” Uncertainty swam in her eyes. “But Lord Malvern can’t touch me now. Don’t you have a home in England? Essex or someaught?” she asked, her voice rising on a rattled note.

  “Until I bed you, the marriage can still be annulled. Malvern can see to it. And if you were promised to him, there’s the possibility he won’t give up his claim so easily.”

  In England, broken marriage contracts were call for serious reparation. He doubted it was any different in Scotland. If anything, the consequences were even more dire. But as he’d said to Sorcha earlier, all men had a price—and he was willing to bet Malvern had one, too.

  Brandt crossed to the other side of the small room in four fast strides and pulled the drape in front of the window, blocking the unfettered v
iew of the lush rolling fields surrounding Selkirk and the tents that had been erected for the common lands festival.

  “Yes, well…I believe that is why we are here. In this room. At this…uh, time,” she replied, her voice tripping over the words. She cleared her throat, and when he turned back to her, saw the blush riding high on her cheeks. It had spread down the creamy column of her neck to the pillowy décolletage her dress plumped up into view. He wondered idly how deep the rose-tinted flush descended, whether it bloomed over the neat curves of her breasts to that nipped-in waist as well.

  Damn it all to hell.

  He had to act before he lost whatever was left of his reason—and his will. Brandt drained his tankard of ale, set it down, then crouched to pull his hunting dirk from the sheath he kept inside his boot.

  Sorcha retreated. “What are you doing with that?”

  Brandt stood, rolled up his sleeve, and with a fast, firm motion, sliced open the top of his forearm.

  “Stop!” she gasped, lurching forward, as if she meant to take the blade from his hand.

  “I don’t think you really want me to stop,” he replied as the shallow slice welled with enough blood to drip down the curve of his arm. “Pull back the bedsheets,” he ordered.

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do it,” he bit out, losing his patience. Hell, the day had started out perfectly well, and yet now here he stood in a rural Scottish inn saddled with a wife and a bleeding arm. The only bright spot was the coveted stallion waiting for him at the end of this very frustrating road, and even that was fast losing its appeal.

  Sorcha held back what would have surely been a tart reply and yanked the coarse woolen blanket back to the plain linen sheet below. Brandt held his arm over the center of the bed a moment and allowed the blood to drip freely.

  “Six or seven drops should be enough to convince them,” he muttered, though he wasn’t entirely certain. The few women he’d taken to bed had never been virgins. He’d made sure of it. He’d never contributed to any maiden’s ruination, and yet, here he was, caught in the very trap he’d always prided himself on avoiding.