My Scot, My Surrender

by Amalie Howard

  When he retracted his arm and met Sorcha’s eyes again, her shocked stare had changed. She was no longer confused at his intention, but instead of the relief he’d imagined he’d find, he saw something unexpected. The barest flicker of injury. She quickly blinked and pulled down that mask of composure. Hiking her chin, she crossed her arms. “I see.”

  But she didn’t see. The hurt he’d glimpsed for a moment was testament to that. Brandt sighed. “We agreed this marriage was for show, didn’t we?” He searched for something to staunch the trickle of blood and, finding a cloth near the washbasin, did so. “I intend to take you to your sister’s, where you’ll be safe from Malvern. We’ll have the marriage annulled, and you can stay there for as long as it takes for him to forget the wrong done to him.”

  “And you?”

  “I will return to Essex, of course.” He gave her a pointed look. “With my new horse.”

  Sorcha’s mouth tightened, her eyes sparking. “I’m glad it’s so easy for you.”

  Brandt shrugged out of his coat. “If you think bartering my name is easy, my lady, then perhaps you don’t appreciate my sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice?” she snapped. “In a few weeks, you’ll walk away with a stallion worth its weight in cairngorm crystals, while I…I…”

  “While you eschew marriage to a marquess.” He stared coolly at her. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Sorcha’s mouth opened and closed, her eyes like pieces of blue flint, though her fingers curled into trembling fists at her sides. Her face paled as resignation settled upon it. Brandt sighed, throttling his anger. She was only a girl, after all, one who, despite her own machinations, had found herself wedded and nearly bedded within the space of an hour.

  He glanced at the wooden tub, his tone gentling. “You should bathe before the water gets cold. I’ll wash after you do.” His gaze shifted to the bed. “And you needn’t worry that I’ll lose control of my desires with you. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  Sorcha’s hands wound into her skirts as her eyes slid to the bed, and the smear of red at its center. She swallowed and nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”

  He took a moment to reply. Perhaps he should be thanking her as well. She wouldn’t have parted with Lochland Toss—or Lockie, as she’d called him—if she hadn’t backed Brandt into this corner. But he didn’t feel like gloating. He was too damned tired.

  “You’re safe with me, Sorcha,” he said instead.

  “Am I?” Her reply was near inaudible.

  “Your sudden skepticism offends, my lady,” he said quietly. “Weren’t you the one who decided I was a far step safer than Malvern in the first place?”

  She flinched as if he’d struck her but did not snap back with a sharp-tongued answer. Uncomfortable with the tightening sensation of guilt-speckled fury in his chest, Brandt walked to the window, his arms clasped behind his back. He had nothing to feel guilty for. He’d played his part and, when all was said and done, he would claim the reward he deserved.

  No more, no less.

  Chapter Four

  Sorcha’s eyes cracked open to a slim golden beam of sunshine cutting the darkened room in half. It was coming from a window, its coverings drawn and blocking most of the daylight. Stretching her arms wide across the bed, she recognized the dated, peeling decor of Pollock’s. It wasn’t the first night she’d spent in the inn, and it wouldn’t be the last. She’d probably drunk too much, and one of her brothers had thought it best if she slept it off.

  She blinked, her eyesight adjusting over the lone spear of light in the room, and froze. A man slumbered in the armchair near the window. Swallowing a scream, she sat up abruptly, the previous night’s happenings coming back to her in a brutal rush—a kiss, her brothers, the chapel, a ceremony, dinner—and the indisputable fact that the man asleep in the chair was her husband.

  Lifting her fingers, she stared at the antique ring with the green, blue, and gold crest he’d given her in the chapel after pledging his vows. She squinted at it. The blend of colors looked familiar, but all the Scottish family crests tended to blur after a while. He could be a Lowlander for all she knew. Then again, she did not care about his last name, so long as it was not Malvern.

  Christ in a tartan, she was bloody married.

  She was no longer Lady Sorcha Maclaren; she was Lady Sorcha Pierce.

  Well, she wasn’t his wife in truth. Shifting her hips quietly, she stared down at the brownish-red markings on the white linen and clutched the blankets to her chest. She would be lying if she didn’t admit she was grateful he hadn’t seen the whole of her. No one had in years, not even her maids, who drew baths for her but knew their lady preferred to see to her own ablutions. With the drapes drawn. Always with the drapes drawn.

  Sorcha had learned that painful lesson and would never repeat it. She closed her eyes against the memory, though it echoed no matter how she tried to banish it. Her bedchamber at the Maclaren keep. The sound of gasps and horrified whispers as she had risen from a bath. Her maid, rushing the open arched window and telling someone to shoo.

  Three boys, Sorcha learned the next day, when her father had leveled a punishment of horsewhipping for their spying. She had been fourteen, the boys all a year or two older, and one, Aric Ferguson, she’d admired for ages. The son of a neighboring laird, Aric was the only boy who ever looked at her twice, and she’d quickly learned why.

  He’d found her later, forced to apologize by his father and hers, but his apology had been naught but a twisted, sullen insult. I’m sorry we peeked on ye. ’Twas a dare, ye ken. He’d lowered his voice then, so their fathers, standing nearby, could not hear. Ye have my promise—I’ll no’ look at such a beast again. And with a grimace as his eyes drifted over her newly blossomed chest, Aric had walked away.

  He never looked her in the eye again. Nor did the others. Though soon after, Sorcha had started hearing the word beast in passing. And eventually, Beast of Maclaren. The painful nickname had gutted her at first. Then she’d gotten her revenge a year later at a clan fair when she’d trounced Aric soundly in the ring, dressed in her brother Evan’s old clothes.

  “How does it feel to be beaten by the Beast?” she’d spat.

  The dumbstruck look on his face when she’d revealed herself had been priceless, almost worth the cost of his cruelty. Her gratification, however, couldn’t erase what he’d said, or the years of loneliness that followed.

  Aric had been the first, but she vowed he would be the last. No man in his right mind would want—let alone want to see—what lay under her shift, and she would never subject herself to such scorn again. Sorcha had long given up hope that any man would truly desire her. Except for Malvern, who had wanted her dowry, not her body.

  Though she’d consented to the agreement of marriage in name only, she hadn’t been certain if her new husband would expect to carry out his conjugal rights. He was a man, after all, and after their kiss and the way he’d touched her…she’d started to think he might want what was owed to him.

  Only he hadn’t.

  Sorcha closed her eyes on a silent sigh, her heart pinching slightly with thwarted longing. Had she wanted him to bed her? She’d been promised to Malvern for so long that she’d never even thought of other men. And certainly not a prime specimen like him.

  Turning carefully, Sorcha sneaked a glance to where he slumbered. Brandt Pierce was a tall man, and the armchair looked far too small to contain his lanky frame. He was not as broad as her brothers, but his lean physique was deceptive. She had seen his strength with her own two eyes when he’d walloped Craig and his cousins. His chest, a swath of tanned skin visible through the loose lawn shirt he wore, rose and fell with deep, even breaths. A lock of bronzed hair hung over his brow, and his mouth was parted in repose.

  Beneath that tumbling curl, she could recall the color of his eyes in minute detail—they were the earthy, changeable hues of the Highlands in the throes of autumn. But now, thick russet eyelashes rested against his cheeks, hiding them f
rom view. Fine grooves bracketed that stern but sensuous mouth. It was, without a doubt, a mouth molded for pleasure. One she’d experienced firsthand. With a tiny sigh, Sorcha remembered the feel of those wide male lips on hers and the clever, silken glide of his tongue. A rush of heat swamped her limbs, and she pressed her suddenly slack legs together.

  Brandt grunted softly in sleep and twisted his long body in the chair. It could not be comfortable, sleeping in such a cramped position, and yet he had kept his promise that he would not lose control of his desires. Her brain tripped over the memory of his words. His desires. She hadn’t known what to make of it then, and still didn’t. Had he been expressing sarcasm, the idea of feeling desire for her ridiculous? Or had he been genuine, honestly saying that he would fight the urge to give in to his body’s craving for her?

  The thought was a dangerous one, making the blood in her veins start to simmer. Restlessly, Brandt shifted again. He stretched out his long legs in front of him, hooking one ankle over the other and causing the edges of his shirt to ride up against his muscular torso. The night before, she had averted her eyes while he undressed and bathed not two lengths away. Now, though, her gaze took greedy inventory, and Sorcha found it suddenly hard to swallow. Or breathe. Or do anything of use at all.

  Christ’s holy baubles.

  She shouldn’t swear, but her breath fair fizzled in her throat at the tantalizing display of chiseled abdomen and hard male flesh descending to the noticeable rise of his trousers at the juncture of his trim hips. For a moment, she wondered whether the thin line of bronzed hair arrowing beneath his waistband would continue on to that riveting swell, and then, Sorcha’s breath well and truly abandoned her.

  It wasn’t that she’d never seen a shirtless man before—she’d seen plenty of them on the Maclaren training fields. But none of them had ever had such a heathen effect on her. Her nipples had contracted to hot points beneath her night rail, the wool deliciously abrading her too-sensitive skin. She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted to feel every inch of that lean male frame plastered against hers, bracing her body into the mattress.

  God’s teeth, she was shameless! Closing her eyes, consumed by the arousing tableau her imagination conjured, a tiny moan escaped her lips as she knotted her fingers into the bedsheets. Sorcha flipped over and groaned into the feathered pillows.

  “Sleep well?” The warm voice slid across her overheated senses, and every muscle in her body tensed in frenzied awareness. Her husband was awake.

  “Yes,” she replied into her pillow. “Thank you.”

  More sunlight flared into the chamber as Brandt parted the drapes. Feigning sleepiness, she stretched and turned to face him. His grin and notched eyebrow made her abandon the pretense. “It didn’t look that way. You seemed to be moaning and groaning. Night terrors?”

  Sorcha narrowed her gaze at him. The amusement in his voice hinted at knowledge…knowledge of her shameless perusal. The blasted bounder had been awake and hadn’t made a sound! She blushed to the tips of her ears and wished that she could pull the sheets over her head.

  “That was probably it,” she said as blandly as she was able.

  “Tell me about them,” he said, walking over to the washbasin to splash some water on his face and clean his teeth with a square of linen and tooth powder.

  Sorcha stopped herself just in time from sticking her tongue out at his back as his hazel eyes caught hers in a sphere of mirrored glass on the wall. “I dreamed I went to a country festival and married a complete stranger.”

  “That sounds frightful.”

  “It was,” she said. “Terrifying.”

  “Was this stranger you married a dreadful ogre?”

  “Of the most monstrous ilk.” She sat up and shifted her legs over the edge of the bed, the sheet falling away. Brandt’s eyes met hers in the mirror again, his hand stalling in mid-air as his hot gaze dropped to a spot below her chin. Sorcha glanced down and resisted the urge to grab for the discarded sheet. The worn woolen fabric of her nightgown was snug against the curves of her body, and at his stare, her nipples, which had not ceased tingling, tightened even more. Flushing, she crossed her arms over the offending points and glared at him. “Worse than you can imagine,” she added sourly.

  He laughed, and the deep rumble made her pause. She couldn’t help noticing how his laughter lit his eyes in the most fascinating way. “Did your monstrous ogre threaten to boil your flesh and suck the marrow from your bones?”

  It should have been awful what he was suggesting, but the teasing words shot bolts of exquisite heat down her spine. The combination of flesh and suck together with her earlier fantasies made her face feel as if it were on fire.

  “No,” she gritted out and hurried behind the privacy screen. “I kicked him in the head.”

  The thought of using the chamber pot with him so close by made her cringe, but she managed it quickly when she heard him walk to the opposite end of the room to get dressed.

  Her husband’s reply floated over the barrier. “Poor ogre. Sounds like he got the raw end of the deal.”

  “Why is that?” she couldn’t help asking.

  “Because ogres need love, too.”

  A ripple of laughter bubbled in her chest, and Sorcha poked her head around the barrier. Except for her little brother Niall, banter did not come this easily with other people, especially with a lout who was using her plight to get his hands on her horse. Though, to be fair, she was using him, too.

  “Tell me more,” Brandt said as he deftly fastened the buttons of his waistcoat. “Was he a strapping young blighter?”

  Strapping. Handsome. Irritatingly attractive.

  Once more, Sorcha flushed and cursed her body’s idiotic response. Undressing swiftly, she tied her stockings and garters, then pulled a chemise and clean dress over her head. “He was a bit of a runt, actually,” she said, her voice muffled by the layers of cotton and wool.

  “A runt? I think not,” Brandt said in an affronted voice that seemed suddenly loud. Sorcha realized why as she settled the dress into place. She almost screeched. He was standing right in front of her, behind the screen. “Let me,” he said, turning her shoulders around before she could form a tart reply. “This one looks to have fasteners up the back.”

  She felt the deft tug and pull of the fabric as he buttoned her dress. At home, Kira, her maid, would often help with buttons and sometimes dress her hair. But no man had ever attended to her like this. Was this what husbands did for their wives? Surely, Malvern would never have offered such a thing. Sorcha closed her eyes as Brandt finished. She had to stop worrying about the marquess. She was out of his reach now. And, most of all, she needed to stop making a martyr of her pretend husband who had traded marriage vows for horseflesh.

  “Playing the servant comes easily to you,” she said in a cool tone, peering over her shoulder. “Well done.”

  Fathomless gold-flecked green eyes met hers. “My lady’s wish is my command.”

  “Until you get your hands on my stallion.”

  “Until then, of course.”

  She watched him, interest sparking. “Why do you want Lockie so badly anyway?”

  “I hope to breed him with one of my mares,” he said. “His brawn with her speed should make for spectacular foals.”

  It was the first bit of true excitement she’d seen from him…outside of their kiss. Sorcha fought back a shiver. Then, he’d been as enthusiastic as she.

  “You breed horses?” When he nodded, she went on. “I confess, I’m not as horse-mad as my father, but I’ve raised Lockie from a colt myself. He’s special—” She broke off, the to me sticking in her throat as a rush of guilt swamped her. “He’ll make a great sire.”

  “That is my hope.”

  His hands fell away from her dress, but Sorcha continued to feel the heat from his body. He remained behind the screen with her, the small space growing warmer. She turned, thinking to slip past him, but was caught by the flat of his palm as it gently gripped
her elbow. Brandt peered at her, one brow propped high.

  “When you’re angry, you sound like your brothers, but otherwise…you sound English. Why?”

  Sorcha frowned at him. It was true. She lost control of her accent whenever her temper flared, and it was something her mother endlessly chastised her about. No English lord would want a wife who spoke with such a provincial, rustic brogue, her mother had always claimed. She would need to be as cultured and elegant as any of the fine English ladies she would undoubtedly encounter in London or Edinburgh when she became Lady Malvern. Any daughter of mine will bring honor to Clan Maclaren, her mother had intoned so often that it popped into Sorcha’s mind without warning whenever she lost her temper and the pretty manners and rounded vowels she’d been bred to possess.

  “My mother is from Cumbria,” she replied, noticing with growing unease that Brandt’s strong hand was still on her arm. “She insisted her daughters break from the Scots tongue whenever we went to London, but, since I was the one chosen for an English marquess, she concentrated her efforts on me.”

  Brandt’s fingers tightened around her elbow. “They chose you for Malvern, not your sisters. Why was that?”

  The question brought with it the same slow, gouging sensation of some invisible injury that Sorcha had suffered for years. Annis and Makenna were beauties, and as such, they were the Maclaren daughters who could secure those important alliances with the Brodies and the Campbells. Malvern was not an alliance. He was an unfortunate and unavoidable attachment. Her father would have never considered giving Annis or Makenna to him.

  “My sisters had their own matches already.”

  Brandt’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. It was enough to indicate that he didn’t believe her. She wriggled her elbow, wanting freedom from the closed-up space behind the dressing screen and from his knowing stare. Brandt held on firmly.

  “And neither of them feigned scandal in order to avoid those matches?” he asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Ever since waking up in that lumpy chair, he’d been conversing easily with her. Joking even. Sorcha had started to hope that perhaps he was no longer furious, that his plan to leave her at the Brodie keep and then return to his home with one of the most valuable horses in the Highlands as payment would be a balm. But here his anger was, yet again, bubbling to the surface. Hers notched in response.