Brandt tugged on Sorcha’s reins and dug his heels into Ares’s ribs. His horse leaped in response, and with a yelp of surprise from Sorcha, they rode toward the narrow opening between the stables and the church. Once they cleared it, Brandt saw the side street was packed with market vendors for the festival. Ares and Lockie weren’t the only horses in the crowd, but they both stood out. Ares especially.
“What are we doing?” Sorcha asked, her voice rising.
Brandt hushed her before he darted his eyes up and down the street, searching for Malvern’s armored men. The paddock Malvern had indicated wasn’t far on the western side of the village, and well within view of the copse of trees into which Brandt was aiming to escape.
As they picked their way up the street toward a knoll of green grass and beyond that, a thick cluster of whitebeams, Sorcha tugged the rein he still had in his grip. “I can direct my own mount.”
“He’s mine, remember?” he replied with a sideways curl of his lips that made Sorcha growl under her breath.
“Yes, of course I remember,” she snapped. “We’re both your property now.”
“I’m a man who always protects his investments.”
Her eyes snapped with affront and turned the hue of a thundercloud. But he was saved from the bite of her tongue as a sharp whistle sounded from behind them, followed by a bellow of alarm. Brandt didn’t look back.
“Ride, Sorcha!” he shouted, pushing Ares into a full gallop. Lockie came along, fast and powerful, and Brandt forced Ares to slow until the gray had surpassed him, Sorcha leaning forward over his mane. Clods of dirt and grass kicked up in their wake as they drove toward the knoll, Brandt’s heart thudding, wind screaming in his ears. Behind them, a commotion began to break out.
And then a heavy explosion swallowed it whole.
Brandt twisted in his saddle to see a black cloud billowing into the air above the village, with shrieks and cries echoing from the streets. The smoke cloud appeared to be just above the inn.
“What was that?” Sorcha shouted as they crested the knoll and kept on, toward the forested hills a few leagues away.
“I suspect it was the distraction I had hoped for,” he said with an unreasonable surge of affection for her stubborn brothers. It lasted for a handful of moments as they kept on toward the trees, Brandt checking over his shoulder every few seconds. There was another explosion, followed by a resurgence of screams and the tolling of a bell, but so far as Brandt could see, they weren’t being followed.
The cool spring morning air dropped in temperature as they entered the woods. There was no path, no trail, but Lockie took a gallant and decisive lead onward, through the trees and up the incline. With Ares chomping at the bit, they traveled deeper into the wood. Rocks and scrub brush littered the forest floor, and Brandt worried for the integrity of their mounts’ strides. But then they came upon a thin trail, likely used by goats or sheep, and he and Sorcha picked up speed.
Within the hour, the distant drumbeats from the festival could no longer be heard, and Brandt, now certain Malvern and his men had not followed, slowed Ares. The forest had opened into valleys in spots and then closed again into hilly woodland, and when looking south, toward Selkirk, he had not seen riders on their trail.
Neither he nor Sorcha spoke when they stopped to fill their waterskins and let their mounts drink from passing streams. They didn’t speak when Sorcha dismounted Lockie and dipped into the woods to relieve herself, nor when Brandt did the same. They didn’t speak when they heard the hollow bells of a herd of sheep as they crossed another verdant valley and the sound of a shepherd lounging somewhere in the tall grasses, singing a ballad.
The noon hour came and went, and still Sorcha didn’t utter a word. A part of him didn’t care. And yet, her silence gnawed at him. He could suss out what a man or horse was feeling without trying, but this woman…he couldn’t make heads nor tails of her. She’d fought Craig like a banshee, yet she had seemed rattled when faced with the marquess, much like her brothers had. Brandt wondered at the unusual sway the man held over the Maclarens.
When they finally saw a small stone cottage tucked in the bowl of one valley, he cleared his throat. “It looks deserted.”
She granted an, “Aye,” and directed her horse in the cottage’s direction.
It was more a ruin than a home, but their horses needed rest, and Brandt didn’t want to push them too far. They closed Ares and Lockie in the dilapidated paddock attached to one side, with water from a nearby crick and some grass for grazing. Once they were settled, Brandt took Sorcha by the elbow and swiveled her to finally look at him.
“Your brothers were cowards with Malvern.” Sorcha set her jaw and began to pull away, but Brandt held her firmly. “They forced the man they found kissing you into marriage, but another man insults you and they let him walk away, still breathing. What kind of kin are they?”
“They don’t have a choice,” she said, her arm writhing for freedom. The tumble of her dark hair, unkempt from the hard ride into the country, made her appear ferocious. Inexplicably, it made his blood thunder in his veins.
“Explain,” he snapped, irked at his body’s carnal response to her.
Fury glinted in her eyes at the order for a scant second before it was dulled by resigned submission. He much preferred the fire of the former, but for now, he wanted her to speak.
“The Maclarens are oath bound not to raise arms against Malvern,” she replied in a wooden voice. “It was part of the terms of the king’s settlement upon his father. When he received Maclaren lands because of my uncle’s deception with the Jacobites, he became the English lord of Tarben Castle and was charged with keeping an eye on the rest of the Maclarens. My father retained his title and his portion of the holdings, and when Malvern’s father died, he petitioned the English crown for the lands to be returned. Malvern refused. He lied, claiming that he was fearful for his life in a keep that was full of clan Maclaren rebels, and my father was sworn never to bring arms against him or any effort to reclaim my uncle’s lands.”
She kept attempting to break free of his grip, and not wanting to bruise her skin, Brandt released her arm. He frowned. Though her explanation made logical sense, it did not explain why Malvern was allowed such insulting freedom. “And yet they broke another oath to him. The one that said you were to be his bride.” He took a step away from the moss-covered paddock rails and raked a hand through his hair. “Malvern was right about one thing: your brothers are fools.”
Sorcha struck him square in the chest with such alacrity and force, Brandt nearly stumbled backward. “My brothers are not fools! Malvern is wrong, and ye’re wrong!” she cried, lashing out at him again. This time he caught her fists and wrapped his hands around her slim wrists. “They’d murder Malvern if it didnae mean the dozens of Maclarens living on Tarben Castle lands would pay in blood for it!”
He dragged her against him as she continued to struggle, and with her hands restrained, she resorted to kicking. She connected with his shin before he swept her legs out from under her and took her to the ground, bracing her back with his arms to cushion her fall.
“Ye ken nothing of my family or of me!” she yelled as he pinned her hands above her head and held himself aside of her thrashing legs. “Get off me, ye dunderheid!”
“Stop, Sorcha. Stop,” he said, her knees coming up, her hips wriggling. Finally, he pressed the full weight of his body against hers and flattened her to the ground. She writhed once more and then, with a frustrated grunt, lay motionless. Brandt knew he’d made a mistake the second he felt the press of her breasts against his chest, her hips flush against his, and the wisps of her hot breath on his neck. Her body was soft, but he could still feel toned muscle beneath her curves. Jesus. He was already getting hard.
As if sensing his hesitation, her hips bucked up off the grass in an attempt to lever him off her, and Brandt’s instinct took control—he ground his lower half into hers in response. Sorcha made a half-desperate sound in her throat
, and hell if it didn’t sound like a moan.
“Enough,” he muttered, though not to her. Not entirely. No, he was the one who had to stop. He had to get control of himself.
She shifted and took small breaths, each pant a shot tormenting his growing erection. There was something entirely dangerous in knowing he had every right in the eyes of both the law and God to push up Sorcha’s skirts and bury himself in her. But he’d promised her, and himself, that she’d still be a virgin when he left her on Brodie lands. Giving in to his lust would only create more problems.
As if they weren’t already swimming in them.
“My brothers protected us,” she said. “Those were the gunpowder casks they blew to distract Malvern and his men.”
“The least they could do,” he muttered.
“Malvern’s retaliation will be swift,” she said. “And bloody. My family will pay for what you asked of them.”
Something in her tone made Brandt lift himself, releasing her and sitting back on his heels. “You’ll defend them no matter what I say, won’t you?” he asked. The woman was a stubborn mule.
Sorcha sat up, pushing her tangled hair out of her flushed face.
A provocative, stubborn mule.
“Don’t you have brothers? Sisters?” she asked, her temper receding. He could tell by the way her brogue had lessened.
Brandt stood up and held out his hand, but she ignored it and got to her feet on her own. Monty had married Brandt’s stepmother, Anne, when Brandt was two years old, but they’d never given him any siblings. It hadn’t been a loss for Brandt, really. He’d had Archer growing up.
“Bradburne is the closest thing I have to a brother,” he replied.
“Your employer?” she asked, her quizzical expression giving away her surprise.
He nodded, supposing it was a bit odd for a duke to count his stable master among his closest friends, but Archer had never been typical in anything.
Sorcha’s raised brow settled. “Well then, wouldn’t you defend him no matter what?”
A smile lit upon his mouth. “I would take a bullet for him.”
She blinked, clearly not ready for such a declaration. “You would?”
“Actually, I already have,” he said with a short laugh. “So I suppose it’s his turn to take a bullet for me now.”
He hadn’t felt any tenderness in his thigh lately where a bullet had ripped through four years before. Brandt had saved Archer’s life during his stint as the notorious Masked Marauder, a gentlemanly highwayman who stole from the ton and gave, anonymously, to the poor. The fact that Brandt had both warned him that particular heist would be perilous, and had been the one to be arrested after being shot, had provided plenty of opportunities for Brandt to tease Archer—and guilt him enough to cover more than a few tabs at the village tavern.
“You’ve been shot?” Sorcha asked, her eyes going round with disbelief, and Brandt fought back a laugh at her reluctantly impressed expression.
“Ages ago, a superficial wound,” he replied, patting his thigh. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t a permanent maiming.”
She lowered her lashes and bit her lips, and Brandt wondered what he’d said to dim the light from her eyes. Then it hit him: I will not listen to a maimed harlot. Malvern’s words, vicious and cruel. He felt the renewed urge to pulverize the man’s face. He opened his mouth and closed it. Sorcha wouldn’t want his pity, and he shouldn’t be feeling any inclination to offer it in the first place. Letting himself care would be a slippery slope.
She shrugged. “So then you know, in a way, what it is to love a sibling.”
He supposed she had a point.
Sorcha moved past Brandt toward the cottage. He took a breath and looked up, away from the sway of her hips as she walked. He was reminded of her lightness of step in the paddock with Craig and the ease with which she’d moved, though that fighting spirit seemed diminished by the shadows in her eyes.
Brandt loosed a breath as they climbed the rickety stairs to the rotting stoop. It was little more than a shack, but the skies to the south had clouded and would bring rain. The sorry thatched roof topping the cottage would not offer much, but it would have to do.
“I do understand,” he finally answered her. Capitulating to her felt easier than he thought it would, and the brief smile she flashed at him over her shoulder made him want to agree with her again. About anything.
Idiot.
He moved in front of her, stopping her hand before she could open the door. No one was likely inside, but he didn’t want Sorcha entering first. Just in case. The chit had the audacity to roll her eyes at him, before throwing one arm wide and sketching a sarcastic bow.
He pushed it wide, and the musty, dank air of an unused hovel was the only thing to greet him. Dirt floors, a blackened hearth, and foggy glass windows…what was left of them, that was. But for some empty barrels, there wasn’t a scrap of furniture.
“I’ll start a fire,” Sorcha said, immediately setting for the hearth. There were some sticks and some old, charred logs. Brandt found more kindling in a box beside the cottage, and soon, they’d worked to build a small flame in the grate. They sipped from their waterskins as the first drops of rain pattered the ground outside.
“Do you think Malvern and Coxley will track us?”
Her voice was calm. Too calm. She had heard the marquess’s threats about making her a widow, and the man was well known for his reputation in battle. Coxley, too. They were both military men of sadistic persuasions—a dangerous combination. Brandt couldn’t tell her not to worry, that Malvern couldn’t find them or would abandon the hunt. She was far too intelligent to believe such rubbish.
“He’ll try,” Brandt answered. “We won’t stay here long. We’ll go north.”
“We’re not going to Maclaren,” she stated, understanding lighting her eyes.
Brandt shook his head. “Too risky. We’ll head straight to your sister. And Malvern might also expect us to head south to England. I’ve sent word to Bradburne just in case.”
Before going to the stable yard that morning he’d tasked the innkeeper with sending a hastily written note to Hadley Gardens in London, where Archer and Briannon and their young daughters were currently spending the season.
Going to Brodie would also mean not having the chance to face the Duke of Dunrannoch at Maclaren and inform him that he’d not only obtained the steed he’d been refused time and time again, but that he’d also taken his precious daughter to wed. Brandt couldn’t say it didn’t give him a bit of gratification. Dunrannoch was an irascible old man who deserved the title of beast more than his daughter.
“You’re not afraid of Malvern,” Sorcha said, crouching to warm her hands over the meager flames. Again, it was a statement rather than a question.
“Are you?”
“I’m wary of him,” she said. “There’s a difference. He’s a terrible person to have as an enemy.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “He is not one to be underestimated. He has a ruthless reputation, particularly with Coxley at his beck and call.”
Brandt stooped beside her in an effort to generate more warmth between them. “Why does Malvern want you so badly?”
She pursed her lips. “My dowry. Land rich in cairngorm topaz. My father offered to give it to him and release me from the betrothal, but Malvern wants to make sure no one else lays claim to the land. An heir would guarantee that.” Sorcha shuddered as if the thought was an unbearable one.
“Your brothers seem fearful of him,” Brandt said quietly. “Why?”
“It’s not fear. Any one of us would kill him if we could, but he has the ear and favor of the king.” Her throat worked convulsively, and for a moment it seemed as if she wasn’t going to continue. Sorcha’s fingers curled into fists as she looked up at him, pain blooming in her blue eyes. “Finlay is a hothead,” she began. “Evan, too.”
Brandt didn’t dispute the statement. He’d experienced it firsthand.
“They were young, and
wanted our lands back and the threat of an English lord gone. Malvern hadn’t shown an interest in Maclaren after the death of his own father, and Finlay hoped to make him stay away for good. He set fire to one of the unattended fields, but the winds were fierce that day and the fire spread.” She drew a ragged breath. “It was contained, but not before it destroyed part of the keep, and Malvern’s steward was badly burned. Malvern somehow found out it was a plot by Finlay and Evan and demanded recompense.” She swallowed, her lip trembling. “In flesh.”
Brandt’s frown deepened. “Flesh?”
“For his wounded steward. The man lived, but lost the use of his arm. As payment, Malvern took Niall’s hand.”
“Niall?”
“My brother,” she whispered. “The youngest and most innocent of us all. He was only ten. The king gave Malvern carte blanche to take his pound of flesh as he saw fit. My father pleaded, begged to give his own limb instead, but Malvern did not bend. The blackhearted bastard had Coxley do it in the courtyard with all of Maclaren present to bear witness. He smiled the entire time.” A guttural sob escaped her lips. “Niall was so brave, so courageous. He fainted from the pain before he let himself utter a sound. Malvern swore that the next time we lifted arms against him, he would take his life.”
Brandt reached out a hand, but she shied away from him, the suppressed fury in her eyes like a demented living thing.
“Och, I should not have brought you into this madness,” she said. “Who knows what he will do to you as punishment. He is a powerful man with powerful friends.”
Brandt set his jaw. “I have powerful friends, too.”
“You don’t know what he’s capable of,” she said.
He felt something unfamiliar in his chest clench—the desire to safeguard any woman was new to him, but the fear in her eyes was real. Fear for herself. Fear for her family. She had used him with her plot to thwart Malvern, but he sensed no deceit in her now. “Why did you choose me that day, Sorcha? You could have kissed a hundred men in the square. Why me?”
My Scot, My Surrender Page 6
