The growl came from deep within her brother’s chest, and from the corner of her eye, she saw his gathered men draw closer. Sorcha moved to throw herself between the two of them, but quickly found herself restrained by Duncan, Ronan’s first man, who had been standing beside Ronan. He was two heads shorter than her brother, but no less lethal. Brandt dropped a murderous look to Duncan’s hands on her arm and clenched his jaw.
“Cat got yer tongue, Sassenach?” Duncan laughed.
Sorcha could have sworn she didn’t see Brandt move, but suddenly she was in his arms, and his pistol was pointed at Duncan’s temple. Shouts filled the room as every man outside rushed the doorway, and only Ronan’s raised fist stopped the ensuing melee.
“The fact that you’re still alive is your warning, Scot,” Brandt hissed to Duncan. “Put your hands on her again, and she will be the last thing you ever touch.”
“Stand back,” Ronan said to his men, keeping an alert gaze on Brandt.
The man had surprised her brother, which was nearly impossible to do. Hell, Brandt had surprised her. She didn’t know anyone could move so quickly. Clearly, neither Ronan nor Duncan had expected it either. They both studied him with a measure of grudging respect. Duncan seemed undaunted by a muzzle in his face, but then again, he’d faced death and won more times than he could count.
Brandt moved her gently but firmly behind him, keeping the pistol cocked and ready. Did he mean to protect her from her own brother? From Duncan? She’d known the man since she was in swaddling; he would never lay a finger on her without say-so from Ronan. But Brandt didn’t know that. Her heart felt encased in butterflies’ wings, and her chest suddenly shrunk two sizes.
Good God, you ninny, get ahold of your wits, she told herself sternly. All this is for the blasted horse, not you.
She knew it was all a bloody act for her brother’s sake… Brandt was protecting his investment, as he’d said. But for the space of an indulgent breath, she let herself wonder what it would be like to be cared for by a man such as Brandt. One would never have to fear for anything.
A wretched tremor shook her. If she were fit, perhaps such a dream could be possible. But men like him deserved women who were sound in body. And she was not.
Furious with her stupidity, she shoved past Brandt and glared viciously at Duncan. “Get out.”
He obeyed after a look from his commander.
“Enough, Ronan,” she said through her teeth. “I was the one to marry Mr. Pierce at Finlay’s and Gavin’s insistence. What’s done is done, and either ye deal with that or ye take yer men and trot back to Maclaren. Blustering yer weight about is no’ going to help anyone.” Her voice broke, her tongue shortening vowels and falling back to her brogue. “I didnae want to marry Malvern, and Mr. Pierce agreed to help me.”
To her everlasting surprise, Ronan’s scowl relaxed slightly. His stare panned to Brandt. “Why are ye doing this? Ye don’t owe her anything. Ye don’t even ken anything about her.”
Sorcha’s gaze shot to Brandt as well. Would he expose what was truly motivating him? That he was doing all this for Lockie?
“Because she sought my help.”
“And ye give it, just like that, even if yer own neck is on the end of the rope?”
Brandt nodded. “It was the way I was raised.”
Sorcha stifled a snort. The way he was raised, her arse. He was an enterprising horse breeder who had taken advantage of a windfall. Now that Ronan was here, Brandt could take Lockie and go without a backward glance. Technically, she was safe. And safely married. An annulment could come later. The tug of disappointment took her by surprise.
“Strange ways for the English.” Ronan’s tone was disparaging. “They care naught for anyone. No’ even their own.”
“I’m not English.”
Ronan grinned and cuffed him on the shoulder. “Ye sound like one.”
Sorcha could feel Brandt relax at her side and knew the worst had passed. Something had changed between the two men—an acceptance, an understanding, perhaps. The tension disappeared like a receding wave. Ronan hadn’t given any signal, but suddenly the men in the yard were unpacking and preparing to settle down for the night, without any bloodshed.
“Who’s yer clan, then?” Ronan asked.
A muscle rippled along his jaw. “My Scottish mother abandoned me at birth, so your guess is as good as mine.”
Sorcha flinched at the stony, sharp-edged coldness of the words. It was clear he held his mother in little esteem, and rightly so. Any woman who would abandon her own baby suffered from a complete lack of moral decency.
“I’m sorry.”
His gaze pivoted to her. “You needn’t be. She means nothing to me.”
Though he sounded indifferent, Sorcha saw a spark of anger in his eyes before he turned away. Or was it pain?
It doesn’t matter anyhow, she reminded herself and was relieved when her brother signaled to one of the men who then brought in a sack containing bread, cheese, and a whole roasted chicken. Sorcha’s stomach rumbled. The last time she’d eaten a full meal had been supper the night before, and only an apple earlier that morning. They used a standing barrel in one corner and divided the food between them.
“The marquess will no’ be far behind,” Ronan said, after chewing and taking a long draught from a flask. He offered it to Brandt who took a deep swallow. “We were riding to meet Finlay and Evan on their way back to Maclaren when we intercepted one of their men, traveling fast with a message for Dunrannoch. We shifted direction to find ye. Malvern is rabid with bloodlust, Pierce. He willnae stop until ye’re dead and he’s taken the lass to wife.”
Brandt handed the flask to Sorcha next, and she felt a hollow thrill at the fact that her lips had touched the exact spot his had. Brandt’s eyes met hers as if he could see right through her, and Sorcha choked on the mouthful of wine. She gulped, coughing until her eyes burned, as Ronan pounded her helpfully on the back. She didn’t know which was worse—expiring of mortification by a lungful of wine or the pressure of her brother’s fist.
“Why are ye heading up this way?” Ronan asked. “Ye should go back to England.”
“We are going north to the Brodie,” Sorcha said. “The keep is deep in the mountains. Malvern wouldn’t dare attack there.”
“’Tis a smart plan,” Ronan said. “I will hold him off for as long as I can to buy ye enough time. Makenna and the Brodie will protect the both of ye.”
Sorcha didn’t see the need to add that Brandt’s plan had been to leave her there all along. Whether he left now or later made little difference. They were clearly unsuited. He belonged in England. She belonged in Scotland. He would never survive in the Highlands. She could never survive out of it. He wanted a quiet life with his horses. She had never been a quiet lass in her life. He did not want a wife. She did not want a husband.
Liar, a voice said.
She shook her head. Brandt had never been hers to begin with. Yes, he was clever and capable, he’d stood up to Malvern and Ronan, and his kisses were, in a word, sublime. But what she wanted and what she was able to offer in return were two different things.
Brandt’s next question made her forget all about her inner debate. “Would you have let her marry Malvern?”
To her shock, Ronan shook his head. “Nae. I would have found a way.” He smiled wryly. “’Tis truth I’d planned to fake her death and send her off to the Brodie in secret. It was near arranged already, but Malvern’s arrival in Selkirk took me by surprise. Though it seems my brothers stumbled upon a solution of their own—with yer help, of course.”
“What?” Sorcha fairly screeched as blood rushed to her ears. “Ye let me ken all this time that I would go to that slithering bastard?”
Ronan’s voice was gentler than she’d ever heard it. “I would no’ have let anyone hurt ye. Finlay or Evan wouldnae either. But I didnae want to give ye false hope until ’twas sorted.”
Sorcha threw herself into her brother’s arms, feeling them wrap
around her to hold her close. She was not a crier, but several fat tears rolled down her cheek.
“’Twill be best if ye left at dawn,” Ronan said gruffly when she managed to compose herself. “The rain washed away most of yer tracks, but that doesnae mean Malvern’s men won’t be able to track ye.” He stood and patted her head, his large frame dominating the small room. His blue eyes swept from her to Brandt. “If any harm comes to her, I’ll no’ hesitate to tear ye limb from limb.”
“You won’t have to,” Brandt said. “I won’t be going north. She’ll be safer with you.”
Sorcha froze, her lungs tightening painfully. Here it was…the moment he would take his leave. A frown drew Ronan’s brows together. “With me?”
“You have warriors aplenty to get her north to your sister.”
“And where will ye go, Sassenach?” Ronan’s tone had cooled.
“Back to England.”
“But ye married her.”
Brandt tented a slow eyebrow. “I offered her the use of my name to avoid marriage to Malvern, nothing more. She’s welcome to it for as long as she needs, as I do not intend to marry again.”
Gulping a breath, Sorcha met her brother’s questing gaze. “’Tis all right, Ronan,” she said. “What he says is true. The marriage was an agreement to protect me from Malvern.” She hesitated to reveal all but did so anyway. “He wanted Lockie in exchange.”
“Lockie?” Ronan asked incredulously, his face darkening as he glowered at the man he’d just broken bread with. “Ye took my sister’s virtue for a damned horse?”
Disaster was about to strike if she didn’t do something. “Ronan, please understand. I kissed him in the square. I was the one who dragged him into this. If someone should be blamed, ’tis me. He gave me his name, and the marriage had to be incontestable.” She placed her hand placatingly on his arm. Ronan’s eyes were still spitting fury and brimstone, but he was listening. “You said yourself you wanted a way out for me. Brandt—Mr. Pierce—offered it. Lockie is a small price to pay for my freedom. It was my choice, Ronan. Mine.”
Ronan exhaled without looking at Brandt, who also stood rigid a foot away. He looked like he wanted to smash something with his big hands. Probably Brandt. Though she’d seen him fight, too, and he wasn’t exactly a milksop. Sorcha held her breath, waiting.
“Fine. We leave at dawn for Brodie.” Ronan stood and left the hut without another word.
She didn’t dare look up at Brandt, though she felt the weight of his gaze. “I need some air,” she said after a few scattered heartbeats and rushed from the shack.
Once she was alone and past her brother’s soldiers, Sorcha slumped against a tree in a small clearing. She wasn’t surprised that it had come to this. Brandt had been a means to an end, and now that Ronan was here, Brandt’s part was over. He would leave for good. Glancing down, she twisted off the ring on her finger with its faded crest. She wanted to hurl it away, but instead she clutched it to her chest, cursing fate and the future she could never have.
Chapter Seven
The sky was a bruised purple when Brandt finally gave up his night’s watch. Not against Malvern’s men, but on the off chance Sorcha’s brother would come into the derelict cottage seeking revenge for his sister’s honor. Brandt had spent the hours reclined on the floor, his back against the crumbling wall of horsehair plaster and stone, his eyes fixed on Sorcha’s sleeping figure.
She’d curled up before the hearth, his cloak thrown over her like a blanket, one arm propped under her head acting as a pillow. Every now and again, his eyelids would droop. The dreams that set in first, the kind that always felt more like hallucinations before deeper sleep could claim him, had shown a young, faceless boy with his arm on a chopping block, Malvern’s twisted face maniacally laughing above him. He’d heard Sorcha’s screams and seen her fighting off an attacker, one that transformed into the face of a massive, snarling wolf.
Brandt had forced himself awake countless times, getting up to stretch his legs, stoke the fire, and sober his exhausted mind. Soon he would be back in Essex where he belonged, and all the madness of the last two days would be in the past. Well and truly in the past, if he had his say.
He had overheard Duncan explaining to the men that Finlay and Evan had set a false trail south, toward Maclaren, hoping to draw Malvern and his men in that direction. The ploy would not last for long, though, and Ronan had instructed his men to rise at first light in order to move north. The men had nodded, and their wordless, unflinching loyalty to their future laird had been yet one more thing about Sorcha’s eldest brother that Brandt had admired. In other circumstances, Ronan was a man Brandt could have easily called friend.
He was nothing like Finlay or Evan, who not only wore their pride, but flaunted it like a pair of peacocks. Ronan had the muted dignity his brothers lacked. Though Brandt knew that was a factor of age—the two men were barely one or two years older than Sorcha, whom he would put at no more than twenty. Whereas Ronan was a seasoned man. He knew his power and led with confidence, not bluster or emotion.
It also helped that Ronan had admitted to his plan to fake Sorcha’s death in order to save her from marrying Malvern. As Brandt stood up and felt the blood begin to course back into his legs, he thought of how unfortunate it had been for Ronan to keep his plan a secret from Sorcha. Had she known to what lengths her brother would go in order to protect her, she would not have been tempted to take matters into her own hands as she’d done at the common lands festival.
He would not have kissed her.
He would not have struck a deal to marry her.
Malvern would not be on the rampage now for Brandt’s blood and the wife from whom he’d been cheated.
In short, Ronan’s plan had been shot to hell. It wasn’t any one person’s fault, but a collection of errors. They mattered little now, though. Brandt crouched before the hearth and glanced at Sorcha. Her pink lips were parted enough to emit her soft, rhythmic breathing. Her lashes, like the black wings of a raven, touched down on ivory cheeks, flushed from the fire he’d kept going all night. He took the opportunity to view her scars up close. The three stripes weren’t thick or raised. Her brow and cheek had been neatly scored by the she-wolf’s paw. It could have been far worse—the animal could have taken her eye or gouged out chunks of flesh.
“So fierce,” he murmured. “Such singular beauty.”
And Sorcha was beautiful, scars and all. Without them, she would not be her. They were part of her, like her tart humor and her brazen courage. She reminded him of a wild creature in a jungle somewhere…all sleek limbs and savage beauty. He could truly get close only when she was sleeping. Despite the doused flames in the hearth, Brandt’s body grew warm as he stayed, crouched beside his wife. Without the shadows of worry in her eyes and the mask of fearlessness she wore during the day, she appeared so innocent.
Because she is.
He hadn’t taken that from her, even though her brothers—and Malvern—believed the contrary. Even though the touch of her body, pressed against the length of his the afternoon before had woken him to just how warm and pleasurable she would be. More than pleasurable. She’d make love as she fought—with lust and passion.
Brandt expelled a ragged breath, allowing himself the dangerous thought. Because soon it would be good-bye. He would never see her again after today. A coil of her hair hung low, nearly covering her brow, and he gently pushed the strands back. She slept on, undisturbed by his touch. Good. She’d be rested for the day’s hard ride north.
He brushed his fingers over her forehead again, then drew the tip of his index finger down her silken cheek and along her jaw. She’d yet to part her lashes when he followed the urge to drag the pad of his thumb over the plump curve of her lower lip. Her breath gusted over his skin. Brandt recalled the taste of her lips at the common lands festival and the brazen response of her tongue, as if she had been pulling him into her, wanting to possess him.
Or, he thought with an unwelcome dose of rea
lity, as if wanting to trap him.
And she had. Though, in all honesty, he hadn’t yet stopped to think about where he would have been right then had she not kissed him. Well on his way to Essex, he supposed. But thinking about anything other than claiming his due and departing would be unwise, especially if his mind kept circling back to his wife’s exceptional lips or her long-limbed figure.
He jerked his hand back and stood quickly. He needed air. Cold air. And a place to empty his full bladder and restrain ravenous parts of his body that kept forming other ideas. Dawn was still a half hour or more away when he went outside, closing the door to the cottage quietly behind him.
Why he felt a prick of conscience as he walked farther from the cottage, into the deep blue remnants of night, he didn’t wish to think about. Sorcha had agreed to his terms. She didn’t expect him to stay, and he’d never promised any such thing.
As he relieved himself far from the cottage, he focused on what needed to be done before he took his leave. He’d need to refill his waterskins and find something to eat before beginning the long journey back with Ares and Lockie.
Brandt had just buttoned the fall of his trousers and turned to retrace his steps to the cottage when a boulder slammed into him. He landed, hard, on the grass, his brain catching up from the shock to relate that it wasn’t a boulder at all. It was a man, and as a fist buried in Brandt’s stomach, his instincts took over. It didn’t matter that it was still dark. He intercepted his attacker’s next fist and, swiftly calculating his height, jabbed out with his own. He heard the crunch of bone, and when Brandt ducked, anticipating his attacker’s revenge jab, he angled his next blow for the kidney.
He heard the man grunt in pain, but the brute didn’t go down—not until Brandt kicked his kneecaps. In the darkness, he could not discern the size of his attacker, though he was marginally faster, and as thoughts of who it could be—one of Malvern’s men?—surged through his brain, he absorbed another fist to the chin and doled out two rapid jabs to the throat and temple.
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