My Scot, My Surrender

by Amalie Howard

  She came through the trees and into a field and, moments later, spotted the spire of a monastery. Just like Mrs. Maxwell had said. Her chest throbbed, her ribs feeling constricted. It wasn’t the wound, but another ache. One of blessed relief shot through with deep-reaching desolation.

  God’s teeth, she felt as if she were being sundered in two.

  They were nearly upon the ancient stone monastery, and she did not want Brandt to see her transparent feelings when they stopped to dismount and he finally looked at her. Not one to miss a thing as they drew near, his eyes narrowed on her face and dipped to her ribs.

  “What is it? Are you well? Is it your wound?”

  She shook her head, her body humming at his nearness. “It’s fine and healing.”

  Sorcha steeled herself as Brandt continued to regard her with a doubtful look. She pushed a smile to her lips to reassure him, but it only made him frown. “You Scots like to insist you’re not in pain when you are.”

  “I am not in any pain.”

  Brandt went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “And while that is admirable for some, I know from experience that ignoring signs of pain can lead to greater injury.”

  She scowled. “I am not one of your animals, Brandt.”

  “You misunderstand,” he said mildly. “Monty broke his ankle when he fell from a horse. Instead of tending to the break, he ignored it. The break worsened, and he ended up walking with a limp for the rest of his life.”

  “It’s a cut, not a break.”

  His gaze swept her. “And yes, you are most certainly not an animal.”

  Something in his eyes and the faintly suggestive tenor of his words made her temperature spike. The knowledge that men at their basest were animals crept into her brain. Sweet Lord above, her entire body went molten at the prurient thought of their bodies entwined in the most primitive and bestial of mating rituals. Their gazes collided, and sensation upon sensation scoured every hot inch of her.

  “I am well,” she croaked. “I promise you.”

  Diah, the man had an unholy way of making her lose her wits. Last night, she’d barely been able to sleep for the way she’d longed for him to abandon his post guarding their camp and come ravish her where she lay on the mossy ground.

  And earlier that morning, when she’d woken to find her waterskin filled and a pile of beechnuts he’d gathered for her on the ground at her side, together with the remaining leftovers from Mrs. Maxwell’s basket, she’d sighed at the unexpected thoughtfulness. How many times had he put her own comfort and safety before his own?

  Her body and her mind were equally susceptible to the force that was Brandt Pierce.

  She would have to be especially careful with her heart.

  Banishing her thoughts, she dragged her eyes away from him and, instead, focused on the monastery itself. Paddocks surrounded the monastery’s collection of small stone buildings, enclosing sheep, pigs, and a few cows. The main structure, with its moss-covered, crumbling stone architecture, looked much like an abandoned monastery bordering Maclaren and Kincannon lands, where she often used to go as a child to pray to a very busy God to take her scars. He’d never answered her frantic pleas, and eventually, Sorcha had stopped asking.

  A quintet of matching curved archways dotted the stone on the lower levels, rising to a square upper story with a pointed stone-slate turret. This monastery seemed to be in good repair. Sorcha wondered blasphemously if the God who resided here was as deaf as the one near Maclaren. Though, in hindsight, she’d since come to terms with her scars, which was perhaps what He had intended all along. She’d give Him the benefit of the doubt.

  Chickens wandered helter-skelter, and as they cantered toward the main chapel, a man in plain brown robes carrying buckets of water upon a shoulder yoke stopped to greet them.

  “Madainn mhath,” he called, showing no fear at all at the two armed strangers riding up to his place of worship. But why should he, Sorcha reasoned. Being hunted by Malvern, with a savage such as Coxley on their heels, seemed to have colored her own perception. This was a man of the cloth, who believed in the inherent good of people. She had, too, once upon a time.

  Until the devil had showed his face at Maclaren.

  “Madainn mhath,” she replied in Gaelic, and then with a glance at Brandt, “good morning.”

  “Good day,” Brandt said as he reined in Ares beside Lockie. Sorcha kept her eyes on the Franciscan monk, who had stooped to remove the shoulder yoke. “I’m Brandt Pierce of Essex, England, and this is my wife, Lady Pierce of Maclaren. We’re journeying north, toward Brodie lands, but our provisions are low. Could we implore for your aid?”

  The monk brought his palms together before his chest, showing no surprise at Brandt’s clipped English. “We will aid any traveler in need of it. Please, come. Let us see to yer horses.”

  They thanked the monk and dismounted, Sorcha sliding from her saddle and landing on her feet with less steadiness than she usually would have. Despite her avowals to the contrary, her wound and the hours she’d spent in the saddle over the last handful of days had taken their toll. It was not her shameless thirst for her husband’s hands and mouth leaving her lightheaded. She wouldn’t let it be.

  The monk took her hand, bowing over it and pressing his lips lightly to her knuckles. “Lady Pierce of Maclaren. I am Abbot Lewis. Ye’re the daughter of Lord Dunrannoch?”

  She expelled a breath before nodding. What she’d told Brandt was indeed the truth. It didn’t matter how far they traveled in any direction in Scotland, her facial scars were all that were needed to announce who she was.

  “He will thank you for your kindness,” she replied. The abbot started to straighten, but paused. She saw his eyes were fastened to the ring she wore. The one Brandt had slipped onto her finger what seemed like ages ago.

  After a few beats of silence, the abbot stood and showed them into the monastery. The modest chapel at Maclaren keep had always soothed her, even though she had never paid much heed to the vicar when he would drone on and on. Instead, Sorcha would look at the stained glass windows and try to piece together the meaning in the depicted scenes of holy bloodshed, grace, and beauty. She would imagine stories for them all, only half listening to the sermons. But the chapel was a place of peace, she knew, and she felt it settle over her as she and Brandt were led through a series of cloisters.

  They entered a large room where the abbot directed them to a circular stone basin, water bubbling down from a small fountain in the center. A few other monks appeared and left folded lengths of toweling upon the stone rim. Sorcha and Brandt washed their hands and faces and necks in silence while the abbot directed the monks to prepare some food for their guests.

  “Come,” the abbot said after, “the refectory is this way. Ye must be hungry and weary, if ye have traveled from Maclaren lands.”

  They followed the abbot through another cloister and into a high-ceilinged dining room.

  “We travel from Selkirk,” Brandt said before taking a seat at a long table. The room was cold, and the bench lining the table, hard. But as Sorcha sat across from Brandt, she felt her legs throb with relief.

  “Selkirk?” The monk’s eyes widened. “’Tis more than three days’ ride from here, and two days more from Maclaren. Ye have been traveling some time, then?”

  “Yes,” Sorcha said. She was well aware of the distance, and how much ground they’d covered. She’d learned to ride a horse before she could walk, and Scottish horses were bred for their endurance and distance, but even she was bone weary from being saddle bound.

  “We’re being followed by a band of men belonging to the Marquess of Malvern,” Brandt said. The abbot’s calm expression pinched.

  “I see,” the abbot said, pouring cups of wine from a jug in the center of the table. His hand shook and, though it could have been from his age, she thought it more likely the palsy was due to knowledge of Malvern. “And yer destination is Brodie lands?”

  The emphasis he made on “Brodie” made
Sorcha pause before she could sip from her cup.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Is there any reason you know of why we should not travel there?”

  Had there been a conflict? If the Brodie had taken up arms against another clan, she and Brandt could be riding into hostile lands.

  The abbot poured himself a cup of wine before answering. “I only wonder why ye shouldnae travel to Montgomery lands instead. They are much closer.”

  Across the table, Sorcha saw Brandt’s eyes snap to the abbot. He swallowed his gulp of wine and slowly lowered the cup, his jaw tensing.

  “Montgomery?” he asked.

  The name had come up during her time with Brandt. His father, she remembered. Monty. Short for Montgomery. And Brandt’s middle name as well, she recalled from the register at the Selkirk village jail.

  “Aye,” the abbot replied, his hand gesturing toward Sorcha’s own, currently wrapped around the simple wooden mug. “Yer ring’s crest. ’Tis the Clan Montgomery’s coat of arms.”

  Sorcha looked to her ring and the faded colors of the crest. Brandt’s utter stillness was not lost on her, and when he finally spoke, his voice was hard as iron and flint. “Are you certain?”

  The abbot opened his palm in a silent plea for Sorcha’s hand, and when she slipped her fingers into his waiting palm, he nodded. “Aye, quite. I assumed ye wore it because of yer relation to the Montgomerys.”

  She turned her eyes to Brandt again, her hand still resting in the abbot’s grip.

  “It belonged to my mother,” he said, his eyes not on her or the ring, but some spot on the table. His mind was miles away, sinking into a past she knew haunted him.

  The abbot released Sorcha’s hand. “Then ye are a Montgomery,” he said, as if it were the simplest reckoning in the world. But by the untethered expression upon Brandt’s face, it was no such thing. From his earlier admissions, he had grown up with absolutely no knowledge of his mother or the circumstances of his birth. And now…with this abbot’s confident statement, he had learned.

  Brandt’s gaze again shot to the abbot, the distance his mind had traveled having closed within seconds. “Where are Montgomery lands?” he asked, biting off each word as if it were poison in his mouth.

  The abbot blinked, surprised at the leashed violence of the question. Sorcha felt the chill of it and understood the place of pain from whence it had come. Her heart ached for Brandt, but she knew he would not welcome her concern. Or her pity.

  She had come to know his private thoughts only by chance because of goading him, not because he had trusted her enough to confide in her. He would not appreciate any outreach. Instead, Sorcha schooled her features into a blank mask.

  “West,” the monk answered. “Perhaps one or two day’s ride, depending on yer haste.”

  Her sister and brother-in-law were to the north, many more days than that. And Coxley would not be far behind. Sorcha had heard of the Montgomerys, one of the oldest Scottish clans, though the Maclarens did not have many dealings with them. They were not one of her clan’s enemies, but what she did not know was whether they were friend or foe to Malvern. The man had his fingers embedded in every part of Scotland. She thought back to the men who had attacked Ronan…their plaids had been varied. Mostly Lowlanders, but a few Highlanders, too. Trust was a luxury that neither of them could afford, at least until they got to Brodie.

  “We are going to the Brodie,” she hissed to Brandt through clenched teeth. He considered her for a moment. That was all. The blasted man. What was going through his mind?

  “We will take the closest sanctuary from Malvern we can find,” he replied. “And that is Montgomery.”

  “And are you so certain they will offer it?” she asked softly, even as her thumb touched the underside of the gold band on her finger. Even if he presented the ring and said it had been his mother’s, there would be no proof he was telling the truth. The ring could have been got in any number of ways—sold, pawned, stolen. Scottish heirlooms and antiques were traded and sold like common goods to keep families fed, thanks to the Clearances. But if it was indeed his mother’s and he was a Montgomery, then the woman who’d birthed him and hadn’t wanted him could deny him now, as well.

  He already harbored enough hurt. Sorcha didn’t want to see him rejected again.

  Brandt didn’t answer her question before a few more monks entered the refectory with plates of food for them.

  “Eat yer fill,” the abbot said, “and then we will show ye to yer room.”

  Brandt shook his head tightly. “It isn’t safe. Your monastery is unprotected.”

  “We are protected by the Lord’s light and love.”

  “I prefer stone walls, a moat, and plenty of steel,” Brandt replied. “Besides, I don’t want to put your monks here in danger. We’ll rest for a while, but will ride before sunset and make camp again.”

  Sorcha was secretly grateful Brandt did not want to stay. When the abbot had mentioned a room, she had thought of the small one at the inn where they had shared their wedding night. Too much had happened between them since then, and sharing the intimacy and luxury of a real bed would have been untenable.

  The abbot bowed. “Then I insist ye take what ye need from our kitchen and cellarium. Whatever supplies ye require are yers to sustain ye.”

  It was a generous offer, but as Brandt thanked him, Sorcha imagined the abbot would have parted with a week’s worth of provisions if only to avoid a skirmish at his monastery involving Malvern’s men. She had not missed his look of relief when Brandt had said they would be leaving. She clenched her jaw. Malvern was a monster who needed to be stopped. His reputation for brutality via Coxley’s hands ran far and wide. It was no surprise that the monks here feared his name. Sorcha had no idea why the king would condone Malvern’s actions, but perhaps he simply did not know his man was committing such atrocities in his name.

  They finished eating their simple meal of venison, turnips, and bread, made all the more palatable by the ewers of wine brought to replenish their cups. Brandt spoke little, his mind no doubt tumbling over the revelation the abbot had laid down before him. She longed to ask him what he was thinking. Longed to touch his cheek and force him to look her in the eye. But the abbot’s presence didn’t allow it. Nor did her own sense of self-preservation. It was both a blessing and a curse, for if she touched him as she wanted to do, the desire to touch him more would catch fire inside of her.

  It would not surprise her if he was a Montgomery. Though he spoke and dressed like an Englishman, he had the heart and courage of a Highlander. But in truth, it would not have mattered if he were a blue-blooded, English-bred Sassenach…she would have come to respect him anyway.

  But Sorcha also understood that what she felt could be exaggerated because of their circumstances. After all, people thrown together in impossible situations came to depend on one another out of necessity. Brandt had said as much, too.

  This is not what you’re imagining it to be.

  Perhaps he was right. She was confusing fondness for respect. Or her physical desires for something more. And there was no denying her attraction—she’d begun to vibrate like a tuning fork whenever he was near. After the last few days, she couldn’t deny the way he made her feel…as if she could take on Malvern with him at her side.

  For a moment, Sorcha wondered if it were possible to keep one’s heart completely detached from the demands of one’s body. She could, she supposed, with effort, though it wasn’t just his kisses she craved…she delighted in his spare smiles and his sly repartee. His wit and intelligence. The mellow voice that resonated through her worries, calming her in an instant.

  Diah. A small sigh departed her lips. None of it mattered anyway. He was incapable of ever truly trusting anyone, and she had her own demons. Real ones that had carved their marks upon her flesh. Best to keep them covered—both her scars and her utterly unwelcome feelings.

  Chapter Twelve

  When they left the monastery, the afternoon sky had been crisp an
d clear, but by sunset they were riding into the odd pale light of a brewing storm. It was far too late to turn back and retrace their steps to the monastery. They would just have to endure the storm when it hit. If it hit. Weather in the Highlands was more capricious than he’d expected. Sunny one moment, and stormy the next.

  Much like how Brandt’s life had been the past few days.

  Brief breaks in the thunderous sky above showed a fiery setting sun, intermittently glazing the vibrant green grass with golden light before the slate clouds shut them out again. They rode west, toward the blocked sunset, squinting when the rays pierced through. Though even then, Brandt felt cold and empty, and yet also filled to the brim with restless energy.

  Odd, how he found he had nothing to say to Sorcha, who kept Lockie only a few paces in front of Ares. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He had plenty to say, including an admission that she had every right to be angry with him, considering he’d deviated from their plan. However, the looks she kept sending his way were not ones of anger, but of concern.

  Perhaps it was his silence that worried her. Ever since the abbot had spoken the name Montgomery, it had felt like one stone after another piling onto his chest. Until he felt grounded, but breathless. He couldn’t seem to open his mouth to utter one bloody word.

  His mother’s ring. His father’s name.

  It could not be a coincidence. Brandt’s mother was a Montgomery. He was a Montgomery.

  He had no idea what to expect as they rode westward, the feeble protection of the monastery sliding behind the hills and valleys in their wake, and uncertainty over whether they would find welcome and shelter with the Montgomerys weighing heavy. But Brandt could not have continued north, not only because Brodie lands were still days away, and there was the risk of Malvern having already predicted it was their destination. Nor because Sorcha’s wound needed more time to heal while she was inside stone walls that had warriors on guard instead of monks with wooden crosses. No, he could not have continued north because of the unassailable driving need to grasp the one vision his mind had clung to for nearly all of his life.