“Do they?” he said, jutting his hips forward slightly.
Her face flamed. “This is unseemly conversation, sir, even for me.”
“We are married, Sorcha. We have slept together, multiple times.” He eyed her, enjoying her embarrassment. “Surely, you’re not going to turn into a proper, prissy maiden on me now?”
She scowled. “I’ll have you know that I was brought up to be a lady.”
“Sheathe your claws, wife.” He chuckled and ducked inside to find his clothing. “’Twas only a bit of teasing. I wouldn’t change one wild hair on your head for all the well-behaved ladies in London.” Laughing, he ducked as her apple core came sailing at his head.
After a light meal of oats and grass for the horses and fruit for him, they mounted their steeds and headed west. The night’s rest had done them all a world of good, and their pace was swift. With any luck, even with the delay from the rain, they would make Montgomery lands by the next morning. Sorcha cantered ahead of him, her back straight, her long hair braided into a neat, thick plait. He grinned. Undoubtedly, his comment regarding her “wild” hair had inspired her to be contrary. He had never enjoyed goading a woman more…and provoking the wit and fire of her response.
Suddenly, something whizzed by Brandt’s cheek, tickling the tip of his ear. He glanced at Sorcha, expecting another apple core to come his way, but her back was to him. An arrow lodged itself into the dirt at Ares’s hooves. Blinking, he looked over his shoulder to see two men in pursuit. They were mounted on two horses and dressed in brown striped plaids. Highlanders, then. They couldn’t be Montgomery men—they wore the wrong colors for that. Who were they? Another arrow passed perilously close.
“Sorcha!” he yelled, drawing his sword.
But she had already turned, her own bow nocked. One of the men fell out of his saddle as her shot landed true. The second man released another arrow, and Brandt felt Ares rear up beneath him with a pained whinny. He jumped off the saddle, but there was no sign of an arrow in the horse’s hide. With a furious shout, he ran toward the man, lifting his sword high above his head and swinging into the man’s thigh as he rode past. His attacker toppled to the ground, clutching at his bleeding leg.
Brandt stuck the tip of his sword into the man’s grimy neck. “Who sent you?”
The Scot scowled, his eyes going mutinous.
“It will give me great pleasure to carve your worthless head from your body,” Brandt said softly. “Don’t make me ask again.”
The man paled as the point of the sword drew a drop of blood. “The Marquess of Malvern.”
“Malvern?” Sorcha gasped, dismounting. “How? We’ve been on the road for days. They couldn’t have followed us so quickly.”
“How?” Brandt prodded the man.
“There’s a bounty on yer head, dead fer ye, alive fer the lass.”
Brandt stared at Sorcha. “He must have put the word out the minute we left Selkirk. These men will do anything for coin. We must make haste.”
“What about him?” she asked.
Brandt felt loath to kill the man, even though he had most definitely intended to carry out Malvern’s orders and kill him. He looked to be more desperate than he appeared to be a killer, though. His plaid was ratty and threadbare.
“Remove whatever weapons you’re wearing,” he ordered. The man quickly threw down a blade from his waist and one from an ankle sheath. Brandt then reached into the pouch tied at his hip for a few coins and offered them to the man, with the hope that the obviously desperate Scot would take the money and abandon any notion to come after them again. His eyes widened at the sight of the gold. “Go with your life, and remember the kindness I showed you.”
The man took off, limping on foot, since both horses had disappeared.
“That was a generous thing you did,” Sorcha said. “Though foolish. If there’s a price on our heads, more will come. Scots like that one have likely lost their lands and homes, and Malvern’s gold will be an easy lure.”
“We’ve only half a day’s ride to Montgomery,” he said, but as he walked toward Ares, the horse shied away. His eyes rolled in his head and a pained sound emerged from his mouth. A streak of worry speared Brandt. He scanned the animal carefully, noticing the way Ares was favoring his foreleg.
“He’s been hurt,” he said, crouching to examine the leg with care. “There’s a shallow cut here. One of the arrows must have nicked him.” He sat back on his haunches and looked behind him to make sure the man was gone. They were in a field with little cover, exposed on all sides. “Damn it!”
“Can he walk?” Sorcha asked, also alert. “I spotted a thatch of trees a mile or so back near a stream. I could tend to it there.”
But Brandt did not want to go back, not knowing if the man had more friends. “Where did you see the stream?” She hooked a thumb to the east, and Brandt pointed to a thatch of trees to the northeast. “We go that way and hope to intersect it. I’ll walk him.”
Ares did not complain, but after a short stretch, it was obvious that the animal was in pain. “I’ll have to bandage it until I can clean it properly,” Sorcha said. “Or it will only get worse.”
Brandt kept watch with Sorcha’s bow at the ready as she tended to the animal. At first, Ares nickered and tried to take a bite out of her shoulder, but the horse calmed at a quiet, though firm, word from her. Sorcha dug in her pack for a few bottles and then proceeded to mix together a hodgepodge of ingredients—moss, lichens, and bark—to make a poultice for the injury. She worked quietly and quickly, and Brandt couldn’t help but be impressed at her knowledge.
“What is all that?” he asked as he traced a citrus-like scent.
“Lovage root and bog myrtle,” she said, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration. “I cannot use my mother’s salve until the wound has been washed. It heals so quickly that one speck of dirt can cause sepsis. These herbs will ward away the pain and help with the swelling.”
“Have you always been a healer?”
Brilliant blue eyes met his, startling him for a moment, before they flicked back to their task. “I’m not a healer. I’ve learned bits and pieces over the years, that’s all. My mother’s the true healer.”
She was being modest. The deft way she had tended to her own wound and the care that she was taking with Ares was remarkable. Brandt was surprised that the horse stood so quietly. Ares was a dependable animal, but his reaction to any type of laceration was to bite and kick. It was perhaps due to the weals he’d sustained as a colt. Horses had long memories.
“There,” Sorcha said, tying a linen strip. “That should hold until we get to the stream. I’ll ride ahead to make sure.”
He watched as she rode away, and followed gingerly with Ares, who seemed more confident with each halting step. Though Brandt worried for Sorcha’s safety, he knew she could defend herself. He didn’t like how it felt to watch her leave, as if a part of his own body was riding away upon Lockie. He scowled. Where had that thought come from? That wasn’t it. Her safety was his priority, that was all. And who knew if other bandits would be in hiding, waiting to ambush them?
It wasn’t long, though it felt like an eternity, until she came back over the rise, her expression triumphant. “It’s not far,” she said. “Just over this hill.”
The stream, more of a river now as it turned out, was enough for Sorcha to clean the wound and apply her mother’s salve. Once more, Ares stood patiently, even rubbing his nose into her face at one point. Jesus. The horse was in danger of turning into as much of a ninny as he was.
“We should let him rest,” she said, coming toward him. “Montgomery’s not far.”
“It’s dangerous out in the open.”
A level gaze met his. “Ares is your family. We’ll keep watch. By the morrow, he’ll be well enough to ride.”
Her quiet words shocked him into silence. She knew how much Ares meant to him. Not many did. Ares was a horse…but he was the closest thing to family that Brandt ha
d.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
Her slim hand found his, slipping around his palm and squeezing. “I’m sorry Ares is hurt, Brandt,” she whispered. “This is my fault. I’m so sorry.”
Overcome with emotion, he could only grip back. Brandt knew what she was sorry for, that she felt all of this was on her because of Malvern, but deep down, he felt like a fraud to accept her apology. He’d gone into it with his eyes wide open. It had started with wanting her horse, but over the last few tumultuous days, it had become so much more.
He wanted to help her.
And he also wanted to know who he was.
The problem was, he didn’t know if he could do both.
Chapter Thirteen
The night had been long and cold, though Sorcha was thankful that it had, at least, not been storming. She and Brandt had tucked themselves into a small copse of trees near the river and lit a small fire, the rush and gurgle of the water the only noise throughout the night.
She’d barely slept, fearing both another attack from ruthless bounty hunters and an infection settling into Ares’s injury. She’d washed the wound the first chance she’d had, applied her mother’s salve liberally, and then bandaged it up. None of it, though, was a promise against infection. They needed Ares. Brandt needed him, and not just to transport him from place to place.
Ares was Brandt’s companion. If something were to befall the horse, it would hurt him deeply. It would also be yet one more bad consequence of her scheming back in Selkirk. She didn’t want to think of how Brandt might blame her, so instead, she’d looked up at the stars most of the night, the sky clear enough to show off every last twinkling constellation. She’d traced Orion and Gemini with her eyes, the Plough, and the Seven Sisters. It had been some while before she realized Brandt was not sleeping, either. His breathing was too quiet, his limbs restless as they stirred under his plaid. He might not have been keeping watch outside their encampment, but he remained alert. Alert and a few arm’s lengths away from her own bedroll.
As dawn lit the fields, Sorcha had found her husband already at Ares’s side, inspecting the animal’s leg, the bandage off.
“It looks well,” she said. The wound had started to heal instead of fester.
“Because of you,” he replied, discarding the old strip of linen bandage into the meager flames of the fire. Sorcha tried not to flush at his praise, but her mind was relentless in the way it sought the pleasure such a thing brought.
She got to her feet and stretched, then went to her pack for the salve.
“Because he is a strong animal,” she rejoined before moving toward Ares and reapplying a new layer. Brandt then bandaged him again.
“He’ll be fine until we reach Montgomery,” he said with a gentle caress of his palm over his mount’s knee. “Once there, he can rest in more comfort until he recovers.”
Sorcha bit her lip against the instant reply springing to her tongue. What if the Montgomerys aren’t welcoming?
Saying as much would only cast a shadow over what was, so far, a fine, blue-sky Highland morning. The air was crisp, but with the sun and the rare lack of wind, it would soon warm. It might even get hot.
Self-consciously, she took stock of herself. They’d washed up at the monastery, but drenching rains and a night spent in a muck-filled field hut had made her feel as if she hadn’t bathed in days. Before leaving the monks, she and Brandt had been welcomed to fill their packs with supplies for both themselves and their horses. Among the piles of stores found in the cellarium, there had been a crate of charity clothing and fabric. She’d found a simple green dress with few marks and mendings, a threadbare but clean linen shift, and a shawl that had but one spot of well-done darning.
Showing up at the Montgomery keep in her current grime-covered clothing was out of the question. She would already have to withstand the stares and whispers about her face; she would not give them anything else to gossip about.
“I’m going down to the river,” she announced as she took the dress and shawl from her pack. As her hand reached, she saw how dirty it was. A small amount of her lavender soap remained in her saddlebags, and she palmed the jar now along with a square of linen.
Brandt gave her a small nod. “I’ll keep watch.”
Of course he would, she thought with a smile as she walked out of the trees, toward the wide, languid river. It wasn’t as loud as it had been the night before. Sunlight did that; it muted things. Sounds, sensations, fears. Though as she stopped at the river’s edge, placing her clothes and soap on a flat-topped rock jutting halfway into the clear water, she thought of how little it muted her longing for her husband. At night, yes, it was more pointed, but even now as she pictured him at the camp tending to their mounts and stomping out the fire, she longed for him. It was silly really, how thirty or so yards felt like miles upon miles.
Sorcha shook her head and undressed to her shift. The icy river water bit at her feet as she entered, but she knew the longer she took to get in, the worse the cold would be. So instead, she gripped her jar of soap and went straight into the shallows. The riverbed dropped into a pool, the rocks at her feet worn smooth, and the bracing cold sent a rash of gooseflesh all over her skin as she submerged nearly to her shoulders. Sorcha couldn’t stop the little yelp of surprise, then a jittery burst of laughter.
Quickly, she lathered her body with soap, scrubbing at the streaks of dirt on her arms and hands, scouring her neck and chest and legs, concentrating hard on the rims of her nails. She took a breath and dunked her head, the cold water stabbing her cheeks and nose. She pushed back to the surface, another bubble of laughter at the cold releasing.
Her hair! It was a mess of knots, and as she lathered it with soap, tried to untangle each one. But it would take far too long, and already she was starting to feel numb from the knees down, her jaw beginning to chatter. The sun would warm her quickly once she was out, and then she could sit on the rock and comb out the tangles. So she gave up, simply dunking her head once more to rinse before turning to go back to shore.
Sorcha stopped, a pulse of shock skittering through her at the sight of Brandt, standing on the flat-topped rock next to her pile of discarded clothes. He held a length of clean plaid, one side of his mouth bowed into a mischievous grin. Sorcha felt another shiver through her body, though this one was unrelated to the cold. Instead, a spike of pure heat shot through her, centering low in her abdomen.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked.
The grin intensified, encompassing his whole, beautifully formed lips. “Long enough to think you need to pay better attention to your surroundings.”
“I was distracted,” she said, the excuse and the cold making her voice high. “The water is freezing.”
Brandt’s eyes dropped to the twin slopes of her breasts beneath the wet shift just cresting the surface of the water, and Sorcha felt the graze of his stare to her shaking bones. The river water was clear, and she knew that despite the slight distortion the surface may provide, the outline of her body in her sodden garment was plain for him to see.
Though her nipples had tightened into hard, pebbled tips from the cold, her breasts still managed to suddenly feel heavy and full. And warm. This man. He was a flame, and she craved his heat. She wanted to throw herself in the very center of it and burn to willful destruction.
“I brought you this,” he said, holding up the length of plaid. “To dry off.”
He set it on the rock, by her clothes, and straightened to leave.
“Wait.” Sorcha’s feet moved over the smooth riverbed rocks, and her breasts cleared the surface of the water. She didn’t know what had made her do it, only that she hadn’t wanted him to turn and take his flame away from her. Or maybe because this was the last time they would truly be alone.
Brandt came to a halt, his smile fading as he took in the sight of her. Emboldened by the sudden smoldering press of his gaze, Sorcha took another step, the water sluicing down the clinging l
inen to her waist. She hesitated, her lips numb as well as her feet, and yet every inch of her somehow sparking with life. The drenched shift would leave precious little to the imagination, but it did cover her scars, and that made her bold.
That, and the blatant desire flaring in his eyes.
She stepped upward again on the angled riverbed and took a shivery breath. The rippling surface dropped drastically, to her hips, exposing the tops of her thighs to his view. Though she was chilled, a blush heated the underside of her skin. Brandt took a visibly sharp breath, his chest expanding as he gazed at her, drinking in every newly bared inch of her. Another step, and his stare hitched on her legs, a muscle beating in his cheek.
With a stab of shyness, she paused, torn between flinging herself back into the freezing depths of the river and making a mad dash for the plaid that lay on the rocks between them.
“Don’t stop now,” Brandt said in a low, husky voice.
Sorcha felt the familiar stirring of thrill she had every time someone challenged her. Only this time, there was something different about the thrill. It wasn’t about winning the challenge. It was about sharing it, reveling in it.
She kept toward the shore, unable to stop, knowing that she could not. She didn’t want to. Brandt’s expression revealed more than simple lust. He looked dazzled, utterly fixated, as water droplets coursed from her hem down her bare knees, then her calves, and finally all the way to her ankles. No man had ever looked at her the way he did…like she was the sun and the moon and everything in between. She wanted more of it. Brandt took up the plaid again, his eyes slamming back into hers as she stepped up onto the rock and let him wrap her shivering body in the length of fabric.
And then his mouth took hers, his lips searing hot against her tingling ones. He held her close, his arms folding her against his body, her bare feet treading on his toes. He didn’t need to coax her lips to part; she opened for him, seeking the warm thrust of his tongue. Needing it more than air. With swift, sweet licks he gave her what she wanted, one hand falling to her plaid-encased hip, and another raking up through her damp hair. His fingers caught on a tangle, and the pain only made Sorcha kiss him harder. She nipped his lower lip, and Brandt growled, fisting a handful of the quickly warming plaid at her hips.
My Scot, My Surrender Page 16
