My Scot, My Surrender

by Amalie Howard

  “Pierce,” Rodric said as the first tide of serving maids entered the hall with large trenchers in their hands. The appearance of food distracted the Montgomery men, but not Sorcha. She cut her eyes to the duke. At last, perhaps his game would be made clear. “Ye’ve come all the way from England to pay respects to yer dead father’s kin.”

  Brandt was still as stone in his chair when he answered, his voice tightly leashed, “Yes.”

  “’Tis a long way for such sentiment. His name?” Rodric asked.

  Brandt seemed to pause, considering his reply and how much of the truth he should impart. “Montgomery Pierce,” he answered, adding, “he worked in the stables.”

  Lady Glenross’s glass lifted to her lips, but Sorcha was intent on the duke.

  “I cannae recall him,” Rodric said quickly, not having taken enough time to truly try to remember. He just as swiftly directed his attention to his left and met Sorcha’s stare. “Though I do recall the name of the man ye were betrothed to, Lady Pierce. The Marquess of Malvern. The verra Englishman yer traitor uncle lost his lands to.”

  Though she had not set eyes upon him since Selkirk, the mere sound of Malvern’s name was enough to sour and turn her stomach. “Yes. It was the marquess.”

  “And he released ye from the betrothal so ye could marry this Sassenach?”

  A platter of roasted venison was set on the table before her, and she felt even more ill. “No,” she answered. “We eloped.”

  The lie was like a mouthful of salt. So focused was she on not meeting Brandt’s eyes that she did not realize that the duke was staring at her with his mouth set in a white line until she became aware of the eerie silence descending upon the table.

  “Ye eloped? Ye’ve broken yer betrothal contract, ye foolish chit,” he said in a low, yet strangely pleasant, voice. It made Sorcha’s skin crawl, and every hair rose on the back of her neck. She’d always trusted her instincts, and right now they were signaling danger.

  The Duke of Glenross was not an ally.

  “If ’tis asylum from Malvern ye seek here, then I cannae help ye. It is ye who have wronged.” His pale eyes flicked to Brandt as he went on in the same conversational tone. “Have ye no honor, ye coxcomb? She was given to another. A contract was signed. She was her father’s property to do with as he wished, and ’twas his wish for her to marry the Marquess of Malvern, ye ken.”

  Sorcha felt her temper rise and fought to control it, but something inside of her snapped. Perhaps it was the combination of the subdued hall, the insult to Brandt, or the stricken look on Lady Glenross’s face, but she couldn’t curb the words that leaped to her tongue. “I am not property,” she hissed, drawing the consternated eye of every man in the room. “Promised or not, would you marry your own daughter to a man such as Malvern? A man whose cruelty and greed touches every corner of Scotland?”

  Waving his arm for chatter to resume, Rodric arched an eyebrow, impaling her with his reptilian stare. “Aye. Aisla will do her duty, even if ’twere my wish for her to wed a dog.”

  Sorcha saw the young woman stiffen beside her, but Aisla did not utter a word. Clearly, the man was a despot. “And if that dog bit and mauled her?”

  The duke smiled. “’Tis a husband’s right.”

  A man such as Rodric would not hesitate to put his hands on his wife if she disobeyed him. And even now, Lady Glenross remained silent, her gaze upon her plate. If Sorcha’s father dared speak to her mother like that, said dishes would be flying. She felt sick to her stomach.

  “Then any daughter of yours has my deepest condolences,” Sorcha muttered, uncaring of what her words might provoke. And also your wife, she added with a look to the lady who had taken on the hue of a ghostly wraith.

  “Why? Malvern is a marquess,” Rodric said, his lip curling. “A powerful, wealthy English lord. Ye have betrayed yer family and forgone yer duty for what? A quick tumble in the woods? Perhaps that encounter with the wolf did more to ye than disfigure yer face.”

  “Rodric!” Lady Glenross gasped.

  Once more, his words made the hall go quiet, his vile insinuation echoing in the silence…that she was little more than an animal herself. Flushing with shame, Sorcha opened her mouth, but Brandt shoved his chair back slowly and pushed to his feet.

  “Do not insult my wife,” he snapped through clenched teeth as the duke’s sons both stood, ready and bristling. “I married her because I wanted her. If you wish to take offense with someone, do so with me. We have sought sanctuary here, but perhaps it’s best if we leave.”

  The duke smiled and speared a piece of meat with the tip of his knife. “Rest easy, Mr. Pierce. Apologies to you and your lady if any insult was felt.” The insincerity in his voice was clear, as was the fact that he hadn’t truly apologized. “There are untold dangers roaming the fells at night. Be assured Montgomery is welcome to ye for as long as ye require.”

  Though Sorcha had the forbidding feeling they would be better off out there than in here, they had no choice. The journey to Brodie, in the remotest part of the Highlands, could not be made upon a lame horse. Brandt would not leave Ares behind, nor would she ask him to do so.

  Two days, she thought. Three at the most. Perhaps by then, Brandt would be able to find the answers he sought and Ares would have had enough time to heal. She would just have to stay out of Rodric’s way before she did something stupid and truly unforgivable, like sink her dirk into his blasted eye.

  “’Tis all right, Brandt,” she whispered, and then lifted her voice and her chin. “No insult taken, Your Grace, but you can be sure my father, the duke, will be pleased to learn of your kindness.”

  Rodric’s pale eyes narrowed at the veiled threat, but Sorcha did not cower. She stared right back at him. Maclaren was a powerful clan, and he knew it. Insulting her father with his wide-reaching influence would not be wise, no matter how protected Montgomery lands were. She only hoped she hadn’t lost her father’s support. No use making threats that wouldn’t come to fruition if Dunrannoch had disowned her.

  Lady Glenross cleared her throat, breaking the silence and the tension, and lifted her goblet. “To new friends,” she said.

  Everyone, with the exception of the laird, lifted their glasses and echoed her toast. And as Sorcha sipped her wine, she couldn’t help noticing Rodric and Brandt engaged in a silent battle of wills, the resemblance between them more marked than it had been earlier. Her skin grew chilled, as if touched by the spirit of whatever it was haunted these halls.

  She suppressed a shiver. She recognized the expression on Rodric’s face, having seen a similar one on Malvern. It was full of calculated malice. She realized then that Rodric had never inquired about the identity of Brandt’s mother.

  Sorcha was willing to bet anything it was because Rodric already knew exactly who she was.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Once the Duke of Glenross had finished his ducal posturing, the dinner conversation took on a lighter, more jovial, tone. As much as one could be jovial in such a suffocating atmosphere. Brandt was glad for it because he was two breaths short of tossing the duke on his privileged arse in front of all his men in his own keep, and teaching him a much-needed lesson.

  He’d known men like Rodric before…men who believed women were meant to be seen, not heard. That they were little more than possessions. Men like him wielded their power—and cruelty—with equal ferocity. It was clear in the way he’d tried and failed to intimidate Brandt. In that respect, Rodric was very much like Malvern. It made him regret that he’d brought Sorcha here.

  He spared her a glance. She was deep in conversation with Aisla, and the worry that had been written all over her before had disappeared. He had not told her how beautiful she looked in blue—the light color made her creamy skin luminous and her eyes glow like sapphires.

  Brandt had been proud of how well she’d stood up to Rodric’s interrogation, but he hadn’t been about to let the man insult her. It was only by a slim thread that he’d been able to stop hims
elf from calling the duke out. Not that he doubted his own skill at twenty paces, but he’d made a promise to Sorcha to see her through to Brodie, and he couldn’t do that if he were wounded or dead.

  Still, Brandt wondered if anyone would miss the duke if he met an untimely end. His sons, perhaps. His wife and daughter, not as much, he’d wager. Other than having the blond coloring of her middle son and daughter, he hadn’t taken much measure of Lady Glenross. Though she was tall, she seemed frail and delicate. Her features were fine-boned, much like her daughter’s, and she had long elegant hands. Shadows slunk beneath her eyes, and like the rest of the women in the keep, she seemed beaten down. Brandt wondered if she would be amenable to questions about her sisters-in-law, their whereabouts, or any secret bastard children born out of wedlock.

  Brandt’s gaze tumbled to where Lady Glenross was moving the food around her plate. Other than her earlier toast, she hadn’t spoken once. Neither had she looked up. The duchess’s reaction upon seeing him had been expected, especially after he’d seen the portrait of the late duke in the gallery, though the depth of her surprise had been puzzling. The previous Duke of Glenross had been dead over a score of years. Brandt wondered at loving someone so deeply that no matter how long they had been gone, they never truly left you. His gaze flicked back to Sorcha, and he felt an unfamiliar sensation compress his lungs. He couldn’t imagine ever forgetting her, not in a week, not in twenty years. Not in a lifetime.

  Brandt gave his head a hard shake. He would have to.

  He sighed and speared another mouthful of poached fish. The food, to his surprise, was delicious and flavorful. The roasted fish was seasoned with herbs and cooked in a buttery wine sauce that hinted of French origins. The duke clearly did not spare the expense to employ a superb cook, which Brandt knew was uncommon for the Highlands. It was another thing about the man that rankled. He was a duke, and chieftain of Montgomery, but he acted like a king. A pampered, spoiled king.

  Callan, the younger of the two brothers, cleared his throat, drawing Brandt out of his thoughts. “Whereabouts do ye hail from in England?”

  “Essex,” he replied, with a longer look at the lad sitting beside him. He seemed to be about twenty and wore a less constipated look than his elder brother.

  “Have ye been to London?”

  Brandt nodded. “Many times.”

  “White’s?” Callan’s brown eyes had grown more animated.

  Brandt understood the allure. White’s was the most famous gentleman’s club in London. He’d, of course, been to it only with the Duke of Bradburne. But to any young man, White’s was the exclusive, crowning glory of a gentleman’s social life in London.

  Before he could reply, the duke’s voice interrupted. “White’s is a members-only establishment, ye ken,” he scoffed. “How would the pauper son of a stable master ever set foot in such a place?”

  Brandt tented a slow eyebrow. “Perhaps by not being as poor as you’ve assumed.” He turned his attention to Callan. “And yes, I can assure you I’ve been to White’s.”

  “How is that possible?” Callan asked with a nervous glance to his father. “If ye’re no’ a lord, ye ken?”

  “The Duke of Bradburne is like a brother to me.”

  Brandt was not a title-thrower, but he hoped his double entendre was clear. If anything should happen to him—or his wife—no stone would be left unturned, not even in Scotland. Though Malvern was indeed a powerful marquess, Bradburne’s sphere of influence was unrivaled. There weren’t many men in England or the Continent who had not heard of Lord Archer Croft.

  “Bradburne, aye?” the duke remarked.

  Brandt smiled. “Indeed.”

  After a while, Rodric stood and moved to confer with one of his men who begged a word, the big older warrior who had met them on the road on the way in to Montgomery. They shifted out of sight of the great hall. At the duke’s departure, Lady Glenross seemed interested in the conversation. In fact, for the first time since she had arrived, it seemed as if she could breathe. Yet again, Brandt frowned at the thrall Rodric Montgomery held over them all.

  “Ye said yer father was a Montgomery,” Patrick said.

  It was the first time the Glenross heir had spoken directly to him. Brandt nodded. “As far as I understood it, yes.”

  “My father doesnae recall such a man.”

  Brandt inclined his head. “Perhaps it was before his time as laird.”

  Lady Glenross’s head snapped up, though her eyes did not meet his. Patrick, too, seemed to notice his mother’s unusual response. She did not look at Brandt, but her low-pitched musical voice was clear. “What did ye say his name was?”

  Brandt noticed that Sorcha’s attention had become focused on him. “Montgomery Pierce.”

  “We had a Pherson Montgomery once,” she said softly. “A loyal lad who worked in the stables.”

  Brandt’s frown deepened. Monty had been all of eighteen when Brandt had been born and he’d fled Scotland. It was conceivable that his name could have been Pherson. It wasn’t that far from Pierce. Perhaps he had simply reversed the two for anonymity after he left the only home he’d known. Once more, Brandt felt a compelling need to determine the identity of his mother. For Monty’s sake.

  “I dunnae recall anyone of that name, either,” Patrick said.

  “Ye were no’ even a glimmer in my eye yet, dear heart,” Lady Glenross replied, smiling at her son. It was a smile that contained so much love that Brandt could feel its warm force like a wave cresting over him. She loved her children, that much was clear, even the stoic Patrick who seemed to be his father’s man in the flesh. “’Twas a long time ago. Long before any of ye were even born, when I was but a young lass.”

  To Brandt’s surprise, Patrick’s eyes softened and, reaching for his mother’s hand, he leaned over to place a kiss on her knuckles. “Ye never talk of yer childhood.”

  Lady Glenross stared affectionately at her son, her gaze falling to Callan and then to Aisla. “My life found renewed purpose and hope when ye were born. A wounded heart was restored.”

  Wounded from the death of her husband? The previous duke?

  The duchess looked up then, her dark gaze catching Brandt’s for the briefest of moments in the flickering light, and he was filled with the strangest feeling. He could see knowledge swirling in their glittering depths before she cast her gaze away. Lady Glenross knew more than she was letting on; he would stake his life upon it. He had to keep her talking before her husband came back.

  Sorcha seemed to have the same idea because she was the one to ask the next question. “Who was he? Pherson Montgomery?”

  A fond smile graced the duchess’s lips. “A stableboy with the bravest heart a boy could have. He was my dearest friend.”

  It was an odd answer. Cryptic at best. He didn’t understand why the laird’s wife would have remembered Monty as brave, if indeed his father had been this Pherson she spoke of. Or even how he would have won the friendship of the lady of the keep to begin with. Had he impregnated the laird’s sister? Had he been forced to leave Montgomery?

  “What happened to him?” Brandt asked. “He never told me why he left.”

  But before she could answer, the laird came stalking back to his seat at the table, and the duchess stared once more into her plate. Brandt swallowed a curse at the lost opportunity. The duke did not sit.

  Instead, Rodric hooked a hand toward Patrick. “Declan reports that there has been an incident at the mill. Come,” he commanded brusquely before turning to Brandt and Sorcha. “My apologies for my absence. I’m sure ye understand.”

  “What kind of incident?” Patrick asked, but was quelled by the glacial look in his father’s eyes. He rose and bowed. “I bid ye good night, mother. Mr. Pierce, Lady Pierce.” Patrick nodded to his sister and brother, and followed his father out of the hall.

  A dozen Montgomery men stood to fall in line with their laird, leaving the hall half empty. Callan called for more ale. Brandt was surprised he hadn’t be
en allowed to accompany the laird, but perhaps it was the way things were done. The young man’s sour face indicated that it wasn’t the first time he’d been left behind.

  “You wish to go with them?” Brandt asked.

  “My father likes to keep us apart,” Callan said, after a long draught on his mug. “Patrick is being groomed for the role of laird, and I am but a nuisance.”

  “Ye’re not a nuisance,” Aisla said loyally.

  Callan grumbled but sent his sister a grateful glance. They were allies, then, Callan, Lady Glenross, and Aisla. Brandt could sense it in the easy way all three of them were acting together now that the laird, his heir, and half the men in the hall had gone, though he suspected Patrick cared deeply for his mother as well.

  Catriona sipped her wine, relaxed again. In her husband’s absence, it was as if another woman had taken her place…a vibrant hint of the woman she used to be. “I’ve no’ met the Marquess of Malvern, but I’ve heard of him. I cannae blame ye for marrying another man, Lady Pierce. But pray tell, how did ye and Mr. Pierce meet? In England?”

  She cast a curious look in Brandt’s direction, but the moment he met her eyes, she glanced away again, concentrating instead on Sorcha. His wife had gone pink cheeked, her lips pressed tightly. Rodric had shamed her enough for eloping. Should the duke learn the truth that she’d coerced a man into marriage in exchange for a horse, too, his disgust would only be renewed.

  “At the common lands festival in Selkirk,” Brandt answered for her. The hell if he’d let one more thing humiliate her. “I caught sight of her as she was competing in a sword fight against a much bigger, much stronger man.”

  Sorcha’s eyes widened, as if pleading with him to be quiet. He only smirked, his gaze trained on her. So much had passed between them since then…since that moment he’d first laid eyes on her, but Brandt would never forget the memory of her, ferocious and beautiful in equal measure. A virago in battle armor, flush with victory.