She had not agreed with her husband’s decision to release Rodric. He was too dangerous of a man to be on the loose with an axe to grind. And he would no doubt run to Malvern, if indeed they were allies. But perhaps that was what Brandt hoped for—he wanted a chance to face him on the battlefield, should Rodric return.
“I cannae regret my choices. My son has returned, and I’ve been blessed with Patrick, Callan, and Aisla.”
Sorcha wanted to chase the sadness from her eyes. Marriage to a man like Rodric could not have been easy to bear. Montgomery had not only become Catriona’s prison, the duke had become her warden. She wanted to turn the duchess’s thoughts to happier times.
“What was Brandt’s father like? Is he much like him?”
“Robert?” Her eyes brightened, and Sorcha nodded. “I see a lot of Robert in him. I see his strength and his patience. I also see his dry sense of humor.”
“Dry would be a kind way to put it.” Sorcha laughed. “What about horses? Did the duke like those? Brandt seems to have a way with them that I’ve never seen before.”
The duchess’s smile overtook her entire face, making the eyes that were so like her son’s sparkle. “Och, that he gets from me. My father raised Scottish racehorses, and I learned to ride before I could walk. Everyone used to say that we had a mystical hand with them—the fairy’s touch. ’Twas my father, his father before him, me. And now Brandt. Callan has a bit of it as well, though he lacks the patience.”
Sorcha nodded. When people had special gifts in the Highlands, it was often said that they’d been blessed with them from the fey folk. Brandt did seem to have a magical touch with Ares, and Lockie as well.
Catriona’s eyes fell to the ring on Sorcha’s hand, her eyes misting. “Robert gave me that ring the day we wed. It fills my heart to see it on yer finger. He would have liked ye.” She put down the plaid in her lap and reached across for Sorcha’s hand. “Ye’re a good match for Bran. I ken it in the way he looks at ye”—she broke off with a knowing smile—“and the way ye look at him. ’Twas like that between Robert and me.”
Sorcha couldn’t help the usual stab of guilt. Though Brandt had made her his wife in every way and seemed to care for her, their beginning had not been based on trust. It weighed heavily on her. Yes, she was halfway to falling in love with Brandt, and he had found his family, but at what cost? Malvern was not a forgiving man, and these innocent people would all pay the price in blood. Because of her.
“Yer Grace,” Catriona began to say.
“Please, none of that. You must call me Sorcha.”
Brandt’s mother nodded, her fingers plucking at the plaid. “Yer clan…do they approve of my son? Or are they angry ye’ve broken the contract with Malvern?”
Sorcha ran a palm over the grass, the blades tickling her skin, as she considered how to answer. The truth was, she didn’t know how most of them had reacted. Finlay and Evan had been furious at first, as had Ronan. But her eldest brother had almost seemed to warm to the idea of Brandt as a brother-in-law. After all, following the attack on their camp, Ronan had placed his trust in him to take her to safety. That had to count for something…if he were still alive.
“Sorcha? What is it?” Catriona asked.
“My brother, Ronan, and his men held off Malvern’s attackers, giving Brandt and me a chance to escape.” She paused, remembering the last image she had of her brother, fighting Coxley. Only one of them would have walked away, and Sorcha’s pulse skipped and throbbed with dread not knowing who it had been.
“So they do support ye?” Catriona presumed.
She nodded. They had, albeit reluctantly. Once her father and the rest of the Maclaren people learned her husband was the rightful Montgomery laird and the new Duke of Glenross, their anger at her impetuous marriage might be somewhat appeased. It all depended on how successful Malvern would be in his retaliation. But she knew no matter what, she was a Maclaren, and Maclarens never abandoned one another. It was their family code of honor, and it was the sole reason she’d done what she did—she’d learned early on that it was easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.
“I only wish we had enough time to send for them,” Brandt’s mother sighed. “The Maclarens are famous for their warriors.”
They would have rushed to the Montgomerys’ aid without hesitation. But then, Lord knew what had happened to them over the last handful of weeks. What if Malvern had already taken his anger out on them? Sorcha closed her eyes against the flashing memory of Niall, his arm pinned to the slab of stone Coxley had used as a chopping block.
The sensation of delicate fingers touching down on Sorcha’s head and sweeping through the tresses at her temple opened her eyes. Catriona looked at her with tenderness. “I shouldnae have worried ye. Our men are strong, as well, and they’ll defend ye with their lives.”
“I don’t want any man giving up his life for me, or for the choices I made,” she blurted out.
“Ye weren’t alone when ye married Bran, were ye? He stood up beside ye and said his vows. Ye made yer choices together, and as his family, we’ll stand by ye as well.”
For the price of a horse for stud, Sorcha wanted to reply.
Their marriage had started on all-too-shaky ground, and recent developments, though pleasant, did not erase that. Nor did it eclipse how she had come to marry Catriona’s son in the first place. She’d employed the scheming tactic used by many an English lady seeking to catch a fortune or a title, only the prize had been freedom.
What had been meant as soothing reassurance only crushed Sorcha’s heart more. If Catriona knew the truth, every last drop of compassion she now saw in the woman’s eyes would evaporate. She would instead see the same cold hardness that gripped her chest and stomach whenever Sorcha thought upon her own deceit.
She stood, suddenly longing for another skirmish with Fergus. Or better yet, someone with more skill. Someone who could knock her down a peg or two.
Catriona caught her hand before she could move away, though, her eyes drawn into a frown, as if she had somehow heard a piece of Sorcha’s thoughts.
“We all have our demons, and heaven kens ’tis easier to fight the ones on the outside than the ones that live within us.” She released Sorcha’s hand, leaving it at that. She couldn’t manage more than a small grin at Brandt’s mother before taking up her sword and turning to go back into the broiling heat of the sun.
She did have her demons; she’d brought them to life when she’d made the split-second choice to trap a stranger into ruining her reputation and then suffering through a forced marriage. Had that choice been a mistake, though? Brandt had brought her more pleasure than she’d ever considered possible. He’d made her feel whole for the first time in years. Sorcha expelled a harsh breath. She wasn’t halfway to falling in love with Brandt…she was already hopelessly, irretrievably in love with him.
One thing was certain—they would weather the coming storm together. What was not certain was whether either of them would survive it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He’d made a mistake in letting Rodric go.
Sparing his life had marked Brandt as a merciful laird, and after having lived under the rule of one as stringent and cruel as Rodric, the clansmen and women had seemed awestruck by such action. What Brandt didn’t yet know was whether or not they also thought him a fool for it.
Brandt had spent the last two days and nights with the writhing suspicion that the ousted laird would return one day, a force of warriors at his back, and attempt to reclaim his seat as laird and duke by laying waste to all and sundry who opposed him. Every time Brandt closed his eyes, he saw the tip of his sword at Rodric’s throat. One thrust and it would have extinguished his life, as well as any chance of an unwanted homecoming.
He took the well-worn path from the loch to the stables, the cool hand of evening pressing against the back of his neck. He’d taken a quick swim to wash off the grime and sweat from being in the fields all afternoon and was heading back
to the keep to check on Ares. It had been another scorcher of a day, the sun in its cloudless blue sky unrelenting as the Montgomery men and women had trained. Their skills had improved, remarkably so, over the last few days, and Brandt had been relieved to see more clashing steel than swords being knocked out of hands, more arrows flying true than falling short or wide of the hay bales dressed as targets. While he’d been training with them from time to time, he knew he had little to do with their drastic advances. He’d been overseeing fortifications along the keep’s outer walls, preparing traps in the hills and woods surrounding the loch and keep, and organizing the different waves of defense the clansmen and women who could not hold a sword or bow or axe could take to avert the enemy. Things like tossing powder explosives, stones, and hot coals from the ramparts.
No, the Montgomerys’ improved swordsmanship and archery skills were due to Sorcha’s hand in the training. His wife had been tireless, dedicating all hours of every day to the task, barely stopping to eat or drink or sleep. Brandt had bid her to rest once or twice, but after a biting retort that she’d rest after they’d fended off Malvern’s attack and lived to tell about it, he’d left her alone. The weight of unbearable responsibility had been bright in her eyes. They were so transparent, those twin blue depths. He could practically see every thought, every emotion, in them, and he wondered if she could read him as well as he could her. He feared she could. Perhaps that was why she’d been quietly on edge.
Malvern would stop at nothing to see Brandt dead and to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his. It reeked of irony…hadn’t Brandt just fought Rodric for the same reason? For his rightful seat as laird? And he’d won. He’d taken back what was his, and Malvern likely had no doubt he could do the same.
As Brandt entered the stables, he felt a physical yearning for his wife, one that had only grown in intensity since he’d taken his place as laird. The need to be with her, touch her, make her his in every possible way. It was how they’d spent the last two nights. No words, just giving. Taking. Coming together and relishing in each other’s bodies. Simply being with her was enough. Or at least it had been.
Right then, as he reached Ares’s stall, he felt a pang of loneliness. He missed her voice. Her smile. He missed listening to her unleash her temper and her opinions. Sorcha had met him with matching ferocity in their bed the last two nights, but now Brandt suspected part of that had been only to ward off conversation. Something was on her mind, and he wanted to know what it was before Malvern showed his ugly face on Montgomery lands.
Ares came to the stall door and whickered hello. Brandt rubbed his hand up and down the stallion’s snout and scratched his chin. “Your leg’s finally healed, you old brute.”
Thanks to Sorcha. Even during the last busy days, he’d seen her darting off to the stables to check on Ares. It touched him that she cared enough to check on his horse’s wound, and it made him doubly awed to then see her pick up a sword and show grown Scotsmen how to properly wield it. She was such a contradiction, and yet so perfectly balanced. She would be an exceptional duchess. The people here already loved her.
Brandt ignored the stitch in his heart and took the carrot he’d been carrying in his trousers pocket. He held it up, and Ares’s lips closed around the top, gingerly accepting the offering. “Your manners have improved as well.”
It was entirely possible his wife was the reason for that, too.
“He’s magnificent.”
Brandt turned to see Callan exiting another stall. His half brother, he reminded himself. The fact that Callan had their mother’s coloring instead of Rodric’s made it easier to look him in the eyes without feeling the need to pick up something to defend himself with. Brandt still felt a bit tense around Patrick. Strange, he knew, considering even he looked like Rodric.
“I’ve never seen his equal,” Brandt admitted.
Callan approached the stall, his eyes hinged on the beast currently mashing the carrot to pulp. “He doesnae ken how big he is,” he said, a smile forming.
Brandt cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
Callan crossed his arms and leaned against the stall door, watching Ares still. “He’s a gentle giant. I suspect he still feels like a foal, despite his size.”
Brandt was quiet. He’d thought the same thing more than once. Other men looked upon Ares with trepidation, but Brandt knew the animal was more loyal and steadfast than he was truly intimidating.
“You have an affinity for horses,” he guessed.
Callan nodded, meeting Brandt’s stare. “Our mother does as well.”
That didn’t surprise him, though he hadn’t known. There had been little time to sit and get to know her. Like he and Sorcha and the rest of them, Catriona had been busying herself with tasks of preparation. He hoped for the opportunity to learn more about her, and his brothers and sister, when the threat of attack had passed. He still couldn’t quite believe that he had a family. Monty had been his only family for so long, and even though Brandt now knew the truth, it didn’t change how he felt for the old man. Monty had raised him, kept him safe, taught him everything he knew. Brandt admired him more than before, if possible.
“Is it odd,” Brandt asked, “knowing you have another brother?”
Callan laughed. “’Tisn’t odd. ’Tis a relief. Do ye ken how many times Patrick lorded it over me that he was eldest? Now he kens what it is to be a younger sibling.”
Brandt didn’t join in Callan’s amusement. “I can’t imagine he likes that very much.”
“Truthfully? I think he’s just as relieved as I am. As we all are.” Callan straightened up and turned serious. “I’m sure ye ken what it must’ve been like, living with a man such as my father. He left Aisla and me alone most of the time, but Patrick was never allowed an inch of space to breathe. The laird kept him close. Close enough to let him see how horribly he treated our mother, and all the while Patrick couldnae do a thing about it. It tore him apart. The evil things he did tore us all apart.”
Though Brandt had known of the abuse, powerless fury simmered in the pit of his stomach at the thought of his gentle mother at the mercy of his uncle’s brutality. “What kind of things?” he heard himself ask in the casual tone of a stranger.
Callan met his eyes, mirrored pain blooming in them. “No’ counting the use of his fists, he humiliated her at every turn, flaunted countless mistresses, and he burned her with a brand.”
“Burned?”
“With a hot iron. Marks for every time she spoke about yer father. Her backside’s covered with them, Aisla told us.”
Black dots swam in Brandt’s vision, and sweat peppered his forehead. He felt sick at the depth of his uncle’s cruel perversions. “Could you not get help?” he asked, his voice raw. “From a vicar, anyone?”
Callan shrugged and shook his head. “Who would go against such a ruthless laird? There was a time, once, when Patrick tried to defend her. He was about ten at the time, and he suffered for it.” Callan’s eyes darkened at the memory. “Rodric strung him up in the courtyard yew by his ankles and left him to weather the entirety of a lightning storm.”
“He could have been killed,” Brandt said, repulsed but also confused. Why had Rodric risked his heir’s life?
“Aye,” Callan said. “But he had a spare, ye ken? From that point on, Patrick knew he meant no’ a thing to our father. That he’d no’ hesitate to hurt him, or anyone else, should he defy him.”
He truly had been mad with power. Brandt wished, yet again, that he’d been able to see the challenge for lairdship through to the death, as he knew Rodric would have.
“Nae, ’tis better now ye’re here,” Callan went on. “And the timing was good fortune, too. Lately, Rodric had started to question whether or no’ Patrick would be best suited as heir.”
Ares nudged Brandt in the shoulder, seeking another carrot, but Brandt just scrubbed his chin. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
Callan checked around the stables, though they seemed to be the only
ones present. The rest of the men and women would be gathering in the keep for sup soon.
“Patrick doesnae spend time with the lasses. He takes notice of them, aye, but he’s never taken to one in particular. I suspect ’tis only because he didnae wish to submit any lass to the same scrutiny and danger as our mother had been made to suffer.”
Brandt understood then. “And Rodric thought Patrick might prefer men to women.”
Callan murmured his agreement. “He may have the look of Rodric, but he’s no’ his man. Nae, he’s more like ye, Sassenach.” His brother grinned. “Or should I call ye, Yer Grace?”
“You should call me Brandt,” he replied, clapping his younger brother on the shoulder. “We should go up to the keep. I don’t think they’ll begin sup without me.”
“Yer their laird. ’Twould be disrespectful to eat before ye were seated.”
Brandt gave Ares a last pat on his neck. “It’ll take some time getting used to that.”
He was laird to an entire clan. The Duke of Glenross. Leader of hundreds of people. Keeper of hundreds of acres of Highland land. Wait until Archer hears the news, he thought with a creeping grin as he and Callan strode up to the great hall.
Sorcha was seated beside him, his mother to her left. Patrick kept his chair at Brandt’s right, though Aisla now sat beside Patrick, and Callan had taken the seat to their mother’s left. And instead of solemn silence in the great hall, there was a contented roar of many conversations, and even some bursts of laughter.
He and Sorcha said little to each other throughout sup; again, he felt her withholding something from him. Using her exhaustion as a shield. He let her be; nothing he wanted to say could be said in the presence of others. After a time and plenty of drink, a handful of older men began to stand and recount past battles. Fights they had won and at what cost. The younger men listened with rapt attention, and Brandt could tell the stories were mostly for them. To fill them with pride and hope that when it came their time to battle, they would live to tell the tales as well.
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