“Your wife is healthy,” Gray, Viscount Northridge, said, catching his soft comment as he resumed his seat across from them and reached for his refilled snifter. He’d disappeared a quarter of an hour earlier to check on his youngest, eight-month-old Thomas, who was sleeping inside while his wife walked with Sorcha and the Radcliffe twins. Gray was followed by Archer and Briannon. “And the fresh air and walking will do her good.”
Langlevit snorted. “Is that your professional opinion, Doctor North?”
North was Gray’s nickname, just as Archer was known to his friends as Hawk, courtesy of one of his lesser titles, the Marquess of Hawksfield.
Gray grinned. “With four children of my own, I’m clearly the most virile of you lot, so yes, it is indeed my expert opinion.”
His sister Briannon’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “Gray! Such talk is entirely inappropriate. What will the servants think?”
“What they’ve always thought, Brynn dear,” he replied with a long draught from his glass. “That we’re shocking ton.”
“Speak for yourself,” Archer put in, sitting with a relaxed sigh and stretching his legs out in front of him. “I am the epitome of blue-blooded English decorum.”
Brandt couldn’t suppress his snort.
Archer had disdained those aristocratic roots of his…until Briannon. Each of the men here, in fact, had been changed in some integral way by the women they’d married. And Sorcha. God, she had changed him the most of all. He’d been rootless, wandering, and adrift in his own head until she had grounded him. Tethered him. He’d found peace because of her…peace in who he was as a son, father, brother, husband. He glanced at Archer, his oldest mate. Brandt had even become a worthier friend for it.
In a word, Sorcha made him better.
He was torn from his thoughts by a volley of delighted squealing as Rabbie and Brandon ran at full tilt toward the table looking for sweets left over from the afternoon tea they’d all enjoyed in the garden.
“Papa,” his son squealed and climbed up into his lap. “Pòg.”
Brandt smiled at the demand for a kiss. Catriona had been teaching him Gaelic and the boy was a quick study. Brandt looked into eyes that were mirrors of his own and kissed his son’s pudgy, dirt-smudged cheek with a loud smack, making Rabbie giggle. The young English nanny hovered, clearly rattled that her young charge had disturbed the adults, which was frowned upon in most aristocratic households. Brandt did not mind. In Scotland, Rabbie had the run of the keep and drove his doting grandmother, along with everyone else, to madness with his antics.
“Getting into trouble, are we, lad?” he said. “Best we listen, aye?”
“I ken, Papa,” Rabbie said.
Brandt would never get used to the feeling of wonder that overtook him whenever he looked at the miracle that he and Sorcha had created. Rabbie yawned and rubbed his eyes, clearly in need of an afternoon rest after all the excitement. Brandt kissed him again before handing him off to the waiting nanny.
“It’s time for your nap, too,” Briannon said to Brandon who had immediately gone to his mother. She kissed him, watching as the nannies took them back to the manse. “They grow up so fast,” she murmured. “Don’t they?” The duchess’s hand fluttered over her midriff and a secret smile crossed her face, one that Brandt was not the only one to notice.
“Brynn,” Irina shrieked, her mouth falling open. “You’re not…”
Briannon nodded, blushing, her hands grasping her husband’s. “Yes, though not very far along.”
“What wonderful news,” Langlevit said and lifted his glass. “Congratulations, both.”
Gray smirked at his sister’s announcement. “See? The Findlays are virile. Fertile, I mean.” He laughed, narrowly escaping one of Brandon’s wooden soldiers that Briannon launched at his head. “It seems that more celebrations are in order!” Grinning at Archer, he clapped his brother-in-law on the back. “If you need any advice, Hawk, on how not to lose your sanity with four children, you know where to find me.”
As if on cue, Gray and Lana’s nearly four-year-old son, Oliver, and his two-and-a-half-year-old sister, Kate, darted in front of the group, each of them screaming and laughing. A moment later, the reason why came roaring out of the dogwoods behind them. Their older sister, Sofia, now eight, had donned one of the masks her cousins had brought down from the Worthington Abbey attics in order to act out a play during tea that afternoon. The hairy beast mask was a ghoulish-looking thing, and she was clearly enjoying scaring the wits out of her younger siblings. Archer and Briannon’s daughters, Clara and Philippa, nearing four and five, followed on her heels, clearly frightened but determined to imitate their daring older cousin.
“Come now, girls, take pity on the young ones,” Briannon called out.
“Sofia!” Lana called from where she and Sorcha had stopped strolling. “You’ll give them nightmares for a week!”
“Have you heard the news?” Irina asked excitedly as her sister approached to hand over the sleeping twins to the unobtrusively waiting maids. She went to check on the babies, cooing over them gently. “Brynn’s expecting.”
“How lovely,” Lana said, taking Sorcha’s arm to help her into the chair beside Brandt.
“Lovely news indeed,” Sorcha said with a slightly discomfited smile. “Though I wish for the sake of all mothers that pregnancy was less…everything.”
The women laughed and nodded. Brandt wouldn’t know. He didn’t think he, or any man for that matter, had the strength to withstand such an ordeal. Archer, North, and Langlevit seemed to be of the same opinion as well. Anyone who said that women were the weaker sex was sadly misinformed.
“Less long, less painful, less swollen,” Irina said.
“Less hungry,” Lana added. “Less thirsty.”
Briannon grinned. “Less grumpy, less messy.”
Brandt leaned over to stroke his wife’s hand, threading her fingers through his. Tired blue eyes met his, and, though a reassuring smile touched her lips, he saw a quick spark of pain. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip as her hand gripped his with terrible force.
“Oh,” Sorcha breathed, her eyes going wide. Her expression alternated between agony and mortification. “Speaking of less messy,” she whispered, “it seems the latest Montgomery has decided to make an appearance.”
Everyone jumped into motion at once, and a flurry of servants appeared at Briannon’s decidedly unladylike shout. Discussion broke out as to the best way to get Sorcha back to the abbey and whether she should remain in the chair. Someone else gave an order in an authoritative voice to fetch Dr. Hargrove, the longtime physician who had already been summoned to Worthington Abbey by the duke in advance of their arrival as a precaution. He had delivered nearly all of the children in residence, with the exception of Sofia.
“But it’s not time,” Brandt heard someone say, and realized that it was his own baffled voice.
“Time or not, Your Grace,” Irina told him, her violet eyes sparkling, “your bairn—that is the proper Scottish term, is it not?—is coming. Now are you going to sit there all day or get up and do something?”
Brandt snapped out of his shock and stood. He leaned over and scooped his pale wife into his arms. He met the shocked gazes of the servants who had been about to lift the chair and the impressed stares of the other men. “I’m stronger than I look.”
Even fully pregnant, Sorcha weighed nothing in his arms. He would walk to the ends of the earth this way if he had to. By the time they reached the house, an airy room on the first floor had already been prepared. He deposited her into the wide bed, kissed her clammy forehead, and was instantly shooed from the room.
Bewildered, he stopped a rumpled-looking Dr. Hargrove on his way into the suite. “It’s too early, isn’t it? For the babe to come?”
“It will be fine, Your Grace,” the doctor said, but Brandt thought he detected an odd note of worry in his voice.
Brandt clutched the man’s arm, his nostrils flaring. “Don’t let�
��please, don’t let…” He trailed off, the awful words clogging his throat. There was no way he could articulate his fears. No way he wanted to. But the onset of Sorcha’s labor was way too early. “Please do whatever you can,” he finally said in a hoarse whisper.
Dr. Hargrove nodded. “Of course.”
Brandt sank to his knees on the plush rug and remained there long after the door closed. After a while, he felt strong hands helping him up and leading him down the corridor to a study. Archer’s study. A glass was placed into his hand, his body pushed into a chair. He sipped through the unnatural lethargy that had taken hold of his limbs. Felt the burn of whiskey sear a path to his roiling stomach.
“She’s in good hands, Brandt.” Archer’s voice, he registered dimly.
“The best,” Langlevit agreed.
“It’s too early,” Brandt whispered, staring into his drink for answers that weren’t there. He set the glass on the table. “I have to be with her.”
A firm but gentle hand rested on his shoulder. “Sit.”
Brandt looked up into the eyes of his most trusted friend. A friend who he wouldn’t hesitate to smash to bits if he kept restraining him.
“You won’t do anyone any good going in there,” Archer said. “She’ll be in labor a while yet.”
Brandt shook his head. Rabbie had come right away once the pains had started. Chances were this one would as well…if there were no complications. His heart lurched. “She’s my wife.” He swallowed convulsively, his eyes stinging. “You don’t understand, I can’t lose her.”
The hand on his shoulder squeezed. “I do understand. We all do. We’ve all been there. She’ll come through it, Brandt, she and your babe. I had every confidence in Dr. Hargrove with Brynn and her weak lungs through three deliveries. He delivered Langlevit’s twins and most of North’s brood. He is the best doctor in England, do you understand? Nod if you do.”
With a shuddering breath, Brandt nodded.
Archer released him, but pulled an armchair close and sat. “Now drink up and tell me about your sister Aisla’s wedding.”
Brandt blinked, his desperate mind grasping at the suggestion with the ferocity of a starving pauper given a crust of bread.
Aisla had recently married Sorcha’s youngest brother Niall. The two eighteen-year-olds had eloped. Though the pair had clearly been interested in each other over the last handful of years, the union had come as a surprise. Mostly due to Aisla becoming pregnant out of wedlock. Niall had escaped from being thrashed to within an inch of his worthless life by Sorcha, who had also been four months pregnant at the time. And then Niall had disappeared, taking Aisla with him. They’d gone to Inverness whereupon they’d gotten married.
And all hell had broken loose.
Especially after the rushed nuptials that no family member on either side had witnessed. Both his and Sorcha’s mother had been devastated to learn of the wedding after the fact. Niall had copped a well-deserved thrashing off his own older brother, Ronan, for getting Aisla with child in the first place. And Aisla had not escaped scot-free. The tongue-lashing she’d received from Catriona had echoed all over the Highlands and would be remembered for years. A proper wedding celebration had been planned at Maclaren on Brandt and Sorcha’s way back to Montgomery from this visit to Essex.
By the time Brandt had finished recounting that tale, plus a few more about Sorcha’s brothers and his own half brothers, Callan and Patrick, his mind had calmed somewhat. To his surprise, more than a couple hours had passed. And he felt pleasantly numb. Though he suspected that that had to do with the bottomless glass of whiskey resting in his fingers.
“Aisla is headstrong,” he said, swirling the amber liquid. “But she’ll make a good mother. And Niall will make her a good husband if he can get his head out of his arse.” He sat back and chuckled. “I don’t remember any of us being so stupid at his age.”
Archer laughed. “You have a selective memory.”
They were all laughing when a knock came at the open door. Brandt leaped to his feet. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milords,” a maid said with a curtsy. “But Dr. Hargrove sent me to summon the duke.”
“Which one?” North joked, but Brandt was already off and running.
Brandt took the fact that the maid was smiling as a good sign, but he still ran pell-mell down the hallway. He pushed open the door and stood on the threshold. His glorious, beautiful warrior of a wife sat propped against a mound of pillows in the bed. The room had been cleared to give them some privacy. Sorcha’s face was glowing, and she held a small bundle in her arms.
“Come meet your wee daughter, leannan,” she told him.
His heart exploded in his chest when he approached and kissed his wife. A daughter. A tuft of bronze hair covered her crown, and her face was perfect, though she was indeed wee. He frowned. “Is she supposed to be that small?”
“For her claymore, yes,” his wife said with a smile. “But she’ll grow. Would you like to hold her?”
Sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, he took his daughter gingerly, her fragile body tiny in his big palms. Her eyes fluttered open, and they were a brilliant blue…just like her mother’s. She studied him so alertly, so fiercely, that Brandt couldn’t breathe. A laugh bubbled up in his throat. He shouldn’t be so shocked—after all, warrior goddesses gave birth to only miniature warrior goddesses. She settled in his arms as if determining him to be of no threat she couldn’t handle and went back to sleep.
A shriek cut through the moment as Rabbie burst into the room like a whirlwind. “Piuthar,” he shouted. “Papa, piuthar.”
Brandt smiled at the Gaelic for “sister” Catriona must have taught him. “Aye, mo gràidh, your sister has arrived.”
Rabbie climbed up onto the bed and snuggled into Sorcha’s side, his hazel eyes wide at the infant cradled in his father’s arms. Brandt felt his wife’s hand fall upon his arm. He glanced at her holding his son, so much happiness brimming in her beautiful blue eyes that it made him speechless. Brandt felt full. He was surrounded by love and laughter, and so much hope for the future. He had no words, only action. He leaned over to take Sorcha’s lips in an achingly tender kiss.
“Pòg, pòg,” Rabbie chanted, leaning in to plant his own wet kisses on their cheeks. Laughing, Brandt nuzzled Rabbie’s neck to his son’s chortling delight, and his heart swelled impossibly as his son placed the gentlest of kisses on his baby sister’s head. Brandt gathered his family close, kissing both his children, and then his wife again, slowly, sweetly. He had an endless supply of pògan, it seemed, enough to last for forever.
“I adore you, my fierce Highland lass,” he whispered.
Sorcha grinned. “Not as much as I adore you, my handsome, stalwart Scot.”
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Authors’ Note
Dear Reader,
We absolutely loved writing this final installment of the Lords of Essex series for you! If you enjoyed reading about Brandt and Sorcha in My Scot, My Surrender, be sure to check out the other books in the series: My Rogue, My Ruin (book one), My Darling, My Disaster (book two), and My Hellion, My Heart (book three).
We are huge fans of brawny Highlanders with lots of heart (who isn’t?) and if you are, too, you will be excited to hear about our upcoming new series, Tartans & Titans, which will feature Aisla’s and Niall’s story as well as Ronan’s story.
We are so grateful to our wonderful editor, Alethea Spiridon, and our brilliant publisher, Liz Pelletier. Thank you to the entire production, design, and publicity teams at Entangled, with special thanks to Crystal Havens, Curtis Svehlak, Holly Bryant-Simpson, Riki Cleveland, Heather Riccio, Melanie Smith, Anita Orr, and Erin Dameron-Hill. To our loyal readers, thank you for reading our books. Lastly, to our amazing families, we love you.
Be sure to check out EntangledPublishing.com for
many more awesome reads in the meantime. And again, thank you so much for being such great supporters and advocates of great books! Happy reading!
Fondly,
Amalie and Angie
About the Authors
Amalie Howard’s love of romance developed after she started pilfering her grandmother’s novels in high school when she should have been studying. She has no regrets. A #1 Amazon bestseller and a national IPPY silver medalist, she is the coauthor of the Lords of Essex historical romance series, as well as several award-winning young adult novels critically acclaimed by Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, VOYA, School Library Journal, and Booklist, including Waterfell, The Almost Girl, and Alpha Goddess, a Kid’s IndieNext pick. She currently resides in Colorado with her husband and three children. Visit her at www.amaliehoward.com.
Angie Morgan lives in New Hampshire with her husband, their three daughters, a menagerie of pets, and an extensive collection of paperback romance novels. She’s the coauthor of the Lords of Essex historical romance series, as well as several young adult books, including The Dispossessed series written under the name Page Morgan. Critically acclaimed by Booklist, Publisher’s Weekly, Kirkus, School Library Journal, VOYA, and The Bulletin, Angie’s novels have been an IndieNext selection, a Seventeen Magazine Summer Book Club Read, and a #1 Amazon bestseller. Visit her at www.AngieMorganBooks.com.
Discover the Lords of Essex series…
My Rogue, My Ruin
My Darling, My Disaster
My Hellion, My Heart
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The Bittersweet Bride
an Advertisements of Love novel by Vanessa Riley
Widow Theodosia Cecil needs a husband to help protect her son. Placing an ad in the newspaper, no one is more surprised than she when her first love, the man she thought dead, reappears. Ewan Fitzwilliam has been at war for six years. Now he’s back but Theo will not consider marrying him. They must overcome bitter lies from the past and Theo must reveal her deepest secret in order to reclaim the love that has long been denied.
My Scot, My Surrender Page 35
