Defiance flashed in her eyes, and she ducked her head briefly. “Because of the way you looked at me…as though you saw me.” She gestured at her face. “Like you saw beyond what everyone else usually does…the dreadful Beast of Maclaren.”
Her answer was halting, but Brandt knew what she meant—she wanted to be seen beyond her disfiguring scars.
“No one had ever looked at me like that. I felt a flicker of what it was to be truly desired.” She faltered, her cheeks aflame. “It was foolish, but I’d meant it to be only a kiss.”
A kiss that had sealed their fates.
Embarrassed, Sorcha kept her eyes averted, and Brandt lifted his fingers to graze her rosy cheek. His thumb stroked gently. She was so guarded that it was hard to tell if she was playing coy or whether she was truly that innocent. Despite her blush, her soft skin was cold in the paltry heat. Her body shivered.
“You need to get warm,” he said. “We should get you out of this damp dress before you catch a chill.”
She gaped at him. “That isn’t proper.”
“We’re married, remember? And we have the sheet to prove it.”
Sorcha’s lips formed a wry smirk at his attempt to lighten the moment. “How’s your wound?” she asked, her eyes glancing to his forearm.
His mouth twitched with mischief. “I think my arm might be with child.”
A shocked laugh broke from her as she turned around to let him loosen the fasteners. “On the first try?” she asked.
“It takes only one time, you know,” he said from behind her. “And I have it on good authority that I’m a very virile man.”
“Is that so? Then you and your forearm should be very happy.” Sorcha eyed him over her shoulder, eyes crinkling with amusement, and Brandt had the sudden desire to enfold her in his arms and kiss that saucy mouth. He balked at the thought. She would not welcome it, nor should he even be encouraging such a thing.
But then he pulled the gown over her head, leaving her standing in only her stays and chemise, and any rational thought deserted him. His breath stuck in his throat as the flames from the fire outlined the silhouette of her long, slender legs. All amusement disappeared in a trice, replaced by a brutish ache in his loins. Christ.
Mumbling a hasty excuse, he stepped outside to retrieve his cloak from his saddlebags and gulped in the chilly night air before making sure that Ares and Lockie were dry in the stable. The brisk air did nothing to calm the fire racing through his blood, though by the time he returned to place the woolen cloak over Sorcha, he was shivering, too. Brandt rubbed his hands briskly together.
“What about you?” she asked. “Won’t you be cold?”
“I’m accustomed to the cold,” he lied.
“In Essex?” She arched a dark eyebrow, a smile playing about her lips. Her eyes were warm, glowing with gratitude, amusement, and approval. His pulse resumed an unsteady cadence. Brandt did not want or need her approval, and he most certainly did not expect to like how it made him feel.
Focus on the goal, you idiot. Get her to her sister, claim the horse, go home.
His future did not include a wife. Wives would eventually want children, and he had no interest in being a father. His misbegotten, sorry line would die with him. Just as his heartless mother had intended when she’d tossed him out with the slop.
“It can get quite cold during the winters there,” he said, keeping the rise of bitterness at bay and his tone neutral. “Nothing like your Highland winters, but I’m fine, trust me.”
“Suit yourself.”
Sorcha reached back to adjust the thick cloak around her shoulders, and her shift stretched tight over the rise of a pair of pert, round breasts. She was not buxom, but her curves were more than enough to catch his attention. Damnation. Brandt cast his eyes up, away from her charms, and pretended to inspect the condition of the sagging thatched roof.
“Tell me about Maclaren,” he said in a strained voice. “And your brothers, especially Finlay and Evan.”
Sorcha shot him a doubtful look, but Brandt nodded enthusiastically. He let out a pent-up breath when she began. Stories about Finlay and Evan were the perfect solution—a solid metaphorical kick to the ballocks. Irritation was far preferable to half a cockstand in a deserted cottage with his baggage of a wife wearing nothing but a snug chemise and a smile that could melt the strongest inhibitions.
He would keep his distance if it killed him.
Even if it meant listening to the head-splitting tales of Evan and Finlay Maclaren.
Chapter Six
It had been a long while since Sorcha had thought about all the trouble Finlay and Evan had wreaked upon Maclaren lands when they’d been younger, but over the next few hours, she recounted a number of stories to Brandt.
Like the time they had set all the horses loose and a few of their father’s valuable foals had gone missing for days, or the time they had dared her to climb the tallest tree in the glen and then left her up there until the duke found her hours later, nearly frozen from cold. They were barely a year apart and egged each other on abominably. When Sorcha was old enough to want to prove herself as capable as they were, they became the bane of her existence…and the source of most of her near-death scrapes.
Her sisters, Makenna and Annis, had been older by five and seven years, and they’d never so much as gone against the grain, so her stories revolved mostly around Finlay and Evan, and their father’s meager attempts to take them in hand. Ronan and Niall were the end caps of her siblings. Ronan had always been serious, the weight of being laird one day resting on his shoulders from the time he drew his first breath. And Niall was the baby, though he was by no means spoiled or coddled.
Sorcha had a sneaking suspicion Brandt was trying to distract her, but she was grateful for the attempt. “Niall turned fifteen last winter,” she said. “Of all my siblings, he and I are the closest. He likes to play tricks, especially on Evan and Finlay. He sewed all the cuffs of their shirts closed once.”
“With one hand?”
“You’d be amazed at the things that boy can do.” Sorcha smiled softly. “He never ceases to amaze me.”
Brandt stoked the fire, listening as she spoke, his eyes tracking the play of the flames in the hearth. He smiled and shook his head at all the right moments, and every now and again, glanced her way to see if she’d stopped shivering. She could see the concern in his eyes before averting his gaze again. It was because of how she was dressed, she knew. Or rather, her lack of dress.
Sorcha had seen the brief, but definite, burn of arousal in his eyes when she’d been standing before him in nothing but her shift. His lips had gone soft with surprise in the moments before he’d stalked out of the decaying cottage, gotten his cloak, and covered her with it. Now every time he looked to see if she was still cold, a shot of heat lit through her. He’d distracted her from their situation, not only by asking her to tell him stories about her home and family, but simply by being there, seated on the worn floor, across from her.
Though being this close to him—to any man—was foolish.
Even if he was her husband.
Sorcha sighed. Once they parted ways, it was unlikely she would ever marry again, even if her maidenhead remained intact. Too many men feared the look of her or feared her father and brothers. The arrangement with Malvern had been a matter of duty, until she’d seen the disgust in his eyes when he’d come face-to-face with her years ago. A maimed harlot was his latest insult, but she’d heard them all. She was unfit to be anyone’s wife. Simply looking in a mirror while unclothed told her that. Aric had had the right of it. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, his voice invading her mind. I’ll no’ look at such a beast again.
The rain had tapered, though the leaky roof still dripped in multiple spots around the one-room cottage. Dusk had settled over the valley, and as Sorcha finished with another tale, this one about Evan wrapping their cousin Gavin in bedsheets and hanging him out one of the castle windows until Gavin apologized for calling
him a hell-bound heathen, she fell quiet.
Brandt held his hands to the flames, which he’d built time and again with more wood scavenged from around the property. She’d dried out and warmed up long before, and now her limbs had that satiated, loose feeling that reminded her of lazy summer afternoons in the fields near home. Or after hours of rugged training with her sword and bow and arrow. She drew his cloak closer around her and inhaled, yet again, the oddly comforting combination of soap, leather, and horses.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Brandt allowed his eyes to meet hers. “What for?”
“For calming me,” she answered. “My brothers infuriate me to no end, but they also remind me of home.”
It was a place where she knew she would not be able to return anytime soon, and it saddened her. She prayed if she stayed away, it would also keep Malvern away. It was a foolish hope, though, and she knew it.
“What if he goes to Maclaren?” she asked.
Brandt didn’t need to ask to whom she referred.
“He won’t kill Niall,” he said. “Your father, your brothers and people…they won’t stand for it.”
Sorcha didn’t believe they would, either, but she’d seen how intimidated they were by Malvern. People called her the Beast of Maclaren, and she had spent years honing her skill with a sword and bow, determined to live up to the name in a way no one had ever intended. But how could she have possibly found anything but pain and degradation as Malvern’s wife? He loathed her, saw her as little more than an animal. The wolf had stolen more than her flesh; it had stolen her dignity.
“We could go there,” Sorcha heard herself saying, her stomach tight with the same burden of ugly shame she’d borne for much of her life. “To Maclaren. We could warn them that Malvern has been wronged—”
“No. It’s too much of a risk.”
“But I can’t leave them to—”
“Your presence won’t save anyone. They can fend for themselves, Sorcha. Your father is a chieftain and your brothers are trained Highland warriors. They’ll protect their own. You’re my responsibility now, and I’m bringing you north to your sister.” Brandt stood and dusted off the seat of his trousers. “I’m going to take Ares and retrace our last few miles, make sure no one has discovered our tracks.”
But just as he rose, the sound of hoofbeats—a small army of them—rent through the air. Sorcha jumped to her feet, her heart hammering as she tugged her dry dress over her head. Without Brandt’s help to redo the fastenings, she looped his cloak around her shoulders, and hurried to where he stood peering out through the dirty window into the darkness.
“Who is it?” she asked. “Can you see?”
“They haven’t yet come over the rise, but it will prove difficult to see anything without moonlight. The clouds are still thick.”
Sorcha tried to push past him to get a clearer look, but he restrained her with a rigid, powerful arm. She’d forgotten how deceptively lean he was. The man was as strong as an ox.
“Stay put,” he told her, crouching to douse the flames with ash. “And stay out of sight. Whoever it is may ride straight past.”
Or come banging on the door.
Anyone heading out this way to an old goat herder’s hut wasn’t going to be riding past, especially when they scented woodsmoke on the air. And if it was Malvern’s men, she wanted to be prepared, not cowering without a weapon in hand. She ducked out of his reach and grabbed hold of one of his pistols that he’d brought in from his saddlebag. There was no way she was going down without a hell of a fight.
Pressing a finger to his lips, Brandt met her eyes and nodded. She’d expected him to demand the weapon back and tell her to go hide in a corner, but he only palmed the second pistol and gripped his sword hilt in its scabbard. Sorcha wished she had her own sword, but she had left it behind in the wagon in Selkirk. She hefted the gun.
“Do you know how to use that?” Brandt asked in a low voice.
Sorcha set her jaw grimly. “Yes.”
She was an excellent shot. Ever since she’d been betrothed to the man who had cruelly maimed her brother, she’d practiced with single-minded purpose. For so many years, she’d bided her time, training herself. If the chance arose to kill Malvern in a way that would not implicate the Maclarens, she would take it without hesitation.
“I always hoped one day Malvern would be vulnerable, and I planned to be there with a weapon in hand.”
“You’re a bloodthirsty lass.”
She grinned, pleased at the compliment.
The pounding of the hooves drew closer. The noise was thunderous, and Sorcha’s heart banged in time with the rhythmic sounds as she and Brandt took up places behind a large overturned barrel. His face was calm, but his body seemed bunched and ready. It struck her again that her taciturn husband was far more than he seemed. The look on his face was one that she had seen many a time on the faces of Maclaren soldiers—the look of a man not afraid of death.
“How good of a shot are you?” she whispered.
“Decent.”
“Then if it’s Malvern, let me take it,” she said. “I’m better than decent.”
His sudden smile was unexpected. Breathtaking. It made his hazel eyes gleam and a shallow dimple appear in his left cheek. He looked almost boyishly handsome. Pinpricks of awareness flickered all over her skin, and the rest of her words seized on her tongue.
“Humble, aren’t we?”
Sorcha colored. “I know my skill.”
“I don’t doubt your skill in the least,” he said. “But the minute you fire, you will be a target for his men, and I’ve made you a promise to see you to safety. I’ll deal with Malvern.”
“How? You’re going to talk him to death? He won’t listen.”
“Trust in me, Sorcha. I’m not a complete imbecile.”
“I didn’t—”
But the rest of her words were snatched from her lips as the door slammed open. The breath left her lungs with a terrified exhale as a massive hulking form filled the doorway. And as recognition set in, a different kind of dread took hold of her body.
Not him.
Her heart sank. She was relieved it wasn’t Malvern, but she would have preferred nearly anyone else to the man who stood before them: her eldest brother, Ronan. Nearly ten years her senior, she’d always viewed her unsmiling giant of a brother as an extension of their father, and he was. He was relentless and commanding and everything a great Scottish laird would have to be.
Sorcha had always been a little in awe of her oldest brother, though he had only ever been gentle with her on the occasions that their paths did intersect. Now his lips were a hard, flat line, and every muscle in his body was braced for a fight. With a quelling glance to the silent man at her side, she rose.
“Ronan,” she began as his glacial blue gaze swept the darkened room. Sorcha felt it flick over her and then rest for a hard moment on Brandt. A torch was brought into the room by one of his men, and the small dusty space was instantly illuminated.
“What have ye done?” her brother bellowed. “Ye were spoken for, Sorcha. Ye’ve broken the terms of the alliance and insulted the marquess.”
She felt Brandt stiffen at her side at Ronan’s gruff tone, and she hastened forward, despite her quailing heart. Ronan would never hurt her, but she’d seen grown men piss their pants in the face of his anger. “I know how it looks, but I can explain. He, I—”
How could she explain that she’d seduced a stranger in an attempt to save her own skin? That she’d run from her duty to marry Malvern like a frightened hare? That she’d betrayed Maclaren for the sum of a horse? She swallowed hard.
But before she could speak, her husband was moving to her side. Her brother’s eyes narrowed at his advance. Though Brandt was of a height, Ronan was twice as wide and twice as fierce.
She put out a hand to stop Brandt’s approach, but he clasped her numb fingers within his and laced them together. A show of solidarity, she assumed with a jolt of surpri
se. His skin was warm, engulfing her cold fingers with heat and strength. Ronan’s gaze dipped to their joined hands, and his hard lips flattened.
“Don’t speak to her like that,” Brandt said. “Insult me if you must.”
Ronan folded his massive arms across his chest. “She’s promised to another.”
Brandt stepped forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “That’s too damned bad. She belongs to me now.”
Though Sorcha knew his possessive words were an act—he was more likely thinking of the horse that had been promised to him—she still felt something small and delicate unfold in the pit of her stomach.
But then, her eyes flicked to the shadowed yard beyond his wide shoulders, and she swallowed a nervous gasp. A dozen of his best Maclaren men were armed and grim-faced. They stood silent, deadly and dangerous, waiting for their leader’s command. She felt the blood drain from her face.
Did they mean to drag her back to Maclaren? To Malvern? Make her a widow? Could Ronan be that cruel? Her brother was not prone to displays of emotion. He’d been there in the courtyard when Niall’s hand had been severed, but he had not reacted as violently as his siblings. His face had been devoid of anything, his eyes dead and cold. Much like they were now.
“Are ye prepared to die, Sassenach?”
Sorcha gasped. “Ronan!”
“Stay out of it.” The ominous rasp of steel against leather broke the silence. “Are ye prepared to pay the price for defiling my sister? For scorning an agreement signed in blood?”
Brandt smiled, though it was not like the one earlier. This one was no more than a stretching of lips over his teeth. “If you truly cared about your sister, you would want for her happiness. And safety. What the hell do you think Malvern will do to her now, if you do manage to hand her over? Which you won’t.”
Ronan’s face hardened, something glinting precariously in his eye. A muscle flexed in his cheek. When he spoke, her brother’s voice was little more than a snarl. “And ye think ye can provide safety for her, Sassenach?”
My Scot, My Surrender (Lords of Essex) Page 7