When Catriona, Aisla, and Sorcha stood to leave the great hall, and leave the men to their tales, Brandt itched to stand and follow his wife. But it would have been in bad form, and it would not have gone unnoticed. So he stayed seated, listening to the banter and joining in the cheers at every retold victory. It had been a long time, though, since Montgomery had waged battle. Their reclusive state over the past quarter century had turned those past warriors into old men. By the time the men had settled down and Brandt stood to withdraw, he felt even more uneasy. The physical yearning for his wife had returned, and he was sorely tempted to enter their shared bedchamber—still the guest room, as the thought of sleeping in Rodric’s bed in the laird’s chamber made Brandt ill—and lose himself in her once again.
Someone cleared his throat, and Brandt realized that Patrick had asked him a question. Callan snorted with a knowing smile, following his stare to where Sorcha had climbed the stairs not a half an hour before, his memory still hinged on his wife’s tempting derriere. “What is it?”
Surprisingly, amusement also glinted in Patrick’s eyes, which was unusual for him. “I asked whether ye were satisfied with the preparations on the loch side. I’m no’ too worried about an army breaching the north shore. ’Tis much too difficult to pass through the quarry, and we need the men on the front side.”
“Agree,” Brandt said. “But we cannot leave it unguarded, either.”
“I’ve ordered a dozen men along the battlements.” He nodded to Feagan, who sat at the next table and was listening intently. “Feagan says Seamus will cover that end.”
Brandt gestured to the seats his mother, his wife, and sister had vacated, and waved Feagan and his men forward. He pushed some of the trenchers to the middle and lined up a few of the empty dishes. “If this is the keep, and here’s the loch, what of this area leading into the pass? And this open area here at the foothills?”
The men all followed his finger on the table, nodding in unison.
Feagan answered. “We have men on either side of it as well as in the hills. Some of our best archers will be here.” He jabbed a hand toward each of the front sides of Brandt’s makeshift outline. “Our best offense will be for it to seem that most of our men are on the plains here in front of the villages.”
“Good,” Brandt said. “I think you should set extra men here and here.” He pointed to where the hills on either side of the loch would be.
Patrick frowned. “Ye suspect an attack from there?”
“I’ve heard of Malvern on the battlefield, and he is clever. It wouldn’t surprise me if he sent Coxley to approach from the rear.”
If Coxley was still alive. Brandt hoped to God he wasn’t.
“The quarry around the loch is impassable this time of year,” Seamus piped up.
“Let’s not leave it to chance.” Brandt stood and surveyed his brothers and his clansmen. “Get some sleep. If luck favors us, we will have one more day to prepare, but if she doesn’t, we will need to be battle ready.”
“Yes, Yer Grace.”
After the men left the dais and departed the hall, Brandt turned to leave, but a hand at his shoulder halted his departure. “A word,” Patrick asked quietly.
“Of course.”
Patrick looked uncomfortable. “I wanted to thank ye for what ye did for my mother—our mother—and our sister.” His voice lowered and shook. In fact, his entire body shook with the force of his choked emotion. “Ye have my sword and my fealty, Laird.”
Brandt did not hesitate; he pulled his brother into his arms. He met Callan’s anguished gaze over Patrick’s shoulder and felt his own eyes mist at what the admission must have cost his brother, who had been severely castigated for any sign of weakness, any show of emotion.
“He’ll never hurt any of you again,” Brandt said fervently, looking into his brother’s pale blue eyes. Oddly, the color did not make him think of Rodric. Perhaps because they weren’t inhumanly glacial. No, Patrick’s eyes were all too human and all too vulnerable. “I swear it.”
“Are ye no’ afraid that he’ll return?” Callan asked.
Brandt lifted cold, determined eyes to his youngest brother and reached out to clasp his arm as well. “Afraid? No. Hopeful, yes. I want him to return, so one of us can kill him.” Brandt grinned. “Though, if he does, I wager it will be young Aisla who will put an arrow through him. She’s gifted with the bow.”
Patrick nodded. “Yer wife has been a good influence on her.”
“They’ve been good for each other.”
That reminded Brandt of Sorcha and his earlier inclinations. Callan burst into laughter at the besotted look on his face, but Brandt did not have the grace or will to look ashamed. He would not be faulted for desiring—or loving—his wife.
“I don’t blame ye,” Callan chortled. “Yer duchess is quite a lass.”
With a grin, Brandt chucked his brother in the shoulder. “Go find your own.”
He took the stairs two at a time, stopping to catch his breath at the door to his bedchamber before opening it. He was glad that he had, because the sight that greeted him snatched the air from his lungs. Sorcha had just finished her bath and was rising from the water like a river nymph, her skin rosy and glistening. His greedy eyes followed the droplets sluicing from her breasts to her stomach to the sable triangle between her legs. Brandt felt his mouth go dry with a sudden desperate thirst, one he could slake only with her inimitable body.
Even with fresh bruises from training discoloring her limbs and hips in darkened swatches, she was stunning. A warrior goddess in the flesh. And she belonged to him. He watched the play of muscles on her strong, lean thighs as she stepped out of the wooden tub onto the length of toweling that Morag must have placed there. Brandt could hear the maid moving behind the privacy screen, but he was too busy ogling as Sorcha dried herself, her fingers drifting over her breasts and her thighs. Morag’s presence was the only thing keeping him from crossing the room, picking up his wife, and tossing her onto the bed.
Sorcha’s eyes met his and held them as Brandt looked his fill in silence. A visceral current shot between them, hot and bright. Carnal lust shone boldly in those luminous blue eyes and struck him straight in the groin. He could never get enough of how sensuous his wife was—with those limber legs, mouth-watering curves, and exceedingly passionate nature, she was a hedonist’s dream. He was already painfully erect. When she lifted a slender leg to the edge of the tub to chase the droplets with the toweling, he couldn’t help the growl that broke from his throat.
With a squawk, Morag hurried from the room. His beautiful wife stepped toward him, but before the door closed, Brandt already had her in his arms, with his mouth on hers. He groaned at her taste. She was sweetness and honey, light and laughter. She was water to his thirst. And he wanted it all…every drop of it. When he finally lifted his head, Sorcha’s lips glistened, and her eyes had darkened. The secrets she harbored were still there, but for the moment, they’d been eclipsed by the desire sweeping through her.
“Husband,” she said. His minx of a wife smiled at him and dropped the toweling to the floor. Lust poured through him. She reached for the hem of his kilt and shot him a naughty grin. “My favorite part about kilts is the easy access.”
When she grabbed gentle hold of his erection through his smallclothes, Brandt almost spent himself then and there. He wanted her with a longing that made his brain shrink to the size of a pea, while other parts of him grew larger still. His wife’s fingers left him to undo the ties of his smalls. She made quick work of his shirt, and a few galloping heartbeats later, he wore only his kilt. He arched an eyebrow at the fact that he was still partially clothed, but she only smiled.
Brandt gathered her warm, naked body in his arms, holding her to him. The yielding softness of her breasts pillowed into the hardness of his chest. His thick arousal pressed up through the folds of his plaid into the firm planes of her stomach. She was muscled, too, his Sorcha, though everything about her was all woman—the b
eautiful peaks of her satiny nipples, her slim waist, her firm, rounded arse. Groaning softly, he took her mouth in another kiss, though this was different from the first. There was nothing gentle in this kiss. It plundered. It ravaged. It took.
Sorcha dug her nails into his shoulders and dragged her lips from his. “Take me here, now, where we stand,” she said, her breathing clipped as she bit her bottom lip. “I couldn’t stop staring at you in the fields today and imagining you…with me.”
“How did it make you feel?”
“Wet.”
Brandt didn’t need to hear any more. If he didn’t bury himself into her, he was going to burst. Reaching down to grasp her buttocks, he hefted her upward and shoved his plaid to the side. Without being prompted, Sorcha hooked her legs around his hips and sank her body onto his shaft. She was, indeed, quite damp. Soft and wet and slick. Their movements were limited, their muscles working frantically as she ground herself down into him using her thighs while he guided her with his hands. It was a ragged, desperate coupling, one with its culmination looming hot and fast.
“Sorcha—”
Brandt wanted her to find her pleasure first, but he’d lost all control. So had she. There was nothing but lust and feeling and carnal heat bursting between them. Her eyes were closed, her mouth parted in cresting bliss as her hips slammed into his. And then her body was rippling around his in molten undulations, coaxing forth his own furious release. He swallowed the sounds of her passion with his mouth as he spilled his seed into her and tumbled backward to the bed, whereupon he collapsed.
Sorcha sprawled on top of him and gave him a satisfied grin. “Well, that was different.”
For the second time since he entered the chamber, he caught his breath. “To say the least. I should wear a kilt more often.”
Sorcha rolled off him to the side and trailed a hand down his coarsely furred thigh. “That you should, my laird. I like the look of your knees.”
“Only my knees?” he teased.
“And other things.”
Brandt laughed and tucked her into his side, drawing the blankets over their legs. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, but he knew that they were both only stalling. He’d wanted to make love to her, but he also wanted to know what was in her head. He grazed one of the fresh bruises on her ribs with the backs of his knuckles.
“Why are you pushing yourself so hard?” he asked.
For a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to answer him, that she was going to shove her feelings down to where she didn’t have to deal with them. But then her head tipped up, her eyes shadowed. “I owe it to them,” she whispered. “To you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Pain flicked over her face. “I do. I’ve brought this on everyone. My family, your family.” She broke off with a pained gasp, her eyes falling away. “Watching all those children learning to fight today gutted me. They shouldn’t have to defend their lives because of what I’ve brought upon them.” A sob shook her frame. “They don’t even know the truth—that the Maclarens forced you into marriage.”
“Actually, I did it for a horse.” He tapped her hip. “A very valuable horse. Which I still have to collect, by the way. Not that I’m complaining about the other very pleasurable benefits to marriage thus far.”
She scowled up at him. “Brandt, they’re fighting for a lie.”
“Sorcha,” he said gently, grasping her chin. “Look at me.” Damp, agonized eyes met his, and Brandt drew his thumb across one tear-tracked cheek. “I love you.”
Her pupils sharpened, her lips parting on a silent gasp. “You love me?”
“More than life. Regardless of where we started, we are here together. I’m here because I want to be. With you. I’ve found my family because of you. I was able to save my mother, my brothers, and my sister from a tyrant because of you.” He kissed her softly. “If you won’t hear me in English, I’ll say it in Gaelic until I’m blue in the face.”
A watery smile tugged at her lips. “All that?”
“Well, maybe not all,” he said, gathering the love of his life close. “Maybe just I love you, then—tha gaol agam ort.”
Sorcha’s eyes pooled with tears again, but her grin was luminous. “Well done, though your pronunciation needs some work. Your tongue needs to roll the vowels.” She reached up to cup his jaw, her tongue darting wickedly into his mouth. “Like so.”
Brandt pursed his lips, thoughtfully. “I may be in need of more lessons.”
“Happy to oblige,” his wife replied saucily. And as he scooped her into his arms, the last thing Brandt was thinking about when her sweet tongue took his to task was Gaelic.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Everyone had been wrong as to when Malvern would arrive.
Feagan sounded the horns as dawn broke across the skies. They did not have an extra day to prepare. They did not even have the morning. Malvern’s army was spotted crossing Buchanan lands to the south, at least a thousand men, most of them Scots. Sorcha cursed her countrymen but understood their betrayal in the same breath. Many of their families were starving, banished from land and home, and Malvern would have offered them more coin than they knew what to do with. The scouts had reported that the army flew the marquess’s colors, but Malvern himself had not been spotted.
Dressing quickly, Sorcha wondered whether he would even show his face. He was not known for braving the front lines with any of his infantry during a battle. No, he stayed in the rear, in relative safety like the gutless coward he was. Brandt hurried back into the room, his face tight. He wore the Montgomery kilt again and looked every inch the laird of his clan. His eyes snapped to hers, opening in surprise. She had worn Montgomery colors, too, a sash made from his plaid draped over her shirt and belted over her breeches.
He drew her into a swift kiss. “You’ll need to stay here with the women and children. They will need you to defend them.” Brandt’s eyes met hers, his heart in them. “You’re the only one I trust with my mother and Aisla.”
Sorcha nodded. She wanted to be on the front lines with him at his side, but she understood his fear—he had only just found his family. She grabbed her husband’s shirt by the fistfuls and dragged him to her for another hard kiss. “Don’t die.”
He shot her a wicked grin as they descended the staircase. “I won’t. I plan on thoroughly seducing my Gaelic teacher. I’ve a feeling she finds me bonny.”
Which would explain why she was smiling when they reached the bottom of the stairs. Her amusement faded quickly. The great hall was filled with pale-faced women and children. Aisla and Catriona were at the middle of it, giving instructions and calming those who were crying. There were a lot of tears, and for good reason. Montgomery was about to be under attack, and just days after it had been freed from the bleak rule of a madman. Sorcha hurried to where Aisla was waiting and stopped, stock-still, as the girl turned to face her.
She was dressed in a blue shirt, men’s breeches—Callan’s, Sorcha presumed—and boots. But that wasn’t what shocked the words from Sorcha’s mouth and made her heart constrict painfully. Three lines of green pigment slashed one half of her face from brow to cheek, much like Sorcha’s own scars.
“Ye’re the bravest lass I know,” Aisla said. “I wanted some of yer courage.”
Sorcha was struck speechless. All she could do was take Aisla’s shoulders in her hands and squeeze, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. It was unimaginable that another person would look upon her scars as a symbol of bravery, and yet here this lass stood, her war paint mimicking the scars Sorcha had always been made to feel ashamed of.
Never again.
“We’ll take courage from each other,” she told Aisla, and meeting Catriona’s gaze, then several other women standing around them, she added, “We are not helpless women. We stand together, protecting the wee ones and fighting as warriors here, should any of Malvern’s men make it through. We are Montgomerys, and we defend what is ours!”
Heads nodded, gri
m but resolute expressions transforming many of the panicked faces she saw. Sorcha felt her husband’s hand on her waist, and she turned to him, sinking into his embrace. She breathed in his scent, the one her body had already memorized, and ran her palms over his broad shoulders. It was tempting to hold on to him, to cling to him and command that he come through the battle unscathed. But the other women were watching her, and as their lady and laird’s wife, she had to display the same courage she’d just demanded of them. She had to be worthy of the painted scars on Aisla’s cheek and brow.
“Say it again,” she whispered.
Brandt’s lips moved against her forehead. “Say what?”
“That you love me,” she answered. He’d said the words a handful of times before, and they’d caressed her body and soul as well as any part of his body could. She needed to hear them again, and in the privacy of her own mind, she admitted why: because it might be the last time.
“I love you, Sorcha,” he said, kissing her temple, then her brow. “And I’ll tell you as much every day for the rest of our lives. Our very long lives, in case you were thinking any different.”
She smiled, not surprised in the least that he’d read her mind.
“And I love you, husband,” she said, and after raising her chin to take his mouth in a fast kiss, she pushed him away. “Now go, and think only of the fight. I’ll take care of things here.”
She watched Brandt draw in a long breath, as if drinking in her face to carry with him into battle, and then with a short nod, turned to exit the great hall. As soon as he was out of sight, the sounds around her came into focus. The women had begun to plan their own positioning within the cavernous hall. Aisla was pointing out the alcoves on either side of the room where the children could crouch and hide for the duration of the battle. Catriona had gathered a group of women to prepare a corner of the hall into a makeshift infirmary, and Sorcha realized the wounded would be brought here as well.
My Scot, My Surrender (Lords of Essex) Page 30