Sorcha wasn’t the only one ogling her husband as the men worked—Briannon couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off her duke. It was obvious they were very much in love. They made a handsome couple. Sorcha wondered what their daughters looked like and made a mental note to ask Briannon later if she had any portraits of them.
A whimsical sensation fluttered in the pit of her stomach at the thought of bairns, and her gaze swept to her husband. Brandt had never mentioned them, though he had never taken any precautions during their lovemaking not to conceive. In truth, Sorcha had never seen herself as a mother. Or perhaps she had never allowed herself to imagine it because of to whom she’d been betrothed.
Though now, with Brandt, envisioning her own family—with bairns who inherited his beautiful fey eyes—suddenly seemed like heaven.
…
Brandt leaned back in his chair on the dais watching the dancing unfold. Nearly a week of feasting had gone by and yet, no one showed any signs of slowing down. Sorcha’s mother had arrived the day before, which had necessitated a new round of festivities and marriage celebrations.
Though his wife favored her father in coloring, Brandt could see where she had inherited her backbone of steel. Lady Dunrannoch was a slight woman with chestnut-colored hair. Her eyes were also blue, though not the same vibrant shade as her daughter’s. And she was English, hailing from Cumbria, which meant that she and the Duchess of Bradburne had a few acquaintances in common. They sat together at the table, heads bent and smiles on their lips, their husbands engaged in similar conversation. Archer had promised to do what he could to have Tarben Castle and its holdings returned to the duke once Malvern’s properties were seized.
Sipping some excellent whiskey that Archer had brought from the Earl of Langlevit’s Dumfries estate, his glance drifted to the throng of dancers. He’d narrowly escaped being dragged to the middle of the hall due to his healing leg, but the truth was, he’d rather watch.
Brandt’s gaze sought out Sorcha, who was dancing with Ronan. He would never tire of watching her…whether she was swinging a sword, dancing a Scotch reel, or riding him while caught in the throes of pleasure. She lived life with so much passion, it astounded him. Even now, dressed in a sapphire gown befitting a duchess, she exuded a vitality that made his blood simmer. Her dark hair was pinned in glossy ringlets away from her face, her scars in prominent and proud view. She had never looked more beautiful.
“Ye get that look on yer face every time yer thinking of yer wife,” Callan said, plunking down on one side of him. Patrick sat down on the other. “’Twas the same look that young bounder had with our Aisla.”
Brandt’s eyes narrowed as Niall escorted Aisla back to one of the lower tables for some ale. The two had been getting too close for his comfort as well.
“I could give him a wee thrashing,” Callan suggested with a hopeful look, but Brandt shook his head.
With the amount of testosterone in the hall, any scuffle would turn into a big bloody brawl without much provocation. Sorcha’s middle brother, Evan, was spoiling for a fight, since he had missed out on the battle, and Brandt would rather not indulge him.
“Aisla can handle herself,” he said. “What of you two? No lasses to tempt your palates?”
Patrick shot him a rare smile, his eyes brimming with amusement as a group of young ladies sighed and stared despondently toward where they sat. “There’re so many of them that Callan doesnae ken what to do with himself.”
His brother puffed his chest and winked. “’Tis no’ my fault the lasses find me bonny.”
But Brandt noticed it wasn’t only Callan getting attention. A few of the women had their eyes on Patrick. Brandt suspected it would take his brother some time to loosen up, without the specter of Rodric hanging over his shoulder every minute.
Patrick leaned in as Callan took his leave once more to dance with a buxom blonde. “I’ve been thinking that I’ll head south with Lord Bradburne when he leaves. Travel for a bit. See London and surrounds. He offered to introduce me to London society.” He trailed off uncomfortably. “Now that ye are laird, I mean. Before my place was here, but now…”
The decision did not surprise him. Brandt expected it was twofold. Patrick did not want to hover as the new laird found his feet, and he also wanted to be free of the ghost of his father, who had chained him to his duty from birth. At least for a time. Brandt understood the inclination.
“Go where you must, but know that your place is here, brother,” Brandt told him. “This is your home, and it always will be.”
“Thank ye,” Patrick said. “Ye’ll look after Mother, won’t ye? And the wee lass, too, though I expect that’ll no’ be easy. I dunnae ken what’s gotten into Aisla.”
“With my life.” Brandt grinned, knowing exactly what—or who—had gotten into their sister. “Have you told Callan? I daresay his head might just explode.”
Patrick laughed, the uninhibited sound drawing a startled glance from their mother. “I’ll send for him for a visit once I’m settled.” He stood. “In the meantime, I spot a beautiful lass who needs rescuing from an over-ardent Maclaren.”
Brant watched the carousing for a few moments longer and stretched out his leg, wincing at the twinge. It wasn’t hurting him but tended to stiffen after a while. He kneaded the cramping muscle with the heel of one palm.
“Is it paining you?” a worried voice asked.
He looked up into the gleaming blue eyes of his love, who stood beside his chair. Sorcha’s cheeks were bright with flushed color, and Brandt couldn’t help himself. He reached for her arm and drew her down into his lap.
“Brandt,” she gasped.
“No one’s watching,” he said with a low laugh. “They’re all dancing.”
“Everyone’s watching. Including your mother, and mine.”
He kissed her neck, breathing in the fragrant scent of her. “Actually, they look like they’re plotting how many heirs they should expect.”
Guarded eyes the exact shade of her glittering dress met his. She swallowed and gathered her lower lip between her teeth. “Heirs?”
“We should probably start thinking of that, don’t you think?”
“Now?” she said on a breathless gasp.
Brandt grinned at her one-word answers. “I love throwing you off-balance and making you speechless. Though I much prefer doing it with my tongue in your mouth.”
“Brandt!” But her color had heightened, and he could feel the clench of her thighs on top of his. He was sure that she could also feel the thickened shape of his arousal, a constant affliction, it seemed, whenever she was near.
“I want you,” he told her in a rasping whisper, his knuckles skimming down between their bodies to her trim waist. “I want to put bairns in this flat stomach of yours. I want to see you become round and luscious and beautiful. I want part of me to grow inside of you.”
Her mouth went soft and her eyes grew dark at his words. Words he never imagined he’d utter, but everything had changed. He had changed. And it was all because of the radiant woman cradled in his arms.
She crawled out of his lap and stood as if he hadn’t said a thing, her beautiful face reserved and expressionless. Then she bent and licked his ear, making aching parts of him throb. “Meet me upstairs in fifteen minutes and dunnae be late, ye ken.”
Her hoarse brogue was a seductive promise that nearly unmanned him. It took Brandt more than the allotted fifteen minutes to calm his raging erection enough to stand and not invite ridicule, and another forty-five to take his leave. By the time he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, his body was almost bursting with anticipation. No doubt her punishment for his tardiness would be dire. Brandt opened the door and closed it, his eyes feasting on the sight that awaited him on the bed.
His gorgeous wife was naked.
And asleep.
With a low chuckle, Brandt undressed, climbed into bed, and then proceeded to wake her in the most delicious way possible. He made love to her with exquisite slowne
ss, bringing her to ecstasy with his hungry tongue and hands before allowing himself his own shuddering release. And afterward, when they lay in each other’s arms, spent and satiated, Sorcha looked at him with all the love in her eyes, her hands pressed to her belly. “I hope you succeeded.”
“Me, too.”
“What do you think he or she will be like?” she whispered as he pulled the blankets over them and drew her back into his chest. Brandt curled his body around hers in a protective embrace, one arm tucked beneath her breasts. He kissed her bare shoulder.
“Strong. Brave. Fierce.”
“With your eyes,” she said.
He drew his fingers through her long glossy locks that felt like satin in his fingers. “And your hair.”
“Your quiet reserve,” Sorcha added. “And your humility.”
“Your love for life. Your courage.”
She tilted her chin toward him, and Brandt took her lips in a soft, sweet kiss. “They’ll be loved, won’t they? Any children of ours?”
“Without a single doubt. And even if we didn’t have this tremendous extended family of ours placing wagers on my manly prowess as we speak, any child would be cherished and adored by the two of us.” She laughed, and he stroked her cheek. “I love you, Sorcha, and I will treasure any child made out of that love.”
“I love you, too.”
Brandt held her close as sounds of the revelry from belowstairs drifted up to them. But there was no other place he preferred to be. Montgomery was a place. Worthington Abbey had been a place. The circle of his wife’s arms would always be his home, he knew that now. And for the first time in all his five and twenty years, Brandt’s sense of restlessness eased.
Sorcha shifted in his arms, turning to face him. “I forgot to tell you about my dowry. My father brought the documents turning the land over to you.”
“I don’t need any land.”
“You’ll want this one,” she said. “It’s rich in a vein of cairngorm crystals, remember? Scottish topaz. It was why Malvern wanted his hands on it so badly.”
It could have been chock full of diamonds for all Brandt cared. Mesmerized by the feel of her velvet skin, he stroked his fingers along her arm, dipping to the curve of her waist and the sensual rise of her hip. “I already have the most precious gem of Maclaren lands in my possession, albeit it’s one in the rough.”
Sorcha poked him in the shoulder with a mock scowl, but her voice was small when she spoke. “It’s true I am rough around the edges. I’ll never be like Lady Bradburne. She’s so refined and elegant. I feel like a fumbling lummox beside her. Are you sure this…I’m…what you want?”
“Too late to change your mind now, Your Grace,” he said with a wolfish grin. “And only a true Highland lass will do. Ye and yer horse.”
She pouted prettily. “Ah, I see. This is about Lockie. I should have known.”
“Aye, he’s mine.” His grin widened. “And ye’re mine, ye ken?”
“I ken,” she said smiling at his play.
“And I happen to like your edges.” To make his point, he dragged a slow finger up over her hip bone. “These and these,” he said, moving to the point of her elbow and up each rib before filling his palm with her scarred breast. Her nipple tautened to a tight peak between his thumb and forefinger. “And especially these.”
“Brandt—” Her voice was a breathy moan.
“The real question is,” he said, “whether you’re willing to be my lady.”
She threw one limber thigh over his and dragged her fingernails lightly over his chest. “What does that entail?”
“A certain amount of compliance.”
Sorcha licked at her lips. “You mean submission?”
“More like surrender.” Brandt shifted to crawl over his wife’s body. Lifting his weight upon his elbows, he hovered over her, his hips poised over hers. He circled lightly, eliciting a delicious sound from her lips as his unyielding hardness met her pliant softness. “Of the most pleasurable kind.”
His wife grinned and wrapped her long, strong legs around him before thrusting her hips upward and over to flip him on his back. “I’ll surrender to anything as long as you’re here by my side.” Her wicked laughter filled the room—and his heart. “Or beneath me as the case may be.”
They’d been her words the first time they’d made love, but now they were his.
“I am yours.”
Epilogue
Three years later, September 1822
Worthington Abbey, Essex
Screams of bloody murder filled the gardens at Worthington Abbey, making every last hair on Brandt’s body stand on end. Good Lord, half a dozen children could make a bloody racket. The Duke of Bradburne’s estate grounds had been awash with chaos the last week, ever since the house party had gotten under way. Five days, to be exact. Five long, strained days. Brandt sat back in his chair in the gardens and rubbed his temple, a snifter of whiskey gripped in his other hand as he caught sight of his son, Rabbie, and the Bradburne heir, Brandon—Brandt’s godson and namesake—toddling along on matching chubby legs while being chased by their hapless nannies.
It wasn’t that he was not overjoyed to be in Essex again. It was only his second time returning to his childhood home since he’d become the Montgomery laird and Duke of Glenross. The first had been to arrange for the transfer of his stables. Lockie, as he’d imagined, had made a fine addition, taking well to Rosefire, the mare he’d had in mind for breeding. He and Sorcha were well on their way with a third foal…a colt who had the makings of a champion.
His precious horses aside, he’d also had much to oversee the last few years in the Highlands, helping to turn the settlements and farms Rodric had long neglected into profitable livelihoods again and earning the respect and trust of his clansmen. Despite his true Scottish roots, he was still a Sassenach to many—mostly because of his clipped English accent—but he hadn’t made an enemy yet, and Sorcha assured him it would take only another decade or two before they started to admit they liked him.
It also wasn’t as though Briannon’s guest list had been filled with names he did not recognize. No, this wasn’t like the ostentatious ton house parties that the old Duke of Bradburne had been accustomed to holding when Brandt and Archer were lads. This was a reunion, with he and Sorcha, along with the Viscount and Viscountess Northridge, and the Earl and Countess Langlevit all in attendance for the next fortnight. People Brandt truly liked and cared for, and not one of them someone with whom Brandt felt the need to make hollow, pleasant talk.
His discomfort over the last five days had nothing at all to do with his surroundings and everything to do with his wife.
From his seat, he watched Sorcha and Lana, Lady Northridge, strolling through the arbor, one of his wife’s hands pressed against the curve of her lower back while another pushed a pram. Lana guided a second pram as they walked an idle pace. The cut of the dress Sorcha wore attempted to conceal the swell of her stomach, but the heavy afternoon breezes were not only rustling the rose shrubs and shaking the trellis, they were also gusting against the yellow fabric, shaping it around the full expanse of her rounded, very pregnant abdomen.
The doctor in Montgomery had been certain by his count that the babe would not come for another month or two at least, and so Sorcha had insisted on attending the reunion to celebrate the Duke of Bradburne’s birthday. Briannon had been planning it for so long, she’d argued, and who knew the next time all of them would be able to converge at the same time? He’d relented, unable to deny his lovely wife anything she wanted so desperately that she’d promise not to sit a horse or lift a bow or tax herself in any way.
But they had barely arrived in Essex when Brandt saw the faint frown etching her brow, and the heavy, shadowed look in her eyes. It had been a little over two years since she’d last entered labor, hours later delivering a dark-haired, hazel-eyed boy that Brandt had instantly fallen head over heels in love with. They’d named him Robert William—Rabbie for short—after both
grandfathers, and since then he and Sorcha’s lives had revolved around him. But two years had not been long enough for Brandt to forget the way his wife had looked a day before she’d gripped her stomach and announced it was time. The frown etching her brow, the shadowed look in her eyes.
And now five days had passed, and every day she grew more reserved. Quieter.
“Just keep drinking,” came the advice of the earl sitting beside him. Langlevit smirked into his own snifter of whiskey. “I was in your very shoes months ago.”
Considering the earl’s twin sons—John and Gregory—currently nestled inside the prams Lana and Sorcha were pushing, were six months old, Brandt figured his concern was as transparent as water.
Langlevit’s wife, Irina—enjoying a well-needed respite in the chair beside her husband as her sister, Lana, took her nephews for a quick turn about the garden—chucked the earl lightly on the arm. “Nonsense, Henry. Lady Glenross will have an easy time of it when her babe decides to arrive. Don’t worry His Grace unnecessarily.”
The countess’s labor had been long and difficult, Brandt knew, and from what Sorcha had imparted in whispered confidence just the other night, Langlevit had admitted to Irina that he’d been afraid he’d lose her. But she had come through, and their infants had been hale and hearty. Though Brandt thought he saw a remnant of worry ghost across the earl’s eyes as he gazed at his wife.
Birthing was no easy or assured thing. Healthy in body and mind, Sorcha had done well with Rabbie, and Brandt couldn’t stand to consider any alternative with this second babe. Still, she looked exhausted. And ready. But it wasn’t time…and that was what scared him most of all. Because if the babe came early, it portended complications. Foretelling due dates wasn’t an exact science. Even Rabbie had come a few weeks after he’d been due, which had been another of Sorcha’s arguments to travel to Essex.
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