She stilled her hands. “Then why is it you sound so sad?”
Surely, he missed his father, but from what she recalled, it had been many years since his death. Sorcha also couldn’t help noticing that he hadn’t used the word love. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one he was running from.
“Because he never told me the truth,” he answered. “Though I think he might have tried. Near the end. I can’t be sure, the words were muddled, and he never finished his sentence. At the time, I thought was trying to reassure me that being a bastard shouldn’t matter. But now, after Lady Glenross insisted I wasn’t bastard born…”
“What do you think he wanted to tell you?” she asked.
Brandt shrugged. “That I belonged somewhere. That I had a home with kin and people who shared my blood. But blood doesn’t necessarily mean family.” He paused as if thinking through his words. “Family is in the heart.”
“Then why did you want to come here?”
He went quiet for a long time, though his body remained calm. He shifted, digging into his pocket to retrieve the ring he’d tucked in there earlier. They both stared at it, cupped in his palm. The Montgomery colors seemed to burn brighter, the thread of gold shimmering through the blue and green crest on its surface.
“You could show her, you know,” Sorcha said softly. “Rings like these are heirlooms for a laird’s family.”
He twisted the ring in between his thumb and forefinger. “Which was why I thought it was one of the laird’s sisters. But now I’m not so certain.” His voice broke slightly upon his whispered confession. “We have the same eyes, Sorcha. Lady Glenross and I.”
Sorcha stilled. She’d been sitting on the duchess’s left and the woman had never once looked at her directly. Her mind tumbled over itself. There was little resemblance between them, if any at all. She was fair-haired and slight, while his looks and build favored the laird. What did he mean they had the same eyes? Did Brandt think he was her son? With Monty, or the late duke? If it were the latter, then that would make him…Diah…the Montgomery heir.
“Brandt, do you think the duchess is your mother?”
His entire body stiffened at the hushed incredulity in her tone. “I’m not entirely sure what to think.”
A new rush of tension coiled underneath his skin, and Sorcha wanted only to soothe it away. Her attempts to get him to talk had worked, but besides the memory of those birthday muffins, thoughts of his father—or the identity of his mother—only seemed to make Brandt more upset. She wanted him to unwind, to bask in the soothing sensation of her fingers, as she always did his. Even now, she worshipped the feel of his body. She wanted more, though. More than just touch. And she wanted to give him more.
Blushing at what she was about to do, Sorcha forced her fears away. He was her husband…at least for this moment. She might not know much about marital accord, but she knew he wanted her. And want was a powerful motivator.
She leaned forward, over his shoulder, pushing her hands lower under his shirt, across his front. Her palms filled with his hard pectorals, his muscles leaping at her touch. Her fingertips brushed over each nipple, and she saw him shift his hips, readjusting his seat in the chair. His body went tense, but it was a different kind of tension. This one made his pulse speed up, his heartbeat quickening beneath her fingertips. Primal satisfaction curled through her.
“What are you doing?” His voice was a dark rasp that scraped along her senses.
“Touching you.”
He inhaled sharply as her fingernails grazed gently over his nipples once more. “I don’t think—”
“Then don’t think. At least not right now,” Sorcha whispered, her lips so close to Brandt’s earlobe that she could not help but dart her tongue out to taste it. “How does this feel?”
He made a grating noise in his throat before clamping his hands down upon both of her wrists. “Dangerous,” he said, his voice slightly hitched.
Brandt held her so firmly that she’d instinctively arched backward before she relaxed into him, letting her breasts come to rest against his shoulders as she’d craved doing earlier. The scent of his warmed skin wafted into her nostrils, and she inhaled deeply. Her mouth watered, and her nipples ached from under the confines of her bodice. Once more, she gave in to the inclination to taste him, scraping her teeth along the column of his throat beneath his ear. His body jerked as Sorcha lapped and nibbled her way down his neck, while her trapped fingertips scoured the shelved muscle of his torso. She wanted to taste every heated inch of him.
“We both seem to tempt danger,” she whispered into his ear. “Don’t we?”
“Why are you doing this?”
She tried to be as blasé and as self-possessed as he had been with her. “It’s just pleasure, Brandt. Nothing more. Let me do this for you.”
In response, he angled his chin upward and caught her lips with his. The kiss was dark and carnal, his hot mouth clinging to hers. A moan escaped her as his tongue delved deep in search of hers, finding it and coaxing it between his teeth until her knees felt like rubber. Her fingernails scraped gently against his taut chest, and the low fierce growl in his throat made her wild. Sorcha kissed him back just as fiercely. Just as possessively.
Still gripping her fingers, Brandt released her mouth and her hands and drew her around the side of the chair. The heavy-lidded look in his eyes made every drop of blood burn in Sorcha’s veins and turn to liquid fire between her hips. God, one scorching glance from him was all it took to make her want to tear off her clothes and throw herself at his mercy.
“Sorcha, we both know where this road leads.”
Brandt’s words were at odds with his eyes and the thumb insistently stroking over her knuckles. He wanted her to resist him. As if she could do such a thing. She was hanging on to decency by the slimmest of threads, and she had no intention of walking away. Not from this. Not from him.
She licked her lips, and his eyes settled on her mouth. “Do we? Are you a savant now?”
“It is unwise,” he murmured.
“Don’t worry, leannan, your virtue will be quite safe, I promise.”
Brandt chuckled as Sorcha made the decision for him and sat in his lap. He was aroused. Impressively so. He groaned as she wriggled against him, the rigid length of his erection settling in between the gap of her thighs. This time, slowly, teasingly, she leaned forward to catch his mouth with hers. His eyes darkened as her tongue slipped out, licking the inside of his upper lip before biting gently upon his full lower one.
Brandt’s arms banded around her, pulling her flush to his chest, and he took her mouth with a ravenous, uncontrolled hunger. A pulse of worry wicked through her. Not worry exactly…more like breathless thrill. Excitement. She had never seen him like this. Brandt had always been so controlled, so in possession of all his impulses, but now he seemed almost feral, as if driven by dark desires he no longer wanted to keep at bay. Sorcha responded in kind, biting, sucking, licking deep. And when his mouth moved to her throat, she flung her head back in abandon. She wanted him to see exactly what he did to her. She could feel his arousal beneath her, growing harder by the breath.
Cradling his head, she gasped as he massaged her breasts over her bodice. And when his fingers closed around one of the aching peaks, pinching gently, she moaned her approval. His mouth moved to her neck, trailing down in wet nudges and bites that made her senseless. The day’s growth of stubble abraded her skin deliciously as he laved and sucked her flesh. Sorcha couldn’t wait. She wanted to feel him. Lifting her weight slightly, she slipped her hand beneath her legs to close around him.
Brandt tore his mouth from her skin, his stormy eyes darting to hers when her fingers gripped the thick length of him through his trousers. Without taking her eyes from his, she slipped off his lap and onto her knees, wedging herself between his parted legs.
“Sorcha…” he said in a hoarse voice, his hand falling on top of hers at his groin. The hard flesh beneath her hot fingertips jumped.
“Let me,” she whispered.
After a searching look, Brandt lifted his hand. He was just as lost to passion as she was. Perhaps more so. And Sorcha wanted nothing more than for him to lose every bit of himself in pleasure. Briskly, she undid the fastenings to the fall of his buckskins. She’d felt him against her at the river, caressed him in her palm, but nothing prepared her for the proudly erect sight of him. He was beautiful and so devastatingly masculine, it took her breath away. Sorcha swallowed hard as her fingers cautiously encircled his girth. He was thick and warm and heavy in her grip, his body pulsing in hot, powerful surges.
“Bloody hell, Sorcha,” Brandt swore, clutching the sides of the armchair with brute force.
Suddenly, she was gripped by a paralyzing anxiety. Brandt’s face was contorted, his jaw clamped tightly and eyes screwed shut. In pleasure? In pain? Was she hurting him? She had no idea what she was doing. He’d liked her massage before. Perhaps it would be the same for this part of his body. With a tentative motion, she rolled her fingers along the shaft, pressing gently, trying to gauge his reaction. Brandt’s eyes flew open, dilated, and a muscle hammered to life in his cheek.
“Do you like this?” she asked.
“Yes,” he gasped, one hand reaching out to cover hers. He stroked hers up and down from base to tip, and then back again. “Like so.”
She was an apt student. Once she got a rhythm going, his hand fell away, and indistinct sounds of pleasure left his lips. Emboldened by her success and his response, Sorcha dragged her thumb over the rounded blunt end of him, fascinated by the pearl of moisture she found there. His skin was boiling hot, so sleek and silky hard that she couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to him.
Brandt almost bucked out of his seat as his entire body shuddered.
“You don’t have to do that,” he gritted out.
But she wanted it. Sorcha wanted to bring him the same bliss he’d given her. She opened her mouth and took him inside. Her husband’s growl was primal and bestial. It made lust explode within her with the force of a thousand stars. She drew him deeper, teasing the ridge with her tongue, testing him, learning the shape of him. His spicy male scent made her dizzy, and his smooth, salted taste made her mouth water. She wanted to swallow every delectable inch of him.
Sorcha almost laughed. It was nigh impossible to fit all of him in her mouth, but she was determined to try. Using her hands and her mouth in unison, she delighted in the moans and coarse words that emerged from his lips as she continued her exploration…licking here and nibbling there. Watching to see how his body responded. Every muscle on his stomach clenched, his legs like stone on either side of her. She reveled in her power over him. Heat pooled between her legs as his breathing grew more ragged, his hips rolling upward into her mouth at a faster pace. She knew what it signaled from the last time he’d rocked frantically against her at the river. His release was close.
Clamping her damp thighs together, she felt something inside her own body tremble, and sensation rippled through her. It was nothing like the pleasure she’d experienced with him, but her entire body felt tied to his…tethered in some kind of sublime harmony.
With a guttural cry, Brandt gently disengaged her from him and moved one hand down to his groin. He drew her up with his free hand until she was splayed over him in his lap, rocking her wet, trembling core against his hard thigh and sobbing with her own unexpected release. A few frenzied strokes later and he thrust upward, spilling his seed between them with a deep groan of satisfaction.
Breathing harshly, Brandt rested his forehead against hers. Neither of them moved for several interminable moments. With a sound of contentment, he wrapped one arm about her, cradling her against his chest and nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck.
Sorcha craved the words that such intimacy brought. But she knew it was a hopeless wish. They would find pleasure in each other’s arms, but not love.
She was ashamed to admit she would rather have that than nothing at all.
Chapter Eighteen
Brandt stretched his legs under the heavy sheets and blankets and turned his face away from the bright morning sunlight slanting through the mullioned window. He didn’t want to wake up, even though the temptress he’d slept beside all night had been sliding her bare legs along his for the last quarter hour as she slowly rose out of her own dreams.
Despite most of the Montgomery keep’s occupants being less than friendly, the bed that Sorcha had finally persuaded him to sleep in last evening had cradled his travel-weary back and limbs with all the tenderness of a pair of angel’s wings. Having Sorcha tucked beside him, her rhythmic breath gusting against the hollow of his neck, had only added to the sensation of being transported to heaven.
Then again, the hard, pulsing tightness of his erection this morning had a distinct quality of hell.
Brandt was trapped between two desires as he lay there in bed, listening to the sounds of a castle rising for the day—chickens clucking, voices out in the courtyard, footsteps passing by their bedroom door. He wanted Sorcha on top of him, rubbing out his need with frantic thrusts of her hips, and he also wanted her away—so that he could stop wanting her so damn much.
She was passion incarnate, and she made him yearn with the same ravenous need. All he had to do was think about her, kneeling between his legs, her sweet velvet lips wrapped around his length, her tongue running in slick, endless strokes from root to tip, and another jolt of pressure filled his already straining erection. Damnation, if he didn’t get up right now he’d lose whatever sanity had kept him from spreading her legs and doing the unthinkable.
In the light of morning, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d kept his trousers on all night, the fall buttoned up. But when Sorcha had asked him to hold her as she slept, he hadn’t been able to deny her. Not after the pure, raw pleasure she’d given him. And herself, he knew. She’d come apart in his lap, her center warm and wet through her drawers as she’d rocked against his thigh. It wouldn’t have taken much to shift her to the side, drive himself into her, and find pleasure together, as one.
But then what? Brandt squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to force away the dull ache of his groin. Hell, they were less than a week away from Brodie lands. After one more day of rest for Ares, they could be on their way again. With the Brodie and her sister, Sorcha would be safe from Malvern, and his promise to Ronan would be met. Brandt would not leave her until he was confident in her brother-in-law’s ability and promise to protect her. Only then would he be on his way back to Essex. Back to the life he’d led before he’d ever visited that damned fated common lands festival.
He tried to picture it in his mind. Worthington Abbey and the stables. Pierce Cottage, where he lived, quiet and content. And alone. Bits and pieces came to him, but they seemed to float through his mind, refusing to settle into place. Instead, Sorcha’s light lavender scent wafted into his senses, and the bright, clear picture of her riding Lockie, galloping in front of him, her long raven hair loose behind her, struck him. He heard her chiming laughter in his memory. Saw the bridge of her nose crinkling whenever she smiled.
A knock on their bedroom door brought him back to his senses. Brandt shifted himself up against the pillows as a maid swept into the room. It wasn’t Morag, but another older woman, and she paid the two of them no mind at all as she went to the windows and pushed the drapes aside, letting in more light. Sorcha rolled over and stretched, her feet tickling Brandt’s shins.
“The duchess is waiting for ye both in the great hall to break yer fast,” the maid announced as she placed a fresh ewer of water and a new length of toweling near the washbasin.
“Thank you,” Sorcha said, her eyes tracking the maid as the woman laid out Sorcha’s own dresses, now laundered and mended, upon a bench at the base of the bed.
Brandt shifted himself away from Sorcha but didn’t get up. It was bad enough his own wife was going to get an eyeful of his uncomfortable state. He didn’t need this maid bl
ushing as well.
As soon as the maid had closed the door behind her, Sorcha sat up, clutching the blankets to her breasts. She wasn’t unclothed, but the shift she wore was of a fine cambric. When she’d climbed into bed, the torchlight doused and the fire in the hearth crackling low, he’d still been able to see the dusky points of her nipples.
His lips twitched in a half grin. “Need I remind you about the river?”
Her chin hitched as a playful scowl pinched her features. Sorcha dropped the blankets and swung her legs over the side of the massive bed. She strode to the bench, collected one of her dresses, and then, with a sly glance over one shoulder, replied, “I don’t think we would arrive in time for breakfast if I reminded you of the river.”
Brandt held his breath as she disappeared behind the privacy screen to dress. Sweet hell, she was going to drive him to madness. He needed no reminder to envision her, emerging drenched from the chilled water, her nipples taut, her hips swaying freely, every stunning inch of her figure outlined. While the sight of her in wet linen had been downright erotic, he’d still had no idea what she looked like fully naked. Brandt frowned, remembering her plea not to remove her shift. He’d forgotten, too caught up in the feel and taste of her to put much thought to it. Now, he wondered.
He got up, his erection barely constrained by the cut of his trousers, and quickly washed at the basin before throwing on his shirt and boots. By the time Sorcha emerged, dressed, his erection had ebbed, if only because of the frigid water in the ewer. He did not know if he could withstand another chaste night in that bed with her.
Hell, he’d never imagined avoiding his husbandly duties would be so excruciating.
The annulment was nonnegotiable. He needed to give his word, for her sake, to the Brodie laird, that she remained a virgin for her next husband.
His stomach clenched with a rush of something unpleasant. Next husband. It wasn’t the first time he’d considered the true reason for leaving her a virgin, but it was the first time he felt like punching something hard because of it.
My Scot, My Surrender Page 22