Page 2 of My Scot, My Surrender
“Though you got beaten by one.”
Her opponent’s face darkened with rage as he swung out a hamlike fist, which she deftly dodged. “Ye cheated, Sorcha Maclaren!”
Brandt sat straighter in his saddle. SorchaMaclaren?
“Take that back, ye goat-faced lout!” She rushed him headfirst. It was an error on her part; she was soon hidden by the crush of Craig’s four friends.
Brandt couldn’t fault her courage. But courage or not, one woman against five men was not a fair fight. Apparently, he was the only spectator to think so. He dismounted and pushed past the cheering mob to the edge of the circle before jumping into the fray. Plucking one man up by the scruff of the neck, Brandt tossed him to the side as the familiar rush of mad strength filled his blood. It’d been ages since he’d been in a good tussle.
Warming to the task, he sent a second body flying into the crowd and rammed his fist into the face of a third to the satisfying crunch of bone. He wasn’t even breathing heavily by the time he got to the female pinned to the ground beneath the man she’d mocked, her arms banded to her sides. Struggling fiercely, she sank her teeth into his cheek, and Craig howled, wrenching back a fist aimed at her face. Brandt didn’t waste a breath before delivering a heavy kick into his side, forcing the man to suck in wind and roll out of reach. He lunged to dispatch the brute properly when he was shoved from behind.
By the time he’d knocked his attacker to the ground with one punch and turned back around, the woman was on her feet, her tunic ripped during the fracas, exposing the lacy edge of her chemise. The unexpected sight of such delicate embroidery made Brandt halt for a startled second just as she executed a well-placed kick to Craig’s nether regions.
“Ye’re a right bastard, Craig Dunbar!” she swore as he keened loudly and crawled away from her on all fours. Clearly overcome by emotion, her brogue had eclipsed her earlier proper English speech. “Aye, ye’re lucky my brothers were no’ here, ye ken? Next time I see ye, I’ll slit yer throat.” She turned on the crowd next, holding her torn shirt together. “As for the rest of ye, go find something else to gawp at!”
Brandt watched as most of the crowd dispersed, though some remained, as if to see what she would do next. Dusting the dirt off his jacket, he smoothed a hand through the locks of hair that had fallen into his face. He wasn’t fully prepared for the moment she faced him. Arrested, Brandt’s jaw slackened. Not because of her scars, but because of her eyes. Across a distance, they had blazed. At close range, the fire in them was near unbearable.
They were a startlingly deep blue, reminiscent of the Ettrick Water flowing through the village, and they held his with unswerving tenacity, her head thrown back and one hand on her hips. Seconds, or an eternity, went by. Brandt was aware of nothing beyond this woman and her bold, incisive stare. He saw intelligence glimmering in her eyes, and humor, too, as her gaze scoured his.
“You’re a Maclaren,” he said.
“I am,” she answered.
And she’d called the other man Dunbar. Which meant he wasn’t the owner of Lochland Toss.Shewas.
Brandt cleared his throat as something assessing flickered in the blue depths of her eyes. He had no time to ponder it before she released his stare and smiled, drawing his attention to her lips. Her mouth had seemed sullen from a distance, though now, it was…not. The generous curve of her bottom lip looked silky and inviting. His heart galloping slightly, Brandt’s gaze focused on the blood crusting on her cheek. He lifted a hand, and she shied away, her smile fading.
“You’ve been hurt,” he murmured.
“You’re Sassenach,” she said, her eyes narrowing, a different light coming into them. Calculating, almost.
“Scottish-born, though raised in Essex.”
“Essex.” The sound of that word on those lips made a knot of pure lust tighten in his belly. Brandt sucked in a stiff breath, growing warm as her eyes appraised him with a practiced sweep as if he were prime horseflesh on display for auction. “Do you know the Marquess of Malvern?”
Brandt frowned at the strange, abrupt question. The marquess she spoke of was a man many people in England had heard of, mostly because of his notoriously savage wartime exploits on the Continent. A cousin to the Countess of Sutherland, he was also known for his open approval of the brutal Clearances employed by the countess and the Marquess of Stafford. Still, he was a man of some influence with allies in both England and Scotland.
“I know of him,” Brandt replied carefully.
She pursed those sulky lips, drawing his attention there again. A shout that sounded vaguely like her name resonated from somewhere behind them. The lady’s gaze slid to the remaining audience with something like guilt and resignation warring in her eyes. Another shout of her name echoed, this time closer.
“Someone is calling for you,” he said.
“I should thank you,” she whispered in a husky voice that made warmth rush to his groin. “For your help.”
“You don’t need to thank—”
But Brandt’s words were cut off as she grasped the lapels of his jacket and hauled herself against him. The soft hints of feminine sweat and a touch of lavender invaded his nostrils before the barest pressure of her lips grazed over the corner of his mouth.
Brandt didn’t think…he only reacted.
Chapter Two
She shouldn’t have kissed him.
Regret was followed by a dizzying sensation at the surprising warmth of his lips. That austere mouth of his was sleeker than Sorcha expected, the spice and leather scent of him a double-edged assault. It was enough to throw her practical thoughts into disarray. And bring on a fair amount of alarm.
God above, his sheer size and strength took her breath away.
