Page 21 of My Scot, My Surrender
“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 totalkhim 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 allianceandinsulted 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 surprise. 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? ToMalvern? 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.”
