Page 22 of My Scot, My Surrender
Ronan’s face hardened, something glinting precariously in his eye. A muscle flexed in his cheek. When he spoke, her brother’s voice was little more than a snarl. “And ye think ye can provide safety for her, Sassenach?”
Brandt did not react to the underlying threat. “A damn sight better than you can. And the name is Pierce. It would serve you well to remember it.”
The growl came from deep within her brother’s chest, and from the corner of her eye, she saw his gathered men draw closer. Sorcha moved to throw herself between the two of them, but quickly found herself restrained by Duncan, Ronan’s first man, who had been standing beside Ronan. He was two heads shorter than her brother, but no less lethal. Brandt dropped a murderous look to Duncan’s hands on her arm and clenched his jaw.
“Cat got yer tongue,Sassenach?” Duncan laughed.
Sorcha could have sworn she didn’t see Brandt move, but suddenly she was in his arms, and his pistol was pointed at Duncan’s temple. Shouts filled the room as every man outside rushed the doorway, and only Ronan’s raised fist stopped the ensuing melee.
“The fact that you’re still alive is your warning,Scot,” Brandt hissed to Duncan. “Put your hands on her again, and she will be the last thing you ever touch.”
“Stand back,” Ronan said to his men, keeping an alert gaze on Brandt.
The man had surprised her brother, which was nearly impossible to do. Hell, Brandt had surprisedher. She didn’t know anyone could move so quickly. Clearly, neither Ronan nor Duncan had expected it either. They both studied him with a measure of grudging respect. Duncan seemed undaunted by a muzzle in his face, but then again, he’d faced death and won more times than he could count.
Brandt moved her gently but firmly behind him, keeping the pistol cocked and ready. Did he mean to protect her from her own brother? From Duncan? She’d known the man since she was in swaddling; he would never lay a finger on her without say-so from Ronan. But Brandt didn’t know that. Her heart felt encased in butterflies’ wings, and her chest suddenly shrunk two sizes.
Good God, you ninny, get ahold of your wits, she told herself sternly.All this is for the blasted horse, not you.
Sheknewit was all a bloody act for her brother’s sake… Brandt was protecting his investment, as he’d said. But for the space of an indulgent breath, she let herself wonder what it would be like to be cared for by a man such as Brandt. One would never have to fear for anything.
A wretched tremor shook her. If she were fit, perhaps such a dream could be possible. But men like him deserved women who were sound in body. And she was not.
Furious with her stupidity, she shoved past Brandt and glared viciously at Duncan. “Get out.”
He obeyed after a look from his commander.
“Enough, Ronan,” she said through her teeth. “I was the one to marry Mr. Pierce at Finlay’s and Gavin’s insistence. What’s done is done, and either ye deal with that or ye take yer men and trot back to Maclaren. Blustering yer weight about is no’ going to help anyone.” Her voice broke, her tongue shortening vowels and falling back to her brogue. “I didnae want to marry Malvern, and Mr. Pierce agreed to help me.”
To her everlasting surprise, Ronan’s scowl relaxed slightly. His stare panned to Brandt. “Why are ye doing this? Ye don’t owe her anything. Ye don’t even ken anything about her.”
Sorcha’s gaze shot to Brandt as well. Would he expose what was truly motivating him? That he was doing all this for Lockie?
“Because she sought my help.”
“And ye give it, just like that, even if yer own neck is on the end of the rope?”
Brandt nodded. “It was the way I was raised.”
Sorcha stifled a snort. The way he was raised, her arse. He was an enterprising horse breeder who had taken advantage of a windfall. Now that Ronan was here, Brandt could take Lockie and go without a backward glance. Technically, she was safe. Andsafelymarried. An annulment could come later. The tug of disappointment took her by surprise.
“Strange ways for the English.” Ronan’s tone was disparaging. “They care naught for anyone. No’ even their own.”
“I’m not English.”
Ronan grinned and cuffed him on the shoulder. “Ye sound like one.”
Sorcha could feel Brandt relax at her side and knew the worst had passed. Something had changed between the two men—an acceptance, an understanding, perhaps. The tension disappeared like a receding wave. Ronan hadn’t given any signal, but suddenly the men in the yard were unpacking and preparing to settle down for the night, without any bloodshed.
“Who’s yer clan, then?” Ronan asked.
A muscle rippled along his jaw. “My Scottish mother abandoned me at birth, so your guess is as good as mine.”
Sorcha flinched at the stony, sharp-edged coldness of the words. It was clear he held his mother in little esteem, and rightly so. Any woman who would abandon her own baby suffered from a complete lack of moral decency.
“I’m sorry.”
His gaze pivoted to her. “You needn’t be. She means nothing to me.”
