Page 25 of My Scot, My Surrender
“She told you, it was her choice,” Brandt answered, his jaw smarting from where Ronan’s knuckles had nearly taken off his head. “I offered nothing that wasn’t accepted.”
Silence reigned in the dark clearing; the only sound disturbing the peace was their discordant breaths. “And so that’s it, ye’ll just take yer prize and leave without nary a care for her at all?”
Brandt wasn’t going to answer the question, but the accusatory tone in the man’s words struck him. He didn’t much care for it. “I do care. Your sister is brave and fearless and deserves better than either Malvern or I can give her.”
“What if she’s with child?”
Brandt didn’t expect the notion to spear him with such force, though of course there was no possibility that she could be. Then again, Ronan didn’t know that. “She’s not.”
“And her heart?”
“It was never part of the bargain,” he said quietly. “I am not your enemy, Ronan. We both want the same thing—her safety from the marquess.”
“No, ye just want her horse.”
“I’m not that callous, but yes,” he admitted. “That, too.”
The silence stretched interminably between them, until Ronan shifted in the darkness. Brandt braced himself uneasily for a renewed attack, but it never came. Ronan cleared his throat, sighing heavily several times, and when he spoke, there was no anger in his voice.
“Next time, be more vigilant,” he said. “Malvern has a habit of sending scouts forward. He doesnae care about how many men he loses, only that he wins. Before he inherited his father’s title, he was like that on the battlefield in France, too. Putting his own men at risk to safeguard his worthless hide, ye ken. He’s naught but a coward, and a ruthless one.” Ronan spit out a mouthful of blood. “Christ, ye’ve got a decent throw. I think ye loosed a tooth.”
Brandt didn’t admit that one of his ribs felt painfully tender as they began walking back toward the cottage. A thin line of orange and purple now trimmed the horizon of trees.
“Thank ye for what ye did for Sorcha,” Ronan said after they’d gone a few strides in silence, each of them nursing their aches.
The guilt sluicing through his veins was not unfamiliar. “Of course.”
Ronan grunted fiercely. “Malvern’s men will be on yer trail. Ye’re welcome to travel with us until the crossroads south of Sinclair lands. ’Twill be safer than on yer own. About a day’s ride west, then ye can journey on south from there.”
“Thank you.”
“I am in yer debt.”
Brandt shook his head, uncertain if he wanted any lingering connections to the Maclarens. “The price for my help has already been agreed, as you know.”
Grimly, Ronan met his eyes. “Mydebt, Pierce, no’ my sister’s. I will no’ forget that ye saved her from that monster.”
…
Sorcha glanced over her shoulder at the man following on horseback. Riding atop his scarred stallion, Brandt was deep in conversation with her brother. She squashed the burst of pleasure that flared through her at the sight of him. It was no use letting herself feel anything. He’d be gone in a day.
She was surprised that he hadn’t departed south at dawn, but supposed it made sense for him to travel with the protection of Maclaren soldiers, especially in unfriendly territory. And she couldn’t deny it had been an unexpected gift to be able to ride Lockie once more. Tomorrow, she’d have to turn him over into Brandt’s hands and truly say good-bye. He’d take care of the stallion, at least. For all his hard edges, she knew Brandt would be gentle with any horse.
A vague memory of fingers caressing her face crossed her mind, and a man’s voice telling her she was beautiful. Sorcha shook herself roughly. Dreams were impetuous, unruly things—giving voice to one’s deepest, most hidden desires. She was not beautiful in the least, and it would do her no good hoping to be so, even while she slept. And even if ithad beenhim, she’d already spent half the night convincing herself that Brandt’s departure would be for the best.
That morning, when they’d readied the horses, she couldn’t help noticing the bruising Brandt had on his cheek or the fact that he’d clutched at his ribs a few times while saddling Ares. She’d also noticed that Ronan cradled a sore, equally bruised jaw. She frowned. They’d come to blows in the middle of the night, but neither of them was amenable to talking about it. At least not to her.
She urged Lockie into a faster run, pulling abreast of Duncan, who led the line of rapidly moving horses. She arched an eyebrow and hooked a thumb to the two men at the rear. “Ronan didn’t have that mark on his chin yesterday. Neither did Brandt.”
“’Twas a misunderstanding. They couldnae see each other in the dark, ye ken.”
Sorcha frowned. “What were they doing out there in the middle of the night? Brawling?”
“Ask Ronan,” Duncan replied gruffly. “He’ll tell ye if ye ask nicely.”
“And where are we heading?” she added. “Brodie’s to the northeast.”
Duncan shot her an aggrieved look.
