Page 32 of My Scot, My Surrender
Diah, she was more of anamadanthan he was. Sorcha hissed through clenched teeth. She’d call herself a fool in Gaelic, English, and every other language if she had to. She was no damsel to be rescued, to be scooped into a man’s arms—no matter how sinewy they were—and whisked to safety. She could bloody well take care of herself. Ignoring the burn in her side, she resumed her pounding.
“How dare ye manhandle me! Who do ye think ye are!”
The chill air coming off the river hit her back, and she knew they had come to a crossing. Brandt splashed through the shallow fjord.
“Your husband.”
She wriggled, flinching at the sting in her ribs. “Husband or no’, ye don’t have the right!”
“Oh, I do,” he replied huffing. “Even in this Godforsaken place there is law, and by law you are my property. I can do with you as I like.”
Brandt emerged from the river, the splashes of water having soaked Sorcha’s hair, tumbling down over her face. He kept moving, holding her firm even as she struggled for release. Howdarehe? She wasno one’sproperty!
“Ye brute!”
“Give up,” he grunted.
“Never!”
Blood rushed into her head and through her ears, but within a few minutes the noises surrounding them suddenly muffled. The bright dappled sunlight darkened. And when Brandt finally crouched and slid Sorcha from the prison of his shoulder, she realized he’d taken them into the shelter of a rocky outcropping. Her vision spun from the sudden shift of blood flow, draining now from her head, and Sorcha stumbled.
Brandt’s arms came up and locked her in a steadying embrace. He was breathing heavily from exertion, his skin ruddy and misted with sweat from carrying her. Perspiration had dampened the curls of his hair, turning them to burnt copper as they clung to his brow.
She shoved at him, even with her head feeling faint and black speckles swimming in her vision. “Ronan’s my family, and ye made me run like a coward!”
“You’d have been nothing but a distraction, and you likely would’ve gotten him killed!”
A spear of guilt lanced through her chest.Like the others.She’d gotten the other men killed. Good men. Husbands and sons. Brothers and fathers. Back home at Maclaren their families would mourn them, and they would know…they would know their loved one had died trying to protect a selfish woman.
She felt her body sag, the anger swirling inside of her snuffing out like a doused wick.
“Sorcha,” Brandt murmured, trying to gather her close. She wanted to let him wrap her in an embrace. Wanted to drink in the comfort his arms and strong body offered. But she shook her head and pulled away. This time, Brandt released her.
“Don’t,” he said as she turned from the mouth of the outcropping and sank into a crouch.
“Don’t what?” she asked.
“Don’t blame yourself.” She stiffened, uncertain if she liked, or was annoyed, by the fact that he could read her so well.
“Easy for you to say,” she said.
“It isn’t easy.” The stone cavern reverberated his voice, making it seem louder. Closer. “A part of me is angry with you. Furious even, that I am here, caught in this mess and running for my life. Even to gain a horse I’ve wanted for years—that’s now likely lost for good—it’s more than any sane man should be expected to bear. That part of me longs to cast blame on you.”
Sorcha hadn’t expected such a brutally honest reply. It made her twist and stare up at him. And there was no denying that it gutted her.
She exhaled a ragged breath. “Then why shouldn’t I blame myself? If you do?”
“I said I longed to, but Sorcha…I can’t.”
Brandt dropped into a crouch, too, coming face to face with her. The gold-flecked, autumn-colored eyes that held hers glowed in the muted light. A bevy of emotion—sorrow, compassion, understanding—chased through them. Her chest hollowed with a sudden sharp ache, one that left her confused.
“If for some reason I woke up and found myself back at the festival that day, I’d let you kiss me all over again.”
More heat saturated her, but this time it wasn’t guilt or temper. It swam low in her stomach and snaked out to her thighs. She stared at him, her lips parting in surprise. “Why?”
“Because no woman should ever be made to marry a man such as Malvern. Because I want you to fight,” he answered, his hand reaching for her face. His fingers, the ones that made her skin tingle and flare with every random touch, tenderly stroked her cheek. “Because you wouldn’t be the woman your brothers know you to be, the woman I’m beginning to know, if you’d just lain down and given up.”
She watched his lips moving and heard the words falling through her ears, into her aching, needy soul. They filled her and immediately pushed the tears she’d been holding at bay over the rims of her eyes. He swiped the first few teardrops as they fell, before tugging her close. Sorcha didn’t fight him. She was tired of resisting, and his hands weren’t the enemy. This time, she let him fold her in his arms, both of them sitting on the hard-packed dirt of the cavern.
