Page 34 of My Scot, My Surrender
He gave a short, sharp whistle and a few moments later, Ares and Lockie appeared through the short ridge of trees. Sorcha got up on wobbly feet, gaping at the horses.
“How—” she started to say.
“Ares,” Brandt answered, taking his horse by the traces and rubbing his nose. “He can always find me.”
And he’d brought Lockie along on the hunt, she figured, smiling with no small amount of relief as she stepped out from under the outcropping and reached for her mount’s intact saddlebags. Inside she found one of several tins and glass vials, all of which contained salves and ointments, herbs and tinctures. Exclaiming her delight, she pulled a thin tube from the satchel.
Brandt eyed her. “What is that?”
“It’s a salve my mother made. She’s a healer. I’ve picked up a few of her skills here and there, though I’m no means as good as she is. This liniment will accelerate the healing.”
Gathering more supplies, she sat on the ledge and drew a deep breath. She tucked the hem of her shirt high, exposing a pale swatch of her torso. She didn’t miss the way Brandt’s gaze scoured the display of skin before he angled his head away. Blushing, she stifled the burst of modesty. She was careful not to raise the hem too high, to keep the grotesque web of scars above it hidden from view. She’d sooner die than let anyone, much lesshim, see her ugliest secret.
Gingerly, she unwrapped the dirty bandage, recoiling at the sting as the dried, hardened linen tore at her exposed flesh. It was not a bad cut, but she knew more than anyone how injuries could fester if not properly cared for; one speck of dirt left in a wound could undo everything. The reason the ones on her face hadn’t succumbed to infection and left ugly, puckered scarring was because of this very balm. The ones on her body, sadly, had become septic, and though the salve had been applied, the mangled skin, even after the stitches had been removed, had left behind a grisly patchwork.
Brandt watched her as she poured some clear liquid from another bottle onto a cloth and gently dabbed at the incision. She bit her lip hard and tasted blood. It stung, but pain now meant less of it later.
“Let me,” Brandt said, crouching and taking the cloth from her.
She didn’t protest, but as before when he’d first cleaned the wound, she gripped her forearms tightly over her breasts. He skimmed softly along the cut, and she winced again. He bent to blow gently on it, his breath feathering against her skin. The unexpected combination of his warm exhalation and the icy sting of the liquid made her gasp. But it was when he gripped her right hip to steady her that a different kind of sensation radiated through her veins—a crude, frantic sort of sensation that both thrilled and terrified.
Sweet Saint Andrew.
The press of his fingers left a scorching imprint upon her flesh, burning through her clothes and making infernal urges take flight as desire spun into a storm inside of her. She’d never been more acutely aware of a man in her life…his big hand clutching her, his mouth gusting on her exposed stomach. Every feminine part of her throbbed.
Sorcha nearly levered her body upward, if only to make contact with the parted lips that hung inches away from her skin, expelling that stream of cool air. She wanted him to press his lips to her skin. To kiss her everywhere, scars and fears be damned. The span of his hot palm together with the sight of his head bent over her torso caused her inner muscles to clench almost violently. Christ, if he did put his lips on her, she might very well faint from the pleasure.
Her body alternated between acute pain and intense arousal as he ministered to her wound, and by the time he was finished, Sorcha was strung as tightly as a bow. Brandt lifted his palm, and she could swear that the shape of his hand remained imprinted on her hip. Blushing fiercely, she reached for the salve but was too slow.
“Do I just swipe it on like this?” he asked, smearing some ointment onto the pad of his finger. His voice was husky, his eyes heavy-lidded, which made her feel like she had not been the only one affected.
Incapable of speech, she nodded.
And nearly died when his hot fingertip grazed her skin. Gooseflesh erupted everywhere. On her ribs, her torso, her breasts. With infinite care, he rubbed in the balm while Sorcha clung to reason by a slim thread, unraveling by the second, as every greedy inch of her burned and begged for more. One more stroke and she would splinter into a thousand pieces right there and then.God. It was torture. Exquisite, hideous,excruciatingtorture.
His thumb grazed the linen gathered beneath her forearm covering the underside of her breast, and she stifled a shriek. A desperate sound born of longing and a healthy fear of discovery.
“That’s enough,” she gasped, rising and tugging her shirt down.
Putting a few healthy steps between them, she drew a ragged breath at the sting from the balm and fetched some more strips of linen from her bags. Without looking at him, she deftly wrapped the bandage and tucked the shirt into her trousers before rewrapping her plaid. His eyes met her, smoldered across the space, and Sorcha resisted the urge to strip herself bare and leap at him.
Gulping a lungful of air, she backed farther away and added another thing to her list of dislikes. She hated feeling trapped. She hated crying. And she bloody well hated this brain-melting, wit-consuming, goddamnedwanting. It had even somehow been powerful enough to steal away the sensation of pain. Surely, that wasn’t natural.
“We should go,” Brandt said, his voice huskier than normal. “Put some space between us and Malvern’s men.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
A hell-for-leather, bracing ride on Lockie wouldn’t be unwelcome, either, to put herself to rights. She was truly shameless. Her brother could be dead, and all she could think about was dragging the man standing two feet away to the ground and having her wicked way with him.
Sorcha hesitated, guilt returning in force as she thought of Ronan. Brandt eyed her, correctly interpreting her expression. “Your brother’s only wish was for your safety, Sorcha. Even before you met me, he planned to get you away. Don’t let whatever you hope to do by going back there get in the way of what he wanted.” His words flowed over her like the salve on her skin. Calming. Soothing. “Ronan will find you.”
If he isn’t dead.
“He’s not, Sorcha,” Brandt said, reading her. “He would move mountains to see you safe. Death is a paltry enemy for a warrior like him.”
Huffing a shallow breath, Sorcha stared at the stranger she had married, at the conviction on his face. No man, outside of her father and brothers, had ever been so mindful. He had no reason to be here but for a promise made to her brother to see her safe. He’d already won Lockie. There was nothing in it for him to comfort her, though he did it anyway.
Once more, the slightest intuition of danger settled over her, as if she were standing in the shallows of a loch and about to step into precariously deep waters. It wasn’t because of Coxley or Ronan. It wasn’t because they were alone in the woods on the run from a mad marquess. Or because she’d sustained an injury.
