Page 37 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt stared at her disappearing shape and nudged Ares into a canter. By the time he got to a rambling cottage in the direction she’d ridden, Lockie was tied in the nearby stable, munching happily on a bucket of oats.
A small boy who looked to be no more than ten standing beside Lockie gave him a friendly wave. “Och, the lass said ye’d be along soon.” His brogue was thick as he eyed Ares. “Wha’ happened to yer horse?”
“He got tangled into some wire.”
The boy’s eyes widened to huge round orbs. “Are ye Sassenach?”
“No, but I was raised in England.”
“Ye talk funny.”
Brandt shrugged. “I suppose I do.” He leaned conspiratorially down to the boy. “What doesamadanmean?”
The lad gave him a delighted grin. “It means idiot.”
Indeed, he was that and more. Brandt gave Ares a brief rubdown and settled the horse beside Lockie. Running his fingers along the horse’s gray flanks, he stroked down its nose. The horse nickered and turned its head into his shoulder.
“At least I’ll have you,” he murmured. “Even if I can’t have her. No matter what your mistress thinks, she deserves better than me.”
Sorcha was nowhere in sight, but he expected she was already inside. He thanked the boy and made his way to the cottage. It was a tiny, well-kept place, though he could see that recent repairs had been made to the wooden planking. He knocked on the front door, and it was opened by a pleasant, plump-cheeked lady who all but dragged him to the kitchen where his wife was face-deep into a bowl of stew.
“Yer man is a fine-looking one,” she remarked, pointing out a chair for him. Sorcha scowled into her stew. Cherub-faced children peeped at him from behind a nearby door and scampered back when they saw him staring. They had the look of the boy from the barn.
“I’m Mrs. Maxwell,” she said and placed a hearty bowl of stew on the table. “Sit and eat up, lad, afore it gets cold.”
He offered her a clipped bow and took the seat. “Thank you, madam.”
“Och, lad, so proper,” she said, fanning herself. “We dunnae get many visitors around here. Yer wife said ye were travelin’ through to Inverness. That’s where Mr. Maxwell is, ye ken. For the wool.” She bustled around the small but cheery space, shooing two children from underfoot. “If ye’re lookin’ fer a place to bed doon, ye can sleep in the barn, but ’tis no’ any place fer a lord and his lady. Sorry that we’ve no’ go’ the room.” She grew embarrassed. “The nearest monastery’s a full day’s ride west.”
Brandt had no desire to put this kind family in any danger, and the shorter the amount of time they tarried here, the better it would be for all concerned, especially with Coxley on their heels. No, they would camp in the woods.
“We’ll be on our way. You’ve been very generous, Mrs. Maxwell,” he said as he tucked into the savory stew. After eating nothing but venison, salted meat, and beechnuts during the endless journey north, it was delicious. “Thank you for your kindness and the wonderful meal.”
She blushed. “Dunnae fash yerself, lad. ’Tis a right pleasure.”
Sorcha said something in Gaelic that had the children bursting into laughter. Brandt knew it was likely about him, though he was grateful he hadn’t heard the wordamadanthrown in there. Clearly, she was still furious; she wouldn’t even look at him.
Her cold silence continued until long after they’d eaten and been packed up with vittles for the road. Brandt noticed the odd looks Mrs. Maxwell was giving them, and she pulled him aside at the door when they were leaving.
“A bit icy lately, aye, lad?” she whispered. “Yer lass is wantin’ fer yer affection. Dunnae wait too long, ye ken.”
She winked, her meaning evident, and Brandt found himself flushing dully. Good God, since when did he require advice on sexual congress from a sheep farmer’s wife? Was the tension between Sorcha and him that obvious? To his consternation, Mrs. Maxwell gave him a hearty pat on his behind and winked again. “Get the wee lassie with a bairn, and she’ll settle right doon.”
For the briefest of seconds Sorcha met his eyes, as if she had heard what Mrs. Maxwell had whispered in parting, and the ensuing image of Sorcha pregnant with his child stole every rational thought from his head. She would be radiant. But Brandt knew it would snow in hell before he’d let that happen, no matter how much he desired her. He had no intention of spreading his bastard seed about, not for all the horses in Scotland.
Heading west in the direction of the monastery, they did not speak for the first few hours. Brandt busied himself with the counting of sheep again, then cattle, and then boulders. In all that time, Sorcha had not so much as glanced in his direction. He was beginning to long for Malvern’s men to come along so he, at least, would have a diversion. Soon, he grew weary of his own company and pretending to be a human abacus.
It was an odd turn of affairs. Normally he was a man who loved his solitude. Valued it, even. Now, the abundance of it was driving him mad.
Kicking Ares into a canter, he pulled alongside Sorcha. Her face was stony. “You know, most men would long for a wife who doesn’t speak,” he began conversationally.
“Ye don’t want a wife. Ye’ve made that abundantly clear.”
Success! The first words that had left her mouth in hours. “I’m becoming quite partial to the way you fall back into your Scots brogue when you’re angry.”
She looked like she wanted to jump from her horse and pummel him into the ground. Her lips flattened into a line as she increased Lockie’s pace. Ares kept up easily. “Can’tyousee I wish to be alone?” she snapped.
Her emphasis onyouand her rounded vowels were not lost on him. Brandt smiled. He preferred her temper to the cold silence she’d subjected him to for the better part of the day, and he couldn’t help goading her. “Young ladies tend not to know their own minds.”
