Page 51 of My Scot, My Surrender
Sorcha grabbed for her plaid, pulling it around her like a shield. “Ye’re nothing but a clot-heided bastard, Brandt Pierce.”
“I know,” he said as he started to turn away toward the riverbank. “And for what it’s worth, I am sorry.”
She wanted to stand, but her legs, still limp from his efforts, and now trembling with frustration, wouldn’t hold her. “Ye can take yer bloody apologies straight to hell.”
Chapter Fourteen
The ride to Montgomery was quiet and strained. Brandt did not want to put additional weight on Ares’s injured foot, so they had agreed to share Sorcha’s horse. The agreement had been stiff and unfriendly, given the circumstances, but it could not be helped. On foot, they would be even more vulnerable and would lose valuable time. Sharing Lockie was a matter of logic and safety.
Logical decisions aside, it had been worse than purgatory from the second he climbed up behind Sorcha. The feel of her strong, svelte body made him think of things he had no business fantasizing about, especially after his brutal words. He knew he’d hurt her, but he’d had no choice. Here in the wilderness, the pretense between them as husband and wife was not the same as it would be once she returned to society.
A few of her family members had encouraged the marriage, but for the wrong reasons. And with too much haste. She would most likely be shunned by her people for marrying someone so below her in status and rejected by any influential English society. It wasn’t something he’d considered when striking their original deal, given their marriage wasn’t destined to last more than a fortnight, but should they remain married, his shame would become hers to bear. And he did not want that for her.
No, he’d done the right thing. He knew from experience that a smaller injury now was better than a larger one later. And he also knew how easily esteem could be misconstrued the more time two people spent together.
The attraction between them was mutual, and one could easily confuse lust for love in the heat of passion.
But lust wasn’t love.
He’d learned that the hard way with his faithless courtesan. Sorcha didn’t have to.
Sorcha’s spine braced forward as they climbed a small hill. It was evident that she was as aware of him as he was of her. Brandt could tell in the rigid way she held herself, as if to refrain from touching him at all, though it was unavoidable given the rolling gait of the horse. His hands clasped her hips loosely, and all he could think about was the feel of those same silken curves writhing beneath her shift. The scent of her skin. The glorious expanse of creamy limbs that had been velvet to the touch. And her taste had been indescribable.
Images of her lying on that rock, giving in to the demands of her body with so much passion, filled his mind. He’d wanted her fiercely, with a savage need he’d hardly recognized. And then what she’d done, cradling him between her thighs, taking the rough thrusts of his hips…it had excited him more than he’d ever dreamed possible. Brandt couldn’t imagine what truly being inside her would be like. Heaven. Hell. Somewhere in between.
“How much longer?” he asked hoarsely, furious with himself and willing his hardening body to subside.
“Soon,” Sorcha said tightly over her shoulder. Her voice was clipped, her posture like a stone statue. “We entered Montgomery lands a mile or so back. Word will have already reached the keep.”
Sentries would have been posted near the borders, he knew, hidden within the hills. Though it spoke of the Montgomery men’s stealthy skill, it left him slightly uneasy that he had not seen them or felt their presence as he and Sorcha had passed.
Brandt had noticed the huts dotting the hillside and the occasional farmer wearing plaids of colors he’d memorized while staring at his mother’s ring as a child. He’d wished for hours on end to know what that striped design and bold blue, green, and gold colors signified. And now he did. They were Montgomery colors. He felt a strange tightness in his chest. Was it anticipation? Anxiety? He recognized an undercurrent of fear and grimaced. He would not allow himself to be afraid. Not of the truth.
Was the woman who had birthed him even still alive? There was a good chance she could be dead, like Monty. And it stood to reason that he would show up at his family’s keep and find no answers. He didn’t even know his mother’s name.
As they climbed down a narrow pass into a lush valley protected by slanted, rocky crags on both sides, Brandt realized how well situated the immense stone keep was. It was tucked into the indent of the valley and protected, with only one point of ground entry. A giant loch shone at its back, a few fishing boats dotting its glistening surface. The loch itself was surrounded by tall mountain peaks, making a water approach difficult at best.
Brandt wondered if they would be granted asylum and protection from Malvern. Any attack from an approaching army would be easy to defend, but if the Montgomerys were allied with Malvern, the castle and its bolstered environs could become a trap. He didn’t have time to ponder that as three men emerged from the rocky crags and rode toward them on horseback. Clearly warriors, they were large, armed, and grim-faced.
“Let me do the talking,” Sorcha said quickly before the first man’s steed was upon them in a cloud of dust.
“Who comes to visit the Montgomery?” the biggest of them, and the obvious leader, asked. He was as wide as he was tall, with scars nicking his face and an untidy mane of black and silver hair.
“Madainn mhath,” she said crisply. “Sorcha of Maclaren.”
The big man’s eyes narrowed on her and then nodded as he took in her scars. “Madainn mhath.’Tis a fair journey from Maclaren, lass. Who’ve ye go’ with ye?”
Suspicious eyes roved over Brandt. They paused at his face and widened slightly, a beat of surprise breaking across his features before he schooled them back into a scowl. Brandt frowned. The man’s surprise had been one of recognition or at least some familiarity. Was there a resemblance, then? The two other men behind him pulled to a sharp stop. Their reaction upon seeing his face was the same as their leader’s.
“Och, he’s the spit—”
“Enough, Seamus,” the big man barked, cutting him off. Seamus obeyed and shut his mouth but kept his eyes glued to Brandt’s face as if he were some kind of hideous oddity. Brandt did not like the feeling in the least. He resisted the inclination to put his fist in the man’s eye.
“He’s my husband,” Sorcha said.
The big man’s attention refocused on her. “I had no’ heard ye’d taken vows, Lady Maclaren.”
“It’s Lady Pierce now,” she said with a prim toss of her head as she straightened her shoulders. “It was a recent event. Will your laird offer the daughter of the Duke of Dunrannoch his hospitality?”
