Page 52 of My Scot, My Surrender
The man bowed and wheeled the horse around. “Aye, follow me.”
Brandt noticed that the two brawny men with him did not release their grips on the hilts of their broadswords as they fell into line behind them. His body tensed at the sensation of them riding just beyond his peripheral vision, but there was nothing he could do. He could feel their curious attention on him as well. Perhaps he had the look of his mother. Lord knew he’d never favored Monty with his shock of carrot red hair and blue eyes. No, Brandt’s coloring was more muted…his hair a deeper auburn than true red, and his eyes were hazel. Fey eyes, Monty used to call them because they changed color so much.
Children gathered as they rode past, their faces alight with interest and curiosity. They ran alongside the horses, hooting and hollering. At one point, Brandt heard “Beast of Maclaren” called out, but he couldn’t be sure. Sorcha must have heard it as well because she stiffened, though she held her back upright and her chin at an imperious angle. His hand tightened on her hip in a reassuring motion.
“It’s fine,” she said shortly. “Haven’t I told you? I am legend now.”
He opened his mouth but quickly shut it when he saw the corner of Sorcha’s mouth bow into a smirk. Perhaps she didn’t mind the name so much after all, though he imagined it must have taken a number of years for her to settle with it. He saw the way the children widened their eyes in awe and even the grudging hesitation of the warriors leading them when they’d first learned her name. Her scars were legend because she was.
As they neared the gates leading up to the keep, the man in front raised his arm, and they slowly swung open. Men in the nearby training fields stopped their work to gawk. Sorcha made a soft exclamation of surprise.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There aren’t many of them,” she said in a hushed breath. “Fighters. We have dozens more soldiers at Maclaren. My father used to say that the former Montgomery laird was a great warrior, and no one dared take up arms against him.”
“Perhaps there are more than what we see here now. Besides, they aren’t expecting trouble, and their lands are quite protected.”
As they passed by the ragtag band of men, Brandt couldn’t help noticing that, though Sorcha drew their attention with her scarred face, he was the one who kept it. Mouths dropped open in shock, and heads bent together to whisper. His fingers clenched again.
“I told ye, I am fine, Brandt.”
He blinked at the reappearance of her brogue. “For once, I don’t think they’re talking about you, Sorcha. I think they’re talking about me.”
“Why would they be—” She cut off abruptly as they passed a group of women who dropped their washing as they saw him and crossed themselves.
“’Tis a ghost, surely,” one of them mewled, her eyes wide with fear.
Brandt frowned. Aghost? Things could not have been stranger, but the feeling of uneasiness grew as they approached the massive stone steps of the keep. A huge man stood in the archway at the top. His face matched his guards—fierce and unsmiling—as he bent his head to listen to what his first man had to say. Brandt reckoned it had to be the Duke of Glenross, the laird of Montgomery. But as they drew near, his pulse started to pick up speed.
The man on the steps could have been his brother. A much older brother, perchance, but the resemblance was there in the wide slope of his forehead and the angular planes of his cheekbones. They had the same nose, though Brandt’s had been broken once in a London boxing ring.
Sorcha noticed it, too. “You look like him,” she whispered. “Perhaps that is why they were all gawping at you. Your mother could be a relation to the laird.”
Brandt did not answer. They dismounted and walked up the steps. The duke’s hair was brown, not auburn, and though he was tall, he appeared to be a few inches shorter than Brandt.
“Lady Maclaren,” the duke boomed. “I bid ye welcome. Ye and yer husband. I am Rodric, Duke of Glenross and Laird Montgomery.”
Glacial blue eyes passed over him with the same interest as everyone else in this bloody clan, but there was a malevolence beneath it that Brandt felt to his bones. The duke was not a good-humored man. Something dark and ominous glinted in the pale depths of his eyes. Brandt remembered what Sorcha had said he was called—Mad Montgomery—and he made a vow to keep an eye on him.
“Though,” the laird went on, “I was surprised to hear of yer nuptials. Were ye no’ betrothed?”
Sorcha nodded, her face giving away nothing. “The betrothal was broken.”
Rodric’s frigid eyes cut to Brandt and assessed him as one would a piece of exotic horseflesh. “Ye’ve the look of a Montgomery,” he commented. “Where are ye from?”
“England, Your Grace,” Brandt said. “Essex.”
The duke’s eyes widened at his clipped English, and an odd expression broke across his face. “’Tis a verra long way, England. What brings ye here, Sassenach?”
“My father was kin to the Montgomery. He passed several years ago and bid me come pay my respects as his last dying wish.”
He felt Sorcha tense next to him at the white lie, and the lack of mention of the ring. Something told him to keep the ring hidden from the duke. He did not trust the man. Neither did Ares, who whinnied a few feet away and seemed agitated.
Rodric noticed. “What’s wrong with yer horse?”
“He’s injured, Your Grace,” Brandt said. “He would be happy for a good meal and a warm place to rest if you have room in your stables.”
The duke raised his arm, and two stableboys hurried forward. Brandt watched as Ares and Lockie were led away. Brandt wasn’t worried. The horses the warriors had ridden earlier had seemed in good health. They were treated well, and Lockie and Ares would be, too. He and Sorcha, on the other hand, were a different matter. The gazes from the clansmen had not abated in the least, and Sorcha was also getting her fair share of attention.
