Page 58 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt understood the allure. White’s was the most famous gentleman’s club in London. He’d, of course, been to it only with the Duke of Bradburne. But to any young man, White’s was the exclusive, crowning glory of a gentleman’s social life in London.
Before he could reply, the duke’s voice interrupted. “White’s is a members-only establishment, ye ken,” he scoffed. “How would the pauper son of a stable master ever set foot in such a place?”
Brandt tented a slow eyebrow. “Perhaps by not being as poor as you’ve assumed.” He turned his attention to Callan. “And yes, I can assure you I’ve been to White’s.”
“How is that possible?” Callan asked with a nervous glance to his father. “If ye’re no’ a lord, ye ken?”
“The Duke of Bradburne is like a brother to me.”
Brandt was not a title-thrower, but he hoped his double entendre was clear. If anything should happen to him—or his wife—no stone would be left unturned, not even in Scotland. Though Malvern was indeed a powerful marquess, Bradburne’s sphere of influence was unrivaled. There weren’t many men in England or the Continent who had not heard of Lord Archer Croft.
“Bradburne, aye?” the duke remarked.
Brandt smiled. “Indeed.”
After a while, Rodric stood and moved to confer with one of his men who begged a word, the big older warrior who had met them on the road on the way in to Montgomery. They shifted out of sight of the great hall. At the duke’s departure, Lady Glenross seemed interested in the conversation. In fact, for the first time since she had arrived, it seemed as if she could breathe. Yet again, Brandt frowned at the thrall Rodric Montgomery held over them all.
“Ye said yer father was a Montgomery,” Patrick said.
It was the first time the Glenross heir had spoken directly to him. Brandt nodded. “As far as I understood it, yes.”
“My father doesnae recall such a man.”
Brandt inclined his head. “Perhaps it was before his time as laird.”
Lady Glenross’s head snapped up, though her eyes did not meet his. Patrick, too, seemed to notice his mother’s unusual response. She did not look at Brandt, but her low-pitched musical voice was clear. “What did ye say his name was?”
Brandt noticed that Sorcha’s attention had become focused on him. “Montgomery Pierce.”
“We had a Pherson Montgomery once,” she said softly. “A loyal lad who worked in the stables.”
Brandt’s frown deepened. Monty had been all of eighteen when Brandt had been born and he’d fled Scotland. It was conceivable that his name could have been Pherson. It wasn’t that far from Pierce. Perhaps he had simply reversed the two for anonymity after he left the only home he’d known. Once more, Brandt felt a compelling need to determine the identity of his mother. For Monty’s sake.
“I dunnae recall anyone of that name, either,” Patrick said.
“Ye were no’ even a glimmer in my eye yet, dear heart,” Lady Glenross replied, smiling at her son. It was a smile that contained so much love that Brandt could feel its warm force like a wave cresting over him. She loved her children, that much was clear, even the stoic Patrick who seemed to be his father’s man in the flesh. “’Twas a long time ago. Long before any of ye were even born, when I was but a young lass.”
To Brandt’s surprise, Patrick’s eyes softened and, reaching for his mother’s hand, he leaned over to place a kiss on her knuckles. “Ye never talk of yer childhood.”
Lady Glenross stared affectionately at her son, her gaze falling to Callan and then to Aisla. “My life found renewed purpose and hope when ye were born. A wounded heart was restored.”
Wounded from the death of her husband? The previous duke?
The duchess looked up then, her dark gaze catching Brandt’s for the briefest of moments in the flickering light, and he was filled with the strangest feeling. He could see knowledge swirling in their glittering depths before she cast her gaze away. Lady Glenross knew more than she was letting on; he would stake his life upon it. He had to keep her talking before her husband came back.
Sorcha seemed to have the same idea because she was the one to ask the next question. “Who was he? Pherson Montgomery?”
A fond smile graced the duchess’s lips. “A stableboy with the bravest heart a boy could have. He was my dearest friend.”
It was an odd answer. Cryptic at best. He didn’t understand why the laird’s wife would have remembered Monty as brave, if indeed his father had been this Pherson she spoke of. Or even how he would have won the friendship of the lady of the keep to begin with. Had he impregnated the laird’s sister? Had he been forced to leave Montgomery?
“What happened to him?” Brandt asked. “He never told me why he left.”
But before she could answer, the laird came stalking back to his seat at the table, and the duchess stared once more into her plate. Brandt swallowed a curse at the lost opportunity. The duke did not sit.
Instead, Rodric hooked a hand toward Patrick. “Declan reports that there has been an incident at the mill. Come,” he commanded brusquely before turning to Brandt and Sorcha. “My apologies for my absence. I’m sure ye understand.”
“What kind of incident?” Patrick asked, but was quelled by the glacial look in his father’s eyes. He rose and bowed. “I bid ye good night, mother. Mr. Pierce, Lady Pierce.” Patrick nodded to his sister and brother, and followed his father out of the hall.
