Page 67 of My Scot, My Surrender
It was why, then, Monty had changed his own name as well. And fled to Essex. The new Duke of Glenross would have had a difficult time finding him there.
“Rodric never discovered it, though?” he asked. “Your ploy?”
Catriona—hismother—sighed. “Nae.”
“And you married him.”
“’Twas no’ a choice,” she whispered. “He didnae give me one. I would have met the same fate as Robert, and ye would have nae father or mother. I wanted to survive for ye, if one day ye came back. Pherson was supposed to tell ye all when the time was right.”
“He tried,” Brandt said. “He died before he could.”
The great hall was silent, the echo of their hushed voices growing fainter by the moment. They were alone, but it wouldn’t matter if everyone was still present and listening. Brandt wagered from Rodric’s behavior that the duke already suspected who he was. And if he didn’t, it would be only a matter of time. Which meant he and Sorcha would both be in danger. At the thought of Sorcha, Brandt’s legs itched to stand.
“It has no’ all been a nightmare,” the duchess said, watching him with her heart in her haunted eyes. “I have Patrick, and Callan, and Aisla. They’re naught like him.”
Brandt held his tongue. Callan and Aisla, perhaps. But Patrick, though he’d appeared to soften for his mother, seemed the very image of his overbearing father.His murderous father, Brandt thought.
“But ye, my son,” she said, even quieter now. “Ye are the true heir. Ye have every right to challenge the laird now. And look at ye.” Her eyes shone with something unfamiliar to Brandt. An emotion he’d seen in the Duchess of Bradburne’s eyes whenever she’d gazed upon Archer. He thought it might have been pride. “Ye’re a grown man. Ye’re strong and proud, and so verra much like yer father,mo gràidh.My beloved.”
Brandt’s mind automatically shot to Monty, the man he’d called father for twenty-five years. But it was not Monty she spoke of, it was Robert.
Robert Montgomery, the murdered Duke of Glenross.
His first thought should have been to avenge his father’s name and his own stolen birthright, but instead Brandt’s first thought went to his wife. She was not Lady Pierce…she would be Lady Glenross, a duchess and wife to a laird of a powerful clan. Though Brandt had given her a false name, he had sworn an oath to protect her, and that much was still true. But to do that, he would have to take back what was rightfully his.
He would have to take back Montgomery.
Chapter Nineteen
Tucked away in a cleft in the hulking cliffside, the sprawling Montgomery keep was situated on a ruggedly beautiful piece of the Highlands. The bright morning sun shone down upon the grass in the valley, gilding the coarse grasses with golden light and touching upon the fir trees that grew in thick groves on the hillside. Patches of purple heather popped up here and there, and brightly colored spring wildflowers flourished in the rich, arable soil. Though Sorcha was a Highlander through and through, and Maclaren was beautiful in its own way, there was something wild and untouched about these jutting crags and lush glens that seemed to be just beyond the reaches of human civilization. Its ungovernable nature reminded Sorcha of Brandt.
As she walked along with Aisla after checking on the horses—Ares was almost fully recovered and would be ready to travel with another day or so of rest—Sorcha couldn’t help wonder what her husband was doing. She hoped that in speaking with the duchess, he would find the answers he’d been searching for. Now that he had mentioned it, that morning at breakfast Sorcha had been hard-pressed not to notice how similar their eyes were. Lady Glenross’s were the same shimmering brownish-green hue, flecked with hints of gold.
In truth, they’d been identical to Brandt’s.
And Sorcha would know. Those eyes of his had pierced her to her very soul the night before, when she’d sunk to her knees and done indecent things that would make a courtesan blush. But she had pleased him, that she knew. Brandt’s eyes had been clouded with desire and passion, and he had splintered apart in her arms as she had in his. He had trusted her enough to let go, and that had been more satisfying than the release itself. Sorcha wrapped her arms around her middle with a sigh.
“Thinking about yer husband?” Aisla asked with a sly look as they ambled down a narrow path from the rear of the keep toward the loch that glittered in the distance.
Sorcha blinked. “No.”
“Aye, I reckon ye were,” the girl said with a wicked grin. “Ye get that faraway look in yer eye, and ye bite yer lip as if ye were thinking about him kissing ye.”
Sorcha felt her face redden but kept her mouth shut. She couldn’t very well insist she hadn’t been thinking about kissing him when shehadbeen…though not exactly in the place Aisla had been thinking. Her flush ignited.
“I kenned it,” Aisla crowed. “Although, I would be doing the same thing if I were married to a tall, handsome fellow, too. Yer man is easy on the eyes. I’ve seen the way all the kitchen lasses look at him and twitter.” She giggled and rolled her eyes. “’Tis the same way they carry on for Patrick and Callan. Though I prefer dark-haired men, myself.”
The candid admission made Sorcha arch an eyebrow. At fifteen, Aisla could be considered as being of marriageable age. Not many men were of the same mind as her own father that fifteen was far too young. It was why he’d insisted the betrothal contract with Malvern state she had to be nineteen before any marriage banns could be posted.
Sorcha grinned at Aisla. “Have you a sweetheart, then?”
Now it was the lass’s turn to blush, but she skirted the issue by segueing into a monologue about being trapped at Montgomery and not having any chance to meet other suitors. “We never have any visitors, ye ken,” she chattered to Sorcha. “Ye’ve been the first in months. And Papa will no’ let me go with him to Inverness.” She sighed morosely. “I ken I’ll have to marry Dougal Buchanan, the smelly, pock-faced lummox.”
She went off on a tirade, pointing out the benefits of bathing and how the entire Buchanan family saw fit to be covered in mud and muck at all times. By the time they had descended to the north end of the training fields en route to the loch, Aisla was red-faced from the exertion and righteous indignation.
“Perhaps your father will let you choose your husband,” Sorcha offered.
Aisla shot her a look that suggested she was deranged for even thinking it. “Ye ken? This from the same man who boasted he would marry his own daughter to a dog?”
