Page 69 of My Scot, My Surrender
Excitement coursed through her veins at the thought of getting her hands on a sword, and Sorcha made up her mind. She winked at Aisla. “Come now, surely a wee hellion like you isn’t afraid of the puny rules?”
Aisla stuck out her tongue and tucked her dagger into a loop at her waist. “I’m no’ afraid to bend the rules, but I am afraid of my father’s temper, ye ken?” Her mouth curved into a smile and then widened with unrestrained glee. “Though he left early to visit the southern holdings and is no’ due to be back until sup.”
“Once we’re down there, you can try your hand at the bow as well,” Sorcha told her. “I’ll wager you’d be a natural.” She hesitated, not wanting to invite ugly consequences upon the girl. “Are you certain? I don’t wish to force you or cause trouble.”
“Aye, Papa’ll be mad as piss when he finds out, but by then ’twill be too late.”
“You can blame me,” Sorcha said with a laugh. “Insist that the Beast of Maclaren coerced you.”
“Ye’re no’ a beast,” she replied softly. “And ’twill be just as much my fault as it is yers. I’ll face the consequences gladly for a lesson with a bow.”
Sorcha was struck speechless by the girl’s sense of fairness. She couldn’t imagine how someone so innocent and mild-tempered could have been born from the seed of a man such as Rodric. She was lucky that she seemed to favor her mother, in temperament, at least.
As they turned down the path that led toward the fields, Sorcha eyed the lass skipping happily beside her. “Does your father often get angry?”
Aisla slowed her pace, her face conflicted. It was clear that she didn’t want to speak ill about her father, but it was also clear from her fearful expression that he was a man of capricious temper. Sorcha suddenly felt sick to her stomach. “He doesn’t strikeyou, does he?”
“Once or twice, though I deserved it,” she said, ducking her head in shame.
Sorcha stopped so swiftly that Aisla nearly tripped over her own two feet. Rage coursed through her blood in hot violent sweeps that any man—afatherno less—would beat upon his harmless, innocent daughter. She put her hands on Aisla’s shoulders. “Ye dunnae ever deserve it, do ye hear me, Aisla Montgomery?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Yer brogue, ’tis back!”
“Only when I’m angry,” she said with a grim smile.
“Dunnae fash, Lady Sorcha.” Aisla shrugged with a battle-worn look that was far too old for her tender years. “’Tis only a lash or two. My brothers have faced worse at his hands.”
“Are they like him?”
Knotting her fingers in the folds of her skirts, she shook her head. “Callan would no’ hurt a fly. Papa used to tell him that he was as soft as a lass’s arse, but ’twas Patrick who bore the brunt of it. One time, our father made him stand out in the fields during a storm because he was afraid of thunder. He was a wee five-year-old.” She pursed her lips. “And that’s no’ even counting the whippings and the beatings. They were men, he used to say, they had to toughen up. Callan would weep, but Patrick would never shed a tear. That’s why he seems so stoic. He kenned over the years to control his emotions. No’ to cry, no’ to laugh, no’ to be afraid, no’ to feel anything at all. ’Tis the safest way.” She broke off as if she had said too much, her face coloring with a ruddy mixture of shame, sorrow, and vexation.
“Safest?” Sorcha prodded gently.
The bleakness in Aisla’s expression made Sorcha mute. “In Montgomery, if ye care about anything, ’tis taken from ye. That’s why Callan never gets to visit the holdings. ’Tis punishment, the laird’s way of control.” She shrugged again, this time she seemed beaten. “And ’tis the reason I will be betrothed to the Buchanan.”
“I am sorry,” Sorcha whispered.
Aisla pushed a bright, forced smile to her face and linked arms with her as they crossed the last stretch of ground. “Ye are lucky ye were able to marry for love. ’Tis clear how Mr. Pierce feels about ye every time he looks at ye.”
“No, he doesn’t…” she trailed off, unsure of what she was going to blurt out, and then said it anyway, “love me.”
Aisla threw back her head and chortled. “Are ye daft? The man practically has sheep eyes every time ye open yer gob. To him, when ye walk into a room, the stars fall from the heavens and all the angels weep in yer wake.”
With a bark of laughter, Sorcha chucked the cheeky girl in the arm. “Your head is stuck in the clouds, lassie.”
“Shouldn’t a lass be allowed to dream? ’Tis the only place we are free, after all. Women are naught but chattel, pieces to be bartered for the sake of the clan. Love is no’ and will never be part of that.” She wagged a finger at her. “And dunnae think I do no’ see your sheep eyes as well, mooning after him.”
Sorcha was struck by her perspicacity, but saddened too that a girl of her age would be so cynical. Then again, having a father like Rodric would make a child age quickly. “Och, I amnotmoony. Now, come, let us show these lads what real women are made of.”
All the men stopped what they were doing as they approached the training grounds. Some of them looked angry, others surprised. Others were slack-jawed, their eyes instantly drawn to her defining scars. Sorcha strode up to the man who appeared to be in charge—a brawny soldier with a shock of tangled brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks.
“I require a sword,” she told him in a tone that communicated it was not a request.
His mouth fell open and he laughed. “Lassie, if ’tis a sword ye require, I can most certainly indulge ye. Though the sport I had in mind…’tis of a more pleasurable nature, ye ken?”
Sorcha rolled her eyes, well accustomed to bawdy talk from Maclaren soldiers. Aisla was not, from her wide-eyed expression. “Curb your tongue in front of your lady,” Sorcha berated him. “And I’ll tell you what, give me a sword. We’ll spar, and if you win, we’ll leave. If I win, you’ll allow us to try our hand at the bows and arrows.”
The man frowned as his gaze flicked to Aisla. “The laird willnae like it.”
