Page 73 of My Scot, My Surrender
“He still could,” she replied, her voice rising. “When he discovers who you are—”
“He already knows,” Brandt cut in. “He must know.”
And if that were the case, summoning Malvern would only help his situation. The marquess wanted Brandt dead, and so did Rodric. Men became allies when they had a common enemy…in this case,him.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Sorcha asked, turning around and rushing toward the bench at the foot of the bed. Their packs were there, their laundered clothes and all of their supplies and weapons. “They think we’re heading west, not north. We’ll wait until everyone’s at sup, and then we’ll take Lockie and Ares, and—”
“I’m not leaving, Sorcha.”
She dropped the pack she’d just lifted and turned to stare at him in incredulity. “You can’t, Brandt. Malvern wouldn’t have fought you fair back in Selkirk, and neither will Rodric. Challenging him is unwise.”
He went to her, the tension rolling off her in near palpable waves. She was afraid, and that was an emotion he hadn’t seen grip her before. His brave, fierce warrior would never let a pathetic thing like fear unsettle her. He cupped her cheek, needing to touch her and calm her. All day, he’d felt upended and astray. But not anymore. Here, with her, he saw his path clearly.
“I’m wounded, wife. Do you think so little of my skill?” he asked, attempting to make her smile.
“Of course not, but I don’t think you understand. If he opposes your claim, a challenge for lairdship is a challenge to the death,” she said, her voice breaking over that last word. She rubbed her cheek into his palm, as if seeking the comfort he offered. She sighed. “I know you’re strong. I know you can fight, but if you lose…if I lose you…”
She didn’t finish her thought, and she didn’t need to. The worry was written all over her.
“I understand what it would entail,” he said, his thumb caressing her skin. “I can’t run from this. I won’t leave my mother and Aisla to suffer the brunt of Rodric’s rule any longer.”
They were already living in a prison; his mother’s sacrifice so many years before to keep her infant son safe from harm had never fully come to an end. He had to see it through now. Rodric would never forgive her for what she’d done, and she’d pay the price in flesh.
Sorcha closed her eyes, and he could see she understood.
“And if Rodric has summoned Malvern, like you fear, it will be only a matter of time before he tracks us north, to Brodie lands. I will do anything in my power to keep you safe.” Brandt’s thumb grazed her lower lip. “To protect you.”
Her eyes opened, and he was relieved to see a glimmer of her usual stubbornness. “If you die trying to protect me, I’ll never forgive you, Brandt Pierce. Or Montgomery, or whatever your bloody name is.” He wanted to laugh, but she wouldn’t give him the chance. “You’ve already sacrificed too much for me. If it weren’t for my stupidity back in Selkirk, Malvern wouldn’t even know you existed. He certainly wouldn’t be hunting you.”
“We’ve already gone over this, Sorcha—”
“I should have left. I should have gone back to him and seen the marriage through.” Her eyes dropped from his, and she stared into his chest. He could see her mind whirling, her thoughts forming in their deep blue depths. He knew exactly what she was thinking—that she could still appease Malvern, even now, if she returned to him.
“Don’t,” he gritted out. “Don’t even think it, Sorcha. I would only come after you.”
And he would.
He’d ride through hell and fight until his last breath before he let her surrender to the bastard. He brought his other hand up and cradled her cheeks, his fingers pressing firmly into her skin. “You will never be his.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The second those damning words left Brandt’s lips, another deluge arrived, begging to be released. Words he hadn’t wanted to think, let alone say. But just as everything he’d believed about his birth mother had been turned over and reordered, so had everything he’d believed about himself and what he wanted.
Brandt had thought he’d wanted his peaceful, orderly life at Worthington Abbey, and the solitude and freedom that came with being a lifelong bachelor. He’d been so damn convinced that he’d be able to leave Sorcha with her sister, say good-bye, and be on his merry way home.
How had he not seen his world crashing in on itself?
“You are mine,” he whispered, his breath coming in staccato bursts. His body pulsed as she touched him, the hesitant press of her hands as she skimmed them up his forearms feeling more like a pair of anchors in rough waters. Her eyes were guarded, and she had every right to be. He’d been a boar. “Tonight, right now, you aremywife.”
“You do not want a wife,” she said, her nails scouring along his skin and stirring up an agonizing heat within him.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
She turned her lips into his palm and kissed him. “Then don’t push me away, Brandt.”
He couldn’t have stopped touching her if the horns blew and bells tolled, signaling an attack on the keep. Brandt angled her chin and kissed her, the brush of his lips gentle but earnest, and when Sorcha answered it, parting her mouth and dragging the tip of her tongue over his lower lip, Brandt let go.
His tongue clashed with hers, twisting and stroking as their kiss evolved into a battle of possession. She pushed against him, her breasts coming flush against his chest and her hands winding into his hair with frenzied tugs. Brandt was the first to relent. He stumbled back a few paces, his wife’s trim body surprisingly powerful. Or perhaps she only weakened his resolve. He couldn’t resist her, not when she looked at him as though he was her axis or when she kissed him as though someone might yank him from her at any moment. All Brandt wanted to do right then was please her, comfort her, give her every damned thing she’d ever wanted—and what she wanted was him. The thought alone sent a torrent of lust through him.
