Page 78 of My Scot, My Surrender
An hour more passed before they were ready to rise, wash, and dress. Brandt did not want to miss Rodric at breakfast. There were things that had to be said, and truths that had to come to light. It would not come as a surprise if the duke already suspected the truth himself, what with Brandt’s uncanny resemblance to his late brother and the fact that he had his wife’s eyes. But Brandt knew that Rodric was not a man to be underestimated. He’d been laird for as long as Brandt had been alive and was indubitably cunning.
Sorcha slipped her fingers into his as they walked from their chamber to descend the stone staircase to the breakfasting hall below. It felt good to have her at his side—to know he could depend on her strength and her counsel. He’d told her what he’d planned to do in the wee hours of the morning, after their bodies had been satiated to the point of exhaustion. They’d lain spent in each other’s arms, unable to stop touching as they’d spoken about the future.
“You won’t be going to the Brodie,” he’d told her.
Her heart had been in her eyes. “I won’t?”
“No,” he said. “And I’m going to challenge Rodric as the rightful heir.”
“Is this truly what you want?” she’d asked.
He’d thought it over for a long moment, there in the quiet of the dawn hours with his wife curled against him. Other choices were still open to him—he could go back to Essex to his old life. He would not give Sorcha up, so she would have to return there with him. Archer’s influence would protect her from Malvern should he follow. But what kind of life would it be? Brandt was wealthy, and she would want for nothing, but she would still be the wife of a mere stable master and horse breeder.
He was the son of a duke. She was the daughter of one. Sorcha deserved the life she was meant for, and he wanted to give that to her. He wanted to give hereverything.
“Yes,” he’d replied finally. “I want you. And I also want Montgomery.”
“Brandt, I would be happy in Essex.”
“I know,” he’d said and kissed the protest from her lips. “But you belong in Scotland. And so do I.”
Now as they stood on the threshold, she squeezed his hand. He kept their palms joined as they made their way to the table. Rodric was there with his family, though today two of his men stood at his back. The big, older one, Feagan, and his lackey, Seamus. Rodric’s stare speared Brandt and then fell to their linked hands.
Brandt saw the way his eyes narrowed and turned calculating. The man missed nothing. Patrick lifted his eyes from his plate, but offered no greeting. Callan and Aisla smiled thinly before dropping their own gazes as if to avoid the censure of their father. Brandt glanced to his mother, but did not linger. She seemed drawn, her hands fisted together in her lap. For a moment, Brandt wondered at the conversation before he and Sorcha had arrived. Everyone seemed unnaturally tense.
“A word, laird,” Brandt said. “In private?”
Rodric waved a patient hand. “Whatever ye need to say can be said here.”
“In front of your men?” he asked. “This is a family matter.”
The glare Rodric leveled upon him would have made a lesser man quail. Brandt did not. Bullies did not scare him, especially bullies who were cowards at heart and murdered innocent men for their own gain. The duke’s mouth pulled wide in a smile. “Speak then, for they are no’ family and neither are ye.”
The opening was there. Brandt took it. “Actually, as it turns out, Iamfamily. I am your nephew.” It grew so quiet in the hall that the sounds of the sparrows chirping in the field were clearly audible. “I’m the son of the man you claim fell to his death so many years ago. The man you called brother.”
Rodric’s face did not change. In fact, no emotion crossed it whatsoever, which made Brandt suddenly uneasy at the duke’s complete lack of empathy. “Go on. Surely ye have a point with yer blabbering of ancient history.”
The pain that slashed across his mother’s face nearly undid him. His mouth hardened. “Regardless of whether it’s ancient history as you say, I am still the son of Robert Montgomery, and I challenge your claim as the rightful Duke of Glenross and laird of Clan Montgomery.”
The resulting noise was deafening. Patrick shoved his chair so hard that it smashed to the floor behind him. Aisla clapped her hands to her mouth with a small shriek, and Callan had started laughing. Whether it was from amusement or delirium, Brandt did not know. He felt Sorcha sidle closer. The only two people who hadn’t moved were his mother and the laird. The men at his side had drawn their weapons, their faces scowling.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” Patrick roared. “Ye are no’ a Montgomery! Aye, ye have the look of my uncle, but that doesnae give ye the right to come forward with any claim.”
“Easy, lad,” Rodric soothed and spread his thick arms across the width of the table. “’Tis no’ the first time false heirs seeking a fortune have made themselves known. A man must have proof, ye ken.” He eyed Brandt. “Have ye any proof of yer extravagant claims?” Rodric’s stare was lazy and confident. He did not expect to be contested.
Brandt nodded and reached for his wife’s hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles, before removing the ring on her finger. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes communicated everything he needed to know…her support. Her trust. He took both, gladly.
“I have this. A Montgomery ring, and—”
“Ye could have bought that at any county fair,” Patrick interrupted. “Or stolen it from someone in the keep. It means nothing.”
Brandt continued as if his half brother hadn’t spoken or accused him of thievery. “And I have my mother.”
Patrick scowled, not understanding. “Yer mother? What sort of deception is this?Whois yer mother?”
But the laird understood. His furious gaze, promising all sorts of dire punishments, swung toward his wife as she rose from her seat in a slow motion. Not a soul in the hall moved as Lady Glenross lifted her chin regally. They hushed, waiting to hear what she had to say.
“Iam,” she said in a clear, proud voice. “This man was born Brandall Cailean Montgomery five and twenty years ago, and is the only son of Robert Cameron Montgomery, the late Duke of Glenross.” Her plaintive gaze swung to her slack-jawed children, but stayed with Patrick, who looked like he’d eaten a toad. “He’s yer brother.”
