Page 79 of My Scot, My Surrender
The duke’s hand snaked across the table like a serpent about to strike. Brandt swung his fist down so hard to intercept it that dishes clattered to the floor.
“Don’t. Touch. Her.”
Each word was snapped with barely leashed violence. It was all he could do not to slit the man’s throat and bathe the stone floors in his traitorous blood. But the light touch of Sorcha’s fingers on the small of his back held him in place. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Callan usher Aisla from the hall after an urgent glance from their mother.
Rodric stormed to his feet, snarling. “Ye dare order me about in my own keep?”
“It’s not your keep, it was my father’s,” Brandt said evenly. “And my claim stands.”
As it was, Brandt had the proof he needed to show his legitimacy, including the word of his very alive mother. But Brandt knew Rodric would not give up what he’d stolen without a fight. By any devious means necessary. And Brandt did not plan to be near any dangerous cliffs if he could help it.
“Verra well,” Rodric hissed. “A challenge ’twill be. Two days hence.”
Brandt’s gaze narrowed as Sorcha’s fingers dug into the muscles of his back in warning. Two days was enough time for any number of things to happen. Including being murdered in his sleep. “It will be now, unless you are afraid, laird.”
“Ofye?” the duke scoffed. “A Sassenach runt?”
Brandt smiled. “I assure you, my mother will attest that my blood is as Scottish as yours.”
Rodric bared his teeth and nodded to Feagan. “Fetch my sword.”
“Father, this is preposterous,” Patrick said, his pale eyes flashing. “Let me accept the challenge in yer stead. Let me fight this…usurper.”
For a moment, a calculated look flicked across Rodric’s face.
“You could if you were laird.” The swift, quiet statement came from Sorcha. “It’s Highland law. Only the laird must prove himself worthy of rule.” She squared her shoulders, her voice carrying far and wide. “As the daughter of the Duke of Dunrannoch, I swear it to be so.”
No one said anything for a long moment, before Rodric turned and whirled out of the room, flanked by his men and followed by his glowering son. Brandt also followed, but stopped first to check on his mother. He pressed a kiss to her brow. “I know that must have been hard for you. Thank you for standing up for me.”
She lifted a slender palm to cup his jaw. “I should have stood up for ye all those years ago. I shouldnae have let ye go, son.” Her voice broke on the last word.
“No,” he said quietly. “You did the right thing. He would have found a way to kill us both.”
His mother hesitated as if she had more to say. “Dunnae blame Patrick,” she said. “He has tried to do the right thing his whole life. He has a great capacity for love, but so much of it has been…buried out of necessity.”
Brandt had a keen understanding of that feeling. He’d buried his heart long ago and, until it had been found by Sorcha, he’d almost forgotten its existence. Brandt had grown up with Monty and, though he hadn’t been his true father, when compared to being raised under the thumb of a man like Rodric, he couldn’t argue that Patrick had likely had the worst of the lot.
“He is my son, as much as ye are,” she whispered, and in her glistening eyes, he saw her fear. That her two sons might come to blows as enemies. Brandt hoped they would not, but at the moment, he could concentrate on only one fight.
As he made his way out to the courtyard, he felt the weight of his decisions pressing upon his shoulders. If he failed, his mother would bear the brunt of Rodric’s rage. So would Callan and Aisla. He wasn’t too worried about Patrick, who seemed to have inherited his father’s survival instincts. But they wouldn’t be the only casualties. Brandt’s gaze flicked to his wife who walked beside him with the carriage of a queen. If he died, she would be sent off to marry Malvern. Brandt couldn’t fathom the brutality she would suffer at the man’s hands.
No, hecould notfail.
Just before he walked out into the courtyard, Sorcha pulled him into a narrow alcove before the front doors. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” she said, her blue eyes full of concern and no small amount of fear for him.
“Yes.” He smiled. “I won’t die if that’s what you mean.”
“That’snotwhat I meant,” she said with an indignant look. But he kissed her into silence. Deeply. Passionately. She clung to him, her eyes bright and lips rosy and glistening.
“I’ll be careful,mo gràidh.”
Her smile was as bright as the Scottish sun. “Gaelic?”
“I’m a fast learner,” he said, kissing her again, this time swiftly before heading for the door. He looked over his shoulder with a mischievous grin at the woman who had made his fledgling heart beat again. “That’s one of the two words I know.”
“What’s the other?”
“Amadan.”
