Page 8 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt was in no mind for food, but he forced himself to consume some of the meat and bread. The raunchy comments from the crowd did nothing to stimulate his waning appetite. A silent Sorcha picked at her plate.
“Pierce,” Evan said, folding his thick arms across his chest and glaring daggers at him after he’d drained his third mug of ale. “What do ye do in Essex?”
“Shouldn’t you have asked that before dragging me to the altar?” Brandt replied smoothly. “What if I were a beggar? Or a poor farmer or smithy, unable to properly care for your sister?”
Evan smiled. “The tack on yer horse costs more than a blacksmith earns in a year.”
“Perhaps it belongs to my employer.”
“Are the clothes on yer back his, too?” Finlay asked with a sneer.
“Finlay!” Sorcha said, her elbow shooting out to catch her brother in the ribs. “Don’t be foul.”
Palming his side, he shot her a glare. “I’m no’ being foul, Sorcha, and ye ken that Ronan will be far worse once he gets wind of yer wedded state, especially with the marquess on the way to Maclaren.”
“You sent word to Ronan?” she asked.
Brandt sat back in his chair, a tankard of ale in his hand. “Who is Ronan?”
Sorcha straightened her shoulders, that cool mask of indifference slipping over her features once again. “Our eldest brother,” she answered, her gaze stuck on her plate.
“Christ, how many brothers do you have?” Brandt asked, to which Evan and Finlay both chuckled, each of them eating heartily of the feast laid out before them.
“Four brothers and two sisters. And our father is—”
“Angus Maclaren, the Duke of Dunrannoch, chieftain and laird of Clan Maclaren,” Evan interjected. Brandt took a swig from his tankard, not mentioning that he’d already known as much. He’d heard the duke had a parcel of children in addition to his stable of fine horses, but Brandt had been more interested in the latter than the former. Perhaps he should have paid better attention. His head throbbed with the beginnings of a headache.
Sorcha glared at her brother. “You know I hate it when you interrupt me, Evan.”
“Ye’ve no right to complain today, sister. Once our father hears tell of what ye’ve done, ye won’t be able to sit down for a week.”
Brandt crashed his tankard onto the wooden table, shaking the plates and cutlery. A cloud of silence rose up over the long table, the half-dozen Maclaren men looking up from their meals and ale to stare at him. Brandt leaned forward and speared Evan with a thunderous look.
“Whatshe’sdone? As I recall, it was you and your brother who insisted on marriage.”
And if the Duke of Dunrannoch dared lay one finger on his daughter in punishment, Brandt would happily snap it in half.
Finlay slammed his own tankard onto the table. “Only when ye dishonored her in public.”
Of all the idiotic notions, this was the one that irritated Brandt the most. “And what sense does it make, I wonder, to force your sister to marry the stranger you’re so certain was accosting her?”
Glowering, Finlay shot up from his seat, knocking the chair over backward. Brandt lounged back in his and arched a lazy eyebrow.
“Enough,” Sorcha said, standing up from her own chair, her gaze cutting between them. “I’m finished eating,” she announced, even though she’d barely touched her food.
“You should try to eat a little more,” Brandt said, indicating the half-eaten plate.
“I don’t require a man to tell me when my belly is full and when it isn’t,” she shot back, twin pricks of color rising high on her cheeks. “I said I’ve finished.”
The blasted woman was as thickheaded as her brothers. Brandt pushed his chair back and stood, drawing himself to his full height. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d lost his temper. He never let his emotions boil to the surface. But now he wanted to shout. He wanted to rail at something, anything, just to release the pent-up agitation that had been simmering all day, ever since he’d made the damned offer of his name for a horse. His choice, certainly, but he was beginning to regret it.
Instead, he lowered his voice and said evenly, “Then I suppose it’s time we retire and make this marriage true.”
Sorcha’s eyes flared. The color in her cheeks spread like a stain of wine, drenching her, running up to the shells of her ears. She held his stare, though, her stubborn pride—or perhaps it was only her ability to act—unflinching.
Behind her, Finlay sat down in his chair again. The scowl was still fixed upon his lips.
“Ye dunnae have to like him, aye,” Brandt thought he heard Gavin murmur under his breath to Evan, but he could not be sure.
