Page 80 of My Scot, My Surrender
The bloom of embarrassed color across her cheeks made him laugh. “That was before I knew you,” she called out. “And I only ever called you idiot once. Maybe twice.”
“We’ll discuss that later. In private.”
He was rewarded with another becoming blush that made him want to wrap her in his arms and make a mad dash for the stairs. Brandt didn’t think that Rodric would appreciate being kept waiting while he ravished his wife.
Brandt’s humor stayed with him until he descended into the crowded courtyard. A path cleared for him to the middle where Rodric stood, sword in hand. Someone handed Brandt a sword, which he examined for nicks and cracks in the steel and hefted for weight. It would do. No sooner had he nodded than Rodric rushed toward him with his own sword leading the charge. Brandt managed to fend off the strike, his blade clashing into Rodric’s. The duke was strong and, though fleshy from a life of excess, he still had enough bulk to bolster a heavy swing. They struck and parried, feinted and thrust, each of them trying to find weakness in the other.
Where Brandt was faster, the duke was bigger, and the duel continued as the crowd watched in rapt silence. But Brandt was also younger by a full score of years, which gave him a marginal advantage. After another bone-jarring round, his muscles sore, and a shallow gouge on his forearm seeping blood, he noticed that the duke was beginning to tire. A thin sheen of perspiration coated his brow. Brandt was tiring, too, which made his window of opportunity smaller. He had to end this sooner rather than later. He spun in with his sword, but miscalculated as Rodric leaped aside, his sword coming down hard toward his shoulder.
There was no time to avoid the blow. It was either risk his neck or show his back. He chose the latter. Brandt managed to lurch out of the way, but not before the tip of the sword traced a path of hellish flame down his upper right shoulder and then whipped upward to carve its twin up the side of his ribs. His body was on fire. He could smell blood thicken the air, and dully, from somewhere behind him, he heard a scream.
Rodric grinned. “Dunnae concern yerself about yer lady wife,” he said. “Malvern will take good care of her.”
They circled each other. Though Brandt was bleeding, Rodric had not escaped unscathed. He was limping and holding one arm close to a few bruised ribs. Brandt knew that Rodric was clever. He wasn’t about to do something stupid by not paying attention. He drew a deep breath, ignoring the stinging pain of his separating skin and the burn of open tissue beneath. Sorcha’s salve would fix him once he’d thwarted Rodric. Brandt could sense her in the courtyard and, though he couldn’t see her, he guessed she would be standing beside Lady Glenross near the steps.
“Mayhap I’ll let the men have a turn with her first,” Rodric drawled. “Malvern won’t mind, ye ken. After all, he lets that animal, Coxley, do what he wants.” His grin was ugly. “What do ye think they’re going to do to her?”
Brandt set his jaw. “Are you going to fight or blather on like an old woman?”
“Speaking of old women, mayhap I’ll even let them have yer worthless mother.” Brandt felt a muscle leap to life in his cheek. Sorcha, he knew, would fight tooth and nail to the last, and with her skill and tenacity, she might even be able to escape. But not his mother, and the image of any man attacking her made him sick with rage. The duke pounced upon his weakness like a wolf upon a lame rabbit. “Do ye ken, she came crawling to me like a tavern whore when yer father died? She begged me to take her like the dog she was.”
Brandt didn’t know where his torrent of strength came from, only that he was propelling forward and then colliding with his uncle. With a howl of rage, he swept the duke’s feet out from under him and followed down with the top of his sword. He hovered over the man, grunting with exertion. It would have been so easy to slip the steel through his throat, but Brandt could not kill his uncle in cold blood.
“Do you yield?” he growled.
Rodric’s eyes overflowed with humiliated venom, but he nodded, knowing he was beaten. “Aye.”
Brandt stayed where he was, poised above his uncle, and exchanged a long look with the quietly waiting Feagan. After several tense moments, Feagan nodded. The battle—and clan loyalty—had been fairly won. “Restrain him and escort him off Montgomery lands,” Brandt commanded.
“Yes, laird.”
“He is no’ yer laird,” Rodric hissed. “Do ye want yer laird to be the seed of a weakling who couldnae even fight for his life?” He laughed cruelly, madness glinting in his eyes. “The poor sod would no’ lift a hand against me, no’ even when he knew he was going to die. Ye remind me of him. Ye have his weakness.”
“Empathy is not weakness,” Brandt said. “You don’t understand it because you have none. Your brother believed in the best of you, and you killed him for it.”
“Aye, he was no’ fit to be laird.”
The admission hung thick and heavy in the courtyard.
And then, a keening wail rent the air. It seemed to come from the depths of his mother’s body even as she shoved through a stunned crowd to slap Rodric in the face. “Ye bloody bastard, I kenned ye killed him!” she screamed.
His answer was calm. “Of course I did. I wanted what he had. Ye and the clan.”
“Ye’re not fit to call yerself a Montgomery.”
She slapped him again, but not before Rodric wrenched free of his captors and wound a tight fist into her blond hair. He brought her up to his face before wrapping his other hand around her throat. “Iama Montgomery, ye deceiving bitch. And ye’re still my property to do with as I see fit. Death will suffice for yer disloyalty.”
As his mother’s eyes dilated and her mouth slackened, Brandt prepared to tackle the man, but a blur dashed past him with a roar that shook the hills. He blinked. It was Patrick. With a wild yell, he pushed his mother into Brandt’s arms and shoved his father to the ground. Straddling him, Patrick pummeled him with his bare fists, grunts punctuated by growling sobs. No one moved, until the only sound in the courtyard was one of bones meeting wet flesh.
Handing his mother off to Sorcha, who stood nearby, Brandt moved forward, his hand going to his half brother’s shoulder. “Patrick, enough.” The younger man slowed and obeyed, his face contorted with pain. Brandt knelt beside him. “All will be well, my brother, I promise.”
They stood together, and Brandt indicated for Rodric to be restrained once more. “Give him a horse, and take him to our borders.” He eyed his uncle, who had one eye swollen shut and a puffy lip. “You are never to return. If you do, you will be killed on sight. Is that clear?”
He and Patrick watched as Feagan led Rodric away, and after a while, his brother turned to face him. Confusion and horror warred over his features, but something else shone there, too. Relief. It was an odd thing to see. Brandt frowned. Patrick had been groomed his entire life to be chieftain. There was no reason that he would want to willingly give it up. And despite his claims, Brandt was still a stranger.
“Do you wish to challenge me?” Brandt asked softly.
He was wounded and bruised, and any future duel would have to wait until Sorcha’s magic salve could do its work. His brother’s conflicted eyes met his, and Brandt sucked in a breath. Patrick’s gaze flicked from Lady Glenross to Brandt and back again. She held out her hand to him—love, gratitude, and pride shining in her eyes—and he kissed her knuckles.
