Page 95 of My Scot, My Surrender
She had spent the last handful of days trying not to think on what might have happened had her clansmen not tracked them to Montgomery. If they had not been there at the marsh when Malvern had dragged her out of the tunnel. And Brandt, every time he saw her expression darkening, would take her hand and kiss the ridge of her knuckles, threatening to distract her if she didn’t stop worrying.
“Is that a promise?” she’d whispered once.
“I take my duties as laird quite seriously, Sorcha Montgomery,” Brandt replied, a flare of mischief sparking in his fey-bright eyes. “And it is my duty to make my duchess smile more than she frowns.”
“I’ve been smiling for days,” she shot back, and feigning exhaustion, added, “I don’t know how much more pleasure I can endure.”
Brandt had leaned closer to her ear, his breath hot on her skin. “Come up to our bedchamber with me and I’ll show you how much more.”
And he had. Her husband’s lips and hands had proven time and again that she had a rapacious appetite for pleasure. Forhim. Even now, as Sorcha sat on a blanket spread under the courtyard yew, with Briannon and Catriona deep in conversation at her side, she watched Brandt with longing. He and Archer, along with some of the Maclaren and Montgomery men, were taking a reprieve from the festivities as they repaired the arch over the water well, damaged during the siege. Though the spring weather had returned to a more expected crispness, shirts had been discarded, and bare chests were shining with sweaty exertion.
Brandt still wore a bandage over his left shoulder and one around his calf, but her mother’s salve was doing its job. Neither dressing, nor the fast-healing wounds he’d received along his shoulder and ribs during his first battle with Rodric, took away from his air of strength and masculinity. They seemed only to enhance it. Sorcha knew the contours of her husband’s chest and stomach and back by heart, and she imagined running her fingers over the dips and swells of his muscles with mounting desire.
Sorcha let her attention drift toward Lord Bradburne, who had clapped his arm around Brandt’s shoulders. “Your duke and Brandt get along so well,” she said to Briannon.
Catriona entered the conversation then. “’Tis true. I cannae tell ye how glad I am my Brandall had a brother in yer husband, Lady Bradburne.”
“And now he has more brothers than he knows what to do with!” Briannon said, the strong Scottish ale she’d been sipping making her voice loud and merry. Catriona and Sorcha laughed, causing Brandt and Archer to look over at them, but they only grinned before turning back to their task.
Yes, her husband’s family had grown exponentially. In the corner of the courtyard, two of his new family members—Ronan and Patrick—were sparring with their hefty broadswords. The competition was friendly enough, but there was no mistaking the pride each man was bringing to the exhibition. She glanced to where her youngest brother Niall lounged against the stone wall of the keep, waiting for his turn to show off his sparring skills. Callan stood at his left, his mouth moving, and every now and again, Niall would break into laughter.
Aisla had seated herself on a ledge jutting out from the keep’s wall to Niall’s right, and more often than not, Sorcha noticed her brother’s eyes traveling furtively over her legs, which she’d crossed at the ankles and swung playfully. The lass wasn’t oblivious to his glances, either, Sorcha noticed, especially when Aisla shifted her seat to slyly raise the hem of her skirt an inch.
A breeze rustled the new leaves on the yew, bringing the scents of roasting meat and vegetables from the kitchens into the courtyard. Sorcha felt as if she’d glutted herself for days on a banquet of food, and that evening she would do so again. The carousing would continue in the form of a wedding celebration. Her mother, the Duchess of Dunrannoch, was due to arrive with yet more Maclarens by that evening, and Catriona had insisted on a proper reception. She had insisted the water well be repaired and in full use before then, too.
Sorcha wasn’t the only one ogling her husband as the men worked—Briannon couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off her duke. It was obvious they were very much in love. They made a handsome couple. Sorcha wondered what their daughters looked like and made a mental note to ask Briannon later if she had any portraits of them.
A whimsical sensation fluttered in the pit of her stomach at the thought of bairns, and her gaze swept to her husband. Brandt had never mentioned them, though he had never taken any precautions during their lovemakingnotto conceive. In truth, Sorcha had never seen herself as a mother. Or perhaps she had never allowed herself to imagine it because of to whom she’d been betrothed.
Though now, with Brandt, envisioning her own family—with bairns who inherited his beautiful fey eyes—suddenly seemed like heaven.
…
Brandt leaned back in his chair on the dais watching the dancing unfold. Nearly a week of feasting had gone by and yet, no one showed any signs of slowing down. Sorcha’s mother had arrived the day before, which had necessitated a new round of festivities and marriage celebrations.
Though his wife favored her father in coloring, Brandt could see where she had inherited her backbone of steel. Lady Dunrannoch was a slight woman with chestnut-colored hair. Her eyes were also blue, though not the same vibrant shade as her daughter’s. And she was English, hailing from Cumbria, which meant that she and the Duchess of Bradburne had a few acquaintances in common. They sat together at the table, heads bent and smiles on their lips, their husbands engaged in similar conversation. Archer had promised to do what he could to have Tarben Castle and its holdings returned to the duke once Malvern’s properties were seized.
Sipping some excellent whiskey that Archer had brought from the Earl of Langlevit’s Dumfries estate, his glance drifted to the throng of dancers. He’d narrowly escaped being dragged to the middle of the hall due to his healing leg, but the truth was, he’d rather watch.
Brandt’s gaze sought out Sorcha, who was dancing with Ronan. He would never tire of watching her…whether she was swinging a sword, dancing a Scotch reel, or riding him while caught in the throes of pleasure. She lived life with so much passion, it astounded him. Even now, dressed in a sapphire gown befitting a duchess, she exuded a vitality that made his blood simmer. Her dark hair was pinned in glossy ringlets away from her face, her scars in prominent and proud view. She had never looked more beautiful.
“Ye get that look on yer face every time yer thinking of yer wife,” Callan said, plunking down on one side of him. Patrick sat down on the other. “’Twas the same look that young bounder had with our Aisla.”
Brandt’s eyes narrowed as Niall escorted Aisla back to one of the lower tables for some ale. The two had been getting too close for his comfort as well.
“I could give him a wee thrashing,” Callan suggested with a hopeful look, but Brandt shook his head.
With the amount of testosterone in the hall, any scuffle would turn into a big bloody brawl without much provocation. Sorcha’s middle brother, Evan, was spoiling for a fight, since he had missed out on the battle, and Brandt would rather not indulge him.
“Aisla can handle herself,” he said. “What of you two? No lasses to tempt your palates?”
Patrick shot him a rare smile, his eyes brimming with amusement as a group of young ladies sighed and stared despondently toward where they sat. “There’re so many of them that Callan doesnae ken what to do with himself.”
His brother puffed his chest and winked. “’Tis no’ my fault the lasses find me bonny.”
But Brandt noticed it wasn’t only Callan getting attention. A few of the women had their eyes on Patrick. Brandt suspected it would take his brother some time to loosen up, without the specter of Rodric hanging over his shoulder every minute.
Patrick leaned in as Callan took his leave once more to dance with a buxom blonde. “I’ve been thinking that I’ll head south with Lord Bradburne when he leaves. Travel for a bit. See London and surrounds. He offered to introduce me to London society.” He trailed off uncomfortably. “Now that ye are laird, I mean. Before my place was here, but now…”
