Page 12 of My Scot, My Surrender
“A runt? I think not,” Brandt said in an affronted voice that seemed suddenly loud. Sorcha realized why as she settled the dress into place. She almost screeched. He was standing right in front of her,behindthe screen. “Let me,” he said, turning her shoulders around before she could form a tart reply. “This one looks to have fasteners up the back.”
She felt the deft tug and pull of the fabric as he buttoned her dress. At home, Kira, her maid, would often help with buttons and sometimes dress her hair. But no man had ever attended to her like this. Was this what husbands did for their wives? Surely, Malvern would never have offered such a thing. Sorcha closed her eyes as Brandt finished. She had to stop worrying about the marquess. She was out of his reach now. And, most of all, she needed to stop making a martyr of her pretend husband who had traded marriage vows for horseflesh.
“Playing the servant comes easily to you,” she said in a cool tone, peering over her shoulder. “Well done.”
Fathomless gold-flecked green eyes met hers. “My lady’s wish is my command.”
“Until you get your hands on my stallion.”
“Until then, of course.”
She watched him, interest sparking. “Why do you want Lockie so badly anyway?”
“I hope to breed him with one of my mares,” he said. “His brawn with her speed should make for spectacular foals.”
It was the first bit of true excitement she’d seen from him…outside of their kiss. Sorcha fought back a shiver. Then, he’d been as enthusiastic as she.
“You breed horses?” When he nodded, she went on. “I confess, I’m not as horse-mad as my father, but I’ve raised Lockie from a colt myself. He’s special—” She broke off, theto mesticking in her throat as a rush of guilt swamped her. “He’ll make a great sire.”
“That is my hope.”
His hands fell away from her dress, but Sorcha continued to feel the heat from his body. He remained behind the screen with her, the small space growing warmer. She turned, thinking to slip past him, but was caught by the flat of his palm as it gently gripped her elbow. Brandt peered at her, one brow propped high.
“When you’re angry, you sound like your brothers, but otherwise…you sound English. Why?”
Sorcha frowned at him. It was true. She lost control of her accent whenever her temper flared, and it was something her mother endlessly chastised her about. No English lord would want a wife who spoke with such a provincial, rustic brogue, her mother had always claimed. She would need to be as cultured and elegant as any of the fine English ladies she would undoubtedly encounter in London or Edinburgh when she became Lady Malvern.Any daughter of mine will bring honor to Clan Maclaren, her mother had intoned so often that it popped into Sorcha’s mind without warning whenever she lost her temperandthe pretty manners and rounded vowels she’d been bred to possess.
“My mother is from Cumbria,” she replied, noticing with growing unease that Brandt’s strong hand was still on her arm. “She insisted her daughters break from the Scots tongue whenever we went to London, but, since I was the one chosen for an English marquess, she concentrated her efforts on me.”
Brandt’s fingers tightened around her elbow. “They chose you for Malvern, not your sisters. Why was that?”
The question brought with it the same slow, gouging sensation of some invisible injury that Sorcha had suffered for years. Annis and Makenna were beauties, and as such, they were the Maclaren daughters who could secure those important alliances with the Brodies and the Campbells. Malvern was not an alliance. He was an unfortunate and unavoidable attachment. Her father would have never considered giving Annis or Makenna to him.
“My sisters had their own matches already.”
Brandt’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. It was enough to indicate that he didn’t believe her. She wriggled her elbow, wanting freedom from the closed-up space behind the dressing screen and from his knowing stare. Brandt held on firmly.
“And neither of them feigned scandal in order to avoid those matches?” he asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Ever since waking up in that lumpy chair, he’d been conversing easily with her. Joking even. Sorcha had started to hope that perhaps he was no longer furious, that his plan to leave her at the Brodie keep and then return to his home with one of the most valuable horses in the Highlands as payment would be a balm. But here his anger was, yet again, bubbling to the surface. Hers notched in response.
She pressed her lips together and twisted her arm more forcibly. “Graeme Brodie and Malcolm Campbell are fine men. My sisters didn’t need to worry about marryingthem.”
Finally, Sorcha successfully pried her elbow from Brandt’s grip. She pushed past him, into the open part of the room, and took a deep breath. The air was no longer filled with his scent, a heady mix of sun-warmed leather, spice, and clean soap, and her body instantly felt steadier, her mind, sharper. She found her boots and sat upon the edge of the bed to pull them on, ignoring the press of Brandt’s eyes. She didn’t have to look up to know he was watching her slide the snug leather over each foot.
“Will your sister’s husband agree to keep you on Brodie lands?”
Her hands slowed, and her heart pumped out an extra few beats. Well, why shouldn’t he already be thinking about possible obstacles for his plan to leave her there?
“I am kin.”
“Yes, and so far, what has your kin done for you? Other than throw you into a betrothal you wanted no part of, and then force you down the aisle to wed a complete stranger.”
Sorcha finished with her boots, yanking indignantly on each lace, and shot to her feet. “Youchoseto marry me, in case you’ve already forgotten. And you don’t know anything about my family.”
Except that they were brutes. And intolerably rude. And tied down by harsh tradition and loyalty. All these things her brothers had laid bare to Brandt yesterday, and clearly, his Sassenach mind held it all in contempt.
He came to stand within inches of her, so close her breasts would have brushed against his chest had she taken a deep breath right then.
“I know enough to understand we have two very different views of what good kin is,” he replied.
