Page 16 of My Scot, My Surrender
“I’m a man who always protects his investments.”
Her eyes snapped with affront and turned the hue of a thundercloud. But he was saved from the bite of her tongue as a sharp whistle sounded from behind them, followed by a bellow of alarm. Brandt didn’t look back.
“Ride, Sorcha!” he shouted, pushing Ares into a full gallop. Lockie came along, fast and powerful, and Brandt forced Ares to slow until the gray had surpassed him, Sorcha leaning forward over his mane. Clods of dirt and grass kicked up in their wake as they drove toward the knoll, Brandt’s heart thudding, wind screaming in his ears. Behind them, a commotion began to break out.
And then a heavy explosion swallowed it whole.
Brandt twisted in his saddle to see a black cloud billowing into the air above the village, with shrieks and cries echoing from the streets. The smoke cloud appeared to be just above the inn.
“What was that?” Sorcha shouted as they crested the knoll and kept on, toward the forested hills a few leagues away.
“I suspect it was the distraction I had hoped for,” he said with an unreasonable surge of affection for her stubborn brothers. It lasted for a handful of moments as they kept on toward the trees, Brandt checking over his shoulder every few seconds. There was another explosion, followed by a resurgence of screams and the tolling of a bell, but so far as Brandt could see, they weren’t being followed.
The cool spring morning air dropped in temperature as they entered the woods. There was no path, no trail, but Lockie took a gallant and decisive lead onward, through the trees and up the incline. With Ares chomping at the bit, they traveled deeper into the wood. Rocks and scrub brush littered the forest floor, and Brandt worried for the integrity of their mounts’ strides. But then they came upon a thin trail, likely used by goats or sheep, and he and Sorcha picked up speed.
Within the hour, the distant drumbeats from the festival could no longer be heard, and Brandt, now certain Malvern and his men had not followed, slowed Ares. The forest had opened into valleys in spots and then closed again into hilly woodland, and when looking south, toward Selkirk, he had not seen riders on their trail.
Neither he nor Sorcha spoke when they stopped to fill their waterskins and let their mounts drink from passing streams. They didn’t speak when Sorcha dismounted Lockie and dipped into the woods to relieve herself, nor when Brandt did the same. They didn’t speak when they heard the hollow bells of a herd of sheep as they crossed another verdant valley and the sound of a shepherd lounging somewhere in the tall grasses, singing a ballad.
The noon hour came and went, and still Sorcha didn’t utter a word. A part of him didn’t care. And yet, her silence gnawed at him. He could suss out what a man or horse was feeling without trying, but this woman…he couldn’t make heads nor tails of her. She’d fought Craig like a banshee, yet she had seemed rattled when faced with the marquess, much like her brothers had. Brandt wondered at the unusual sway the man held over the Maclarens.
When they finally saw a small stone cottage tucked in the bowl of one valley, he cleared his throat. “It looks deserted.”
She granted an, “Aye,” and directed her horse in the cottage’s direction.
It was more a ruin than a home, but their horses needed rest, and Brandt didn’t want to push them too far. They closed Ares and Lockie in the dilapidated paddock attached to one side, with water from a nearby crick and some grass for grazing. Once they were settled, Brandt took Sorcha by the elbow and swiveled her to finally look at him.
“Your brothers were cowards with Malvern.” Sorcha set her jaw and began to pull away, but Brandt held her firmly. “They forced the man they found kissing you into marriage, but another man insults you and they let him walk away, still breathing. What kind of kin are they?”
“They don’t have a choice,” she said, her arm writhing for freedom. The tumble of her dark hair, unkempt from the hard ride into the country, made her appear ferocious. Inexplicably, it made his blood thunder in his veins.
“Explain,” he snapped, irked at his body’s carnal response to her.
Fury glinted in her eyes at the order for a scant second before it was dulled by resigned submission. He much preferred the fire of the former, but for now, he wanted her to speak.
“The Maclarens are oath bound not to raise arms against Malvern,” she replied in a wooden voice. “It was part of the terms of the king’s settlement upon his father. When he received Maclaren lands because of my uncle’s deception with the Jacobites, he became the English lord of Tarben Castle and was charged with keeping an eye on the rest of the Maclarens. My father retained his title and his portion of the holdings, and when Malvern’s father died, he petitioned the English crown for the lands to be returned. Malvern refused. He lied, claiming that he was fearful for his life in a keep that was full of clan Maclaren rebels, and my father was sworn never to bring arms against him or any effort to reclaim my uncle’s lands.”
She kept attempting to break free of his grip, and not wanting to bruise her skin, Brandt released her arm. He frowned. Though her explanation made logical sense, it did not explain why Malvern was allowed such insulting freedom. “And yet they broke another oath to him. The one that said you were to be his bride.” He took a step away from the moss-covered paddock rails and raked a hand through his hair. “Malvern was right about one thing: your brothers are fools.”
Sorcha struck him square in the chest with such alacrity and force, Brandt nearly stumbled backward. “My brothers are not fools! Malvern is wrong, andye’rewrong!” she cried, lashing out at him again. This time he caught her fists and wrapped his hands around her slim wrists. “They’d murder Malvern if it didnae mean the dozens of Maclarens living on Tarben Castle lands would pay in blood for it!”
He dragged her against him as she continued to struggle, and with her hands restrained, she resorted to kicking. She connected with his shin before he swept her legs out from under her and took her to the ground, bracing her back with his arms to cushion her fall.
“Ye ken nothing of my family or of me!” she yelled as he pinned her hands above her head and held himself aside of her thrashing legs. “Get off me, ye dunderheid!”
“Stop, Sorcha. Stop,” he said, her knees coming up, her hips wriggling. Finally, he pressed the full weight of his body against hers and flattened her to the ground. She writhed once more and then, with a frustrated grunt, lay motionless. Brandt knew he’d made a mistake the second he felt the press of her breasts against his chest, her hips flush against his, and the wisps of her hot breath on his neck. Her body was soft, but he could still feel toned muscle beneath her curves.Jesus.He was already getting hard.
As if sensing his hesitation, her hips bucked up off the grass in an attempt to lever him off her, and Brandt’s instinct took control—he ground his lower half into hers in response. Sorcha made a half-desperate sound in her throat, and hell if it didn’t sound like a moan.
“Enough,” he muttered, though not to her. Not entirely. No,hewas the one who had to stop. He had to get control of himself.
She shifted and took small breaths, each pant a shot tormenting his growing erection. There was something entirely dangerous in knowing he had every right in the eyes of both the lawandGod to push up Sorcha’s skirts and bury himself in her. But he’d promised her, and himself, that she’d still be a virgin when he left her on Brodie lands. Giving in to his lust would only create more problems.
As if they weren’t already swimming in them.
“My brothers protected us,” she said. “Those were the gunpowder casks they blew to distract Malvern and his men.”
“The least they could do,” he muttered.
