Page 17 of My Scot, My Surrender
“Malvern’s retaliation will be swift,” she said. “And bloody. My family will pay for what you asked of them.”
Something in her tone made Brandt lift himself, releasing her and sitting back on his heels. “You’ll defend them no matter what I say, won’t you?” he asked. The woman was a stubborn mule.
Sorcha sat up, pushing her tangled hair out of her flushed face.
A provocative, stubborn mule.
“Don’t you have brothers? Sisters?” she asked, her temper receding. He could tell by the way her brogue had lessened.
Brandt stood up and held out his hand, but she ignored it and got to her feet on her own. Monty had married Brandt’s stepmother, Anne, when Brandt was two years old, but they’d never given him any siblings. It hadn’t been a loss for Brandt, really. He’d had Archer growing up.
“Bradburne is the closest thing I have to a brother,” he replied.
“Your employer?” she asked, her quizzical expression giving away her surprise.
He nodded, supposing it was a bit odd for a duke to count his stable master among his closest friends, but Archer had never been typical in anything.
Sorcha’s raised brow settled. “Well then, wouldn’t you defend him no matter what?”
A smile lit upon his mouth. “I would take a bullet for him.”
She blinked, clearly not ready for such a declaration. “You would?”
“Actually, I already have,” he said with a short laugh. “So I suppose it’s his turn to take a bullet for me now.”
He hadn’t felt any tenderness in his thigh lately where a bullet had ripped through four years before. Brandt had saved Archer’s life during his stint as the notorious Masked Marauder, a gentlemanly highwayman who stole from thetonand gave, anonymously, to the poor. The fact that Brandt had both warned him that particular heist would be perilous, and had been the one to be arrestedafterbeing shot, had provided plenty of opportunities for Brandt to tease Archer—and guilt him enough to cover more than a few tabs at the village tavern.
“You’vebeen shot?” Sorcha asked, her eyes going round with disbelief, and Brandt fought back a laugh at her reluctantly impressed expression.
“Ages ago, a superficial wound,” he replied, patting his thigh. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t a permanent maiming.”
She lowered her lashes and bit her lips, and Brandt wondered what he’d said to dim the light from her eyes. Then it hit him:I will not listen to a maimed harlot.Malvern’s words, vicious and cruel. He felt the renewed urge to pulverize the man’s face. He opened his mouth and closed it. Sorcha wouldn’t want his pity, and he shouldn’t be feeling any inclination to offer it in the first place. Letting himself care would be a slippery slope.
She shrugged. “So then you know, in a way, what it is to love a sibling.”
He supposed she had a point.
Sorcha moved past Brandt toward the cottage. He took a breath and looked up, away from the sway of her hips as she walked. He was reminded of her lightness of step in the paddock with Craig and the ease with which she’d moved, though that fighting spirit seemed diminished by the shadows in her eyes.
Brandt loosed a breath as they climbed the rickety stairs to the rotting stoop. It was little more than a shack, but the skies to the south had clouded and would bring rain. The sorry thatched roof topping the cottage would not offer much, but it would have to do.
“I do understand,” he finally answered her. Capitulating to her felt easier than he thought it would, and the brief smile she flashed at him over her shoulder made him want to agree with her again. About anything.
Idiot.
He moved in front of her, stopping her hand before she could open the door. No one was likely inside, but he didn’t want Sorcha entering first. Just in case. The chit had the audacity to roll her eyes at him, before throwing one arm wide and sketching a sarcastic bow.
He pushed it wide, and the musty, dank air of an unused hovel was the only thing to greet him. Dirt floors, a blackened hearth, and foggy glass windows…what was left of them, that was. But for some empty barrels, there wasn’t a scrap of furniture.
“I’ll start a fire,” Sorcha said, immediately setting for the hearth. There were some sticks and some old, charred logs. Brandt found more kindling in a box beside the cottage, and soon, they’d worked to build a small flame in the grate. They sipped from their waterskins as the first drops of rain pattered the ground outside.
“Do you think Malvern and Coxley will track us?”
Her voice was calm. Too calm. She had heard the marquess’s threats about making her a widow, and the man was well known for his reputation in battle. Coxley, too. They were both military men of sadistic persuasions—a dangerous combination. Brandt couldn’t tell her not to worry, that Malvern couldn’t find them or would abandon the hunt. She was far too intelligent to believe such rubbish.
“He’ll try,” Brandt answered. “We won’t stay here long. We’ll go north.”
“We’re not going to Maclaren,” she stated, understanding lighting her eyes.
