Page 18 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt shook his head. “Too risky. We’ll head straight to your sister. And Malvern might also expect us to head south to England. I’ve sent word to Bradburne just in case.”
Before going to the stable yard that morning he’d tasked the innkeeper with sending a hastily written note to Hadley Gardens in London, where Archer and Briannon and their young daughters were currently spending the season.
Going to Brodie would also mean not having the chance to face the Duke of Dunrannoch at Maclaren and inform him that he’d not only obtained the steed he’d been refused time and time again, but that he’d also taken his precious daughter to wed. Brandt couldn’t say it didn’t give him a bit of gratification. Dunrannoch was an irascible old man who deserved the title of beast more than his daughter.
“You’re not afraid of Malvern,” Sorcha said, crouching to warm her hands over the meager flames. Again, it was a statement rather than a question.
“Are you?”
“I’m wary of him,” she said. “There’s a difference. He’s a terrible person to have as an enemy.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “He is not one to be underestimated. He has a ruthless reputation, particularly with Coxley at his beck and call.”
Brandt stooped beside her in an effort to generate more warmth between them. “Why does Malvern want you so badly?”
She pursed her lips. “My dowry. Land rich in cairngorm topaz. My father offered to give it to him and release me from the betrothal, but Malvern wants to make sure no one else lays claim to the land. An heir would guarantee that.” Sorcha shuddered as if the thought was an unbearable one.
“Your brothers seem fearful of him,” Brandt said quietly. “Why?”
“It’s not fear. Any one of us would kill him if we could, but he has the ear and favor of the king.” Her throat worked convulsively, and for a moment it seemed as if she wasn’t going to continue. Sorcha’s fingers curled into fists as she looked up at him, pain blooming in her blue eyes. “Finlay is a hothead,” she began. “Evan, too.”
Brandt didn’t dispute the statement. He’d experienced it firsthand.
“They were young, and wanted our lands back and the threat of an English lord gone. Malvern hadn’t shown an interest in Maclaren after the death of his own father, and Finlay hoped to make him stay away for good. He set fire to one of the unattended fields, but the winds were fierce that day and the fire spread.” She drew a ragged breath. “It was contained, but not before it destroyed part of the keep, and Malvern’s steward was badly burned. Malvern somehow found out it was a plot by Finlay and Evan and demanded recompense.” She swallowed, her lip trembling. “In flesh.”
Brandt’s frown deepened. “Flesh?”
“For his wounded steward. The man lived, but lost the use of his arm. As payment, Malvern took Niall’s hand.”
“Niall?”
“My brother,” she whispered. “The youngest and most innocent of us all. He was only ten. The king gave Malvern carte blanche to take his pound of flesh as he saw fit. My father pleaded, begged to give his own limb instead, but Malvern did not bend. The blackhearted bastard had Coxley do it in the courtyard with all of Maclaren present to bear witness. He smiled the entire time.” A guttural sob escaped her lips. “Niall was so brave, so courageous. He fainted from the pain before he let himself utter a sound. Malvern swore that the next time we lifted arms against him, he would take his life.”
Brandt reached out a hand, but she shied away from him, the suppressed fury in her eyes like a demented living thing.
“Och, I should not have brought you into this madness,” she said. “Who knows what he will do to you as punishment. He is a powerful man with powerful friends.”
Brandt set his jaw. “I have powerful friends, too.”
“You don’t know what he’s capable of,” she said.
He felt something unfamiliar in his chest clench—the desire to safeguard any woman was new to him, but the fear in her eyes was real. Fear for herself. Fear for her family. She had used him with her plot to thwart Malvern, but he sensed no deceit in her now. “Why did you choose me that day, Sorcha? You could have kissed a hundred men in the square. Why me?”
Defiance flashed in her eyes, and she ducked her head briefly. “Because of the way you looked at me…as though yousawme.” She gestured at her face. “Like you saw beyond what everyone else usually does…the dreadful Beast of Maclaren.”
Her answer was halting, but Brandt knew what she meant—she wanted to be seen beyond her disfiguring scars.
“No one had ever looked at me like that. I felt a flicker of what it was to be truly desired.” She faltered, her cheeks aflame. “It was foolish, but I’d meant it to be only a kiss.”
A kiss that had sealed their fates.
Embarrassed, Sorcha kept her eyes averted, and Brandt lifted his fingers to graze her rosy cheek. His thumb stroked gently. She was so guarded that it was hard to tell if she was playing coy or whether she was trulythatinnocent. Despite her blush, her soft skin was cold in the paltry heat. Her body shivered.
“You need to get warm,” he said. “We should get you out of this damp dress before you catch a chill.”
She gaped at him. “That isn’t proper.”
“We’re married, remember? And we have the sheet to prove it.”
