Page 19 of My Scot, My Surrender
Sorcha’s lips formed a wry smirk at his attempt to lighten the moment. “How’s your wound?” she asked, her eyes glancing to his forearm.
His mouth twitched with mischief. “I think my arm might be with child.”
A shocked laugh broke from her as she turned around to let him loosen the fasteners. “On the first try?” she asked.
“It takes only one time, you know,” he said from behind her. “And I have it on good authority that I’m a very virile man.”
“Is that so? Then you and your forearm should be very happy.” Sorcha eyed him over her shoulder, eyes crinkling with amusement, and Brandt had the sudden desire to enfold her in his arms and kiss that saucy mouth. He balked at the thought. She would not welcome it, nor should he even be encouraging such a thing.
But then he pulled the gown over her head, leaving her standing in only her stays and chemise, and any rational thought deserted him. His breath stuck in his throat as the flames from the fire outlined the silhouette of her long, slender legs. All amusement disappeared in a trice, replaced by a brutish ache in his loins.Christ.
Mumbling a hasty excuse, he stepped outside to retrieve his cloak from his saddlebags and gulped in the chilly night air before making sure that Ares and Lockie were dry in the stable. The brisk air did nothing to calm the fire racing through his blood, though by the time he returned to place the woolen cloak over Sorcha, he was shivering, too. Brandt rubbed his hands briskly together.
“What about you?” she asked. “Won’t you be cold?”
“I’m accustomed to the cold,” he lied.
“In Essex?” She arched a dark eyebrow, a smile playing about her lips. Her eyes were warm, glowing with gratitude, amusement, and approval. His pulse resumed an unsteady cadence. Brandt did not want or need her approval, and he most certainly did not expect tolikehow it made him feel.
Focus on the goal, you idiot. Get her to her sister, claim the horse, go home.
His future did not include a wife. Wives would eventually want children, and he had no interest in being a father. His misbegotten, sorry line would die with him. Just as his heartless mother had intended when she’d tossed him out with the slop.
“It can get quite cold during the winters there,” he said, keeping the rise of bitterness at bay and his tone neutral. “Nothing like your Highland winters, but I’m fine, trust me.”
“Suit yourself.”
Sorcha reached back to adjust the thick cloak around her shoulders, and her shift stretched tight over the rise of a pair of pert, round breasts. She was not buxom, but her curves were more than enough to catch his attention.Damnation. Brandt cast his eyes up, away from her charms, and pretended to inspect the condition of the sagging thatched roof.
“Tell me about Maclaren,” he said in a strained voice. “And your brothers, especially Finlay and Evan.”
Sorcha shot him a doubtful look, but Brandt nodded enthusiastically. He let out a pent-up breath when she began. Stories about Finlay and Evan were the perfect solution—a solid metaphorical kick to the ballocks. Irritation was far preferable to half a cockstand in a deserted cottage with his baggage of a wife wearing nothing but a snug chemise and a smile that could melt the strongest inhibitions.
He would keep his distance if it killed him.
Even if it meant listening to the head-splitting tales of Evan and Finlay Maclaren.
Chapter Six
It had been a long while since Sorcha had thought about all the trouble Finlay and Evan had wreaked upon Maclaren lands when they’d been younger, but over the next few hours, she recounted a number of stories to Brandt.
Like the time they had set all the horses loose and a few of their father’s valuable foals had gone missing for days, or the time they had dared her to climb the tallest tree in the glen and then left her up there until the duke found her hours later, nearly frozen from cold. They were barely a year apart and egged each other on abominably. When Sorcha was old enough to want to prove herself as capable as they were, they became the bane of her existence…and the source of most of her near-death scrapes.
Her sisters, Makenna and Annis, had been older by five and seven years, and they’d never so much as gone against the grain, so her stories revolved mostly around Finlay and Evan, and their father’s meager attempts to take them in hand. Ronan and Niall were the end caps of her siblings. Ronan had always been serious, the weight of being laird one day resting on his shoulders from the time he drew his first breath. And Niall was the baby, though he was by no means spoiled or coddled.
Sorcha had a sneaking suspicion Brandt was trying to distract her, but she was grateful for the attempt. “Niall turned fifteen last winter,” she said. “Of all my siblings, he and I are the closest. He likes to play tricks, especially on Evan and Finlay. He sewed all the cuffs of their shirts closed once.”
“With one hand?”
“You’d be amazed at the things that boy can do.” Sorcha smiled softly. “He never ceases to amaze me.”
Brandt stoked the fire, listening as she spoke, his eyes tracking the play of the flames in the hearth. He smiled and shook his head at all the right moments, and every now and again, glanced her way to see if she’d stopped shivering. She could see the concern in his eyes before averting his gaze again. It was because of how she was dressed, she knew. Or rather, her lack of dress.
Sorcha had seen the brief, but definite, burn of arousal in his eyes when she’d been standing before him in nothing but her shift. His lips had gone soft with surprise in the moments before he’d stalked out of the decaying cottage, gotten his cloak, and covered her with it. Now every time he looked to see if she was still cold, a shot of heat lit through her. He’d distracted her from their situation, not only by asking her to tell him stories about her home and family, but simply by being there, seated on the worn floor, across from her.
Though being this close to him—to any man—was foolish.
Even if he was her husband.
