Page 24 of My Scot, My Surrender
Chapter Seven
The sky was a bruised purple when Brandt finally gave up his night’s watch. Not against Malvern’s men, but on the off chance Sorcha’s brother would come into the derelict cottage seeking revenge for his sister’s honor. Brandt had spent the hours reclined on the floor, his back against the crumbling wall of horsehair plaster and stone, his eyes fixed on Sorcha’s sleeping figure.
She’d curled up before the hearth, his cloak thrown over her like a blanket, one arm propped under her head acting as a pillow. Every now and again, his eyelids would droop. The dreams that set in first, the kind that always felt more like hallucinations before deeper sleep could claim him, had shown a young, faceless boy with his arm on a chopping block, Malvern’s twisted face maniacally laughing above him. He’d heard Sorcha’s screams and seen her fighting off an attacker, one that transformed into the face of a massive, snarling wolf.
Brandt had forced himself awake countless times, getting up to stretch his legs, stoke the fire, and sober his exhausted mind. Soon he would be back in Essex where he belonged, and all the madness of the last two days would be in the past. Well and truly in the past, if he had his say.
He had overheard Duncan explaining to the men that Finlay and Evan had set a false trail south, toward Maclaren, hoping to draw Malvern and his men in that direction. The ploy would not last for long, though, and Ronan had instructed his men to rise at first light in order to move north. The men had nodded, and their wordless, unflinching loyalty to their future laird had been yet one more thing about Sorcha’s eldest brother that Brandt had admired. In other circumstances, Ronan was a man Brandt could have easily called friend.
He was nothing like Finlay or Evan, who not only wore their pride, but flaunted it like a pair of peacocks. Ronan had the muted dignity his brothers lacked. Though Brandt knew that was a factor of age—the two men were barely one or two years older than Sorcha, whom he would put at no more than twenty. Whereas Ronan was a seasoned man. He knew his power and led with confidence, not bluster or emotion.
It also helped that Ronan had admitted to his plan to fake Sorcha’s death in order to save her from marrying Malvern. As Brandt stood up and felt the blood begin to course back into his legs, he thought of how unfortunate it had been for Ronan to keep his plan a secret from Sorcha. Had she known to what lengths her brother would go in order to protect her, she would not have been tempted to take matters into her own hands as she’d done at the common lands festival.
He would not have kissed her.
He would not have struck a deal to marry her.
Malvern would not be on the rampage now for Brandt’s blood and the wife from whom he’d been cheated.
In short, Ronan’s plan had been shot to hell. It wasn’t any one person’s fault, but a collection of errors. They mattered little now, though. Brandt crouched before the hearth and glanced at Sorcha. Her pink lips were parted enough to emit her soft, rhythmic breathing. Her lashes, like the black wings of a raven, touched down on ivory cheeks, flushed from the fire he’d kept going all night. He took the opportunity to view her scars up close. The three stripes weren’t thick or raised. Her brow and cheek had been neatly scored by the she-wolf’s paw. It could have been far worse—the animal could have taken her eye or gouged out chunks of flesh.
“So fierce,” he murmured. “Such singular beauty.”
And Sorchawasbeautiful, scars and all. Without them, she would not be her. They were part of her, like her tart humor and her brazen courage. She reminded him of a wild creature in a jungle somewhere…all sleek limbs and savage beauty. He could truly get close only when she was sleeping. Despite the doused flames in the hearth, Brandt’s body grew warm as he stayed, crouched beside his wife. Without the shadows of worry in her eyes and the mask of fearlessness she wore during the day, she appeared so innocent.
Because she is.
He hadn’t taken that from her, even though her brothers—and Malvern—believed the contrary. Even though the touch of her body, pressed against the length of his the afternoon before had woken him to just how warm and pleasurable she would be. More than pleasurable. She’d make love as she fought—with lust and passion.
Brandt expelled a ragged breath, allowing himself the dangerous thought. Because soon it would be good-bye. He would never see her again after today. A coil of her hair hung low, nearly covering her brow, and he gently pushed the strands back. She slept on, undisturbed by his touch. Good. She’d be rested for the day’s hard ride north.
He brushed his fingers over her forehead again, then drew the tip of his index finger down her silken cheek and along her jaw. She’d yet to part her lashes when he followed the urge to drag the pad of his thumb over the plump curve of her lower lip. Her breath gusted over his skin. Brandt recalled the taste of her lips at the common lands festival and the brazen response of her tongue, as if she had been pulling him into her, wanting to possess him.
Or, he thought with an unwelcome dose of reality, as if wanting to trap him.
And she had. Though, in all honesty, he hadn’t yet stopped to think about where he would have been right then had she not kissed him. Well on his way to Essex, he supposed. But thinking about anything other than claiming his due and departing would be unwise, especially if his mind kept circling back to his wife’s exceptional lips or her long-limbed figure.
He jerked his hand back and stood quickly. He needed air. Cold air. And a place to empty his full bladder and restrain ravenous parts of his body that kept forming other ideas. Dawn was still a half hour or more away when he went outside, closing the door to the cottage quietly behind him.
Why he felt a prick of conscience as he walked farther from the cottage, into the deep blue remnants of night, he didn’t wish to think about. Sorcha had agreed to his terms. She didn’t expect him to stay, and he’d never promised any such thing.
As he relieved himself far from the cottage, he focused on what needed to be done before he took his leave. He’d need to refill his waterskins and find something to eat before beginning the long journey back with Ares and Lockie.
Brandt had just buttoned the fall of his trousers and turned to retrace his steps to the cottage when a boulder slammed into him. He landed, hard, on the grass, his brain catching up from the shock to relate that it wasn’t a boulder at all. It was a man, and as a fist buried in Brandt’s stomach, his instincts took over. It didn’t matter that it was still dark. He intercepted his attacker’s next fist and, swiftly calculating his height, jabbed out with his own. He heard the crunch of bone, and when Brandt ducked, anticipating his attacker’s revenge jab, he angled his next blow for the kidney.
He heard the man grunt in pain, but the brute didn’t go down—not until Brandt kicked his kneecaps. In the darkness, he could not discern the size of his attacker, though he was marginally faster, and as thoughts of who it could be—one of Malvern’s men?—surged through his brain, he absorbed another fist to the chin and doled out two rapid jabs to the throat and temple.
“Who are you?” he shouted before his feet went out from underneath him. Again, he landed like a sack of bricks on the grass, and this time, a heavy arm pressed down across his chest. He grappled for the hilt of the knife he kept tucked in his boot.
“Who do you think, ye sack of pig shite?”
Damn.Ronan.
A spitting mad Ronan. Brandt rolled to his side and stumbled to his feet. He should have expected the attack. Brandt could see the dark stamp of Ronan’s outline now that he wasn’t frantically defending his life. He didn’t want to hurt the man, but he wouldn’t take a beating willingly, either. He felt brief satisfaction that Ronan was also breathing with difficulty.
“Is this how Scots settle their differences?” he asked. “Ambushing a man in the dark while taking a piss. Are you satisfied?”
“No’ by a longshot.” Ronan grunted. “What else did ye promise her, Sassenach? Sweet nothings while ye seduced an innocent, gentle-bred lass?”
