Page 26 of My Scot, My Surrender
Sorcha scowled. They’d been riding hard for a few hours through lush valleys speckled with fragrant heather, staying close to the tree line in case they needed to take cover. But there’d been no sign of pursuit or more than passing interest from any of the farming villages they’d come upon. “We just went through Dunbar lands to the west. Is he expecting trouble from the Sinclairs?”
“Lassie, ask yer brother.” Duncan spurred his mount ahead, indicating that the conversation was over.
Sorcha slowed her pace, resuming her position at the middle of the small company. Ronan would tell her when he was ready, though she suspected that he was concerned about the Sinclairs. There was no love lost between the Maclarens and the Sinclairs, ever since Ronan had refused to marry the daughter of the laird for the sake of an alliance five years before. It wasn’t that the girl wasn’t comely. She was, but Lady Mairi had only feathers instead of brains in her head. Rumors of her ignorance reached far and wide. Her brother valued alliances, though clearly, he valued intelligence more.
They rode hard through the afternoon, after stopping to water the horses and eat a light meal of bread and cheese. They would hunt when they stopped for the night. Growing up in the Highlands, Sorcha was more than accustomed to hard riding. She kept glancing back at Brandt, but he seemed to be as comfortable in the saddle as he was on the ground. His beastly mount, too, showed no signs of tiring. Both horse and rider seemed as comfortable as hardened Scottish warriors.
Though she’d felt the weight of his gaze upon her from time to time, Sorcha preferred to keep her distance. It did not make sense to endear herself to the man, not when they intended to part in a few hours. It was the safest,smartestcourse of action, if only because of her own ungoverned reactions whenever he was near.
After a while, Ronan called out to his men, pulling his horse into a shaded glade at the foothills of a thickly forested mountain. “We rest here.”
Sorcha reined in her mount beside his. A small stream ran through the trees at its base, and the thirsty horses took to the water eagerly.
“You should have married Mairi,” she told her brother with a sour glance. “Then we could have had food, beds, and protection on the way to Brodie. And it would have been half the distance paying respects to the Sinclair instead of going around through the hill pass.”
Ronan started to scowl, then schooled his features into a calmer mask. “’Twas a long time ago, and that’s no’ the reason we’re no’ going that way.”
“Then what is it?”
He shot her a resigned look as if knowing she wouldn’t let it go. “There’s been some looting in the village. The Sinclairs feuding with the Buchanans.”
Highland Scots were always feuding with other clans. It was the way of things.
She wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t the Sinclair’s son married to a Buchanan?”
“That’s part of it,” he said, unrolling a pallet from his saddle and handing it to her. “She’s had a bairn, and the laird wants to introduce his grandson to the rest of the Buchanans.”
She watched as Brandt settled Ares and gathered a bow from Duncan while a few of the men made camp and built a small fire. His stare touched on her, and then he nodded to Ronan before disappearing into the woods with two other men armed with bows and arrows.
“Ye like him, admit it,” Ronan said, following her gaze with a thoughtful look.
“What happened last night?” she asked, bluntly ignoring the comment that seared a hole in her chest. “Did you pick a fight with him?”
“Nae, ’twas a misunderstanding. And yer lover has a powerful fist.”
Sorcha went red and froze at her brother’s teasing words. “He’s not my anything. That should be clear, since he is leaving, with my horse I might add.” She turned on her heel and grabbed the bow and quiver of arrows that was hooked on her pommel.
“We’ve enough hunters, Sorcha,” Ronan goaded her with a knowing smile. “Unless ye’re going into the woods for some other reason.”
“Go to the devil, Ronan.”
To prove her point that she wasnotfollowing Brandt, she entered the woods at the opposite end of the copse. She could hear Ronan’s laughter behind her and swore under her breath.
Sorcha stomped through the thick undergrowth, making no attempt to be silent so as not to scare away the game. She was too unnerved by the ragged direction of her thoughts. Brandtwasn’ther lover, unless one counted a deflowered arm as such. But Ronan was right. Shedidlike Brandt. She liked his sly humor and the way he looked at her. And she liked his touch. Too much.
It irritated her how much she wanted him to kiss her again. If she was being truthful, she craved even more than that. She craved his hands upon her in a way that was not ladylike in the least.
“Blast it,” she muttered and nocked one of her arrows. She’d be lucky if she hadn’t already frightened away all the game in the vicinity.
Sorcha continued on, this time creeping through the woods, following the bubbling brook that fattened to a wide pool and then narrowed again. The thick cloak of the forest swallowed the sounds around her, until she sensed rather than heard movement to her left. A small doe drank at the riverbank. Though she was not the only one who had set sights upon it. She watched quietly as Brandt took aim from across the river, his strong arm pulling back on the string. The fletching of the arrow caught against his cheekbone, and Sorcha inhaled with him, exhaling as he released his shot. The twanging sound reverberated through her body as if she were tethered to him.
The arrow caught the doe in the hind leg, and Sorcha was quick to release her own arrow before the deer took flight. Her aim was true. She and Brandt reached the fallen animal at the same time. Her breath caught in her throat as they stooped together.
“Good shot,” Brandt said.
“Yours brought it down.” She felt like blushing and kicking herself in the same breath. She had shot dozens of deer, but the approving look in Brandt’s eyes made it seem as if this was her first. All she wanted to do was bask in the warmth of his praise like an utter imbecile. She clenched her jaw instead. “Ronan will be pleased that the men will have fresh meat for sup.”
Deftly, she gutted and cleaned the animal, burying the inedible entrails so as not to attract predators. Then she and Brandt carried the small doe back to the camp. The men were indeed pleased, as the other two had returned with only a rabbit and a rangy-looking fowl that would not have been enough to fill the bellies of a dozen robust Scotsmen. They set in, skinning the deer and then spitting it to roast above the fire.
