Page 29 of My Scot, My Surrender
Duncan shook his head. “Nae, a Cleland. Make haste, lass, our scouts report that there’s a contingent of Malvern’s men that rode through the night and are nearly upon us. Quickly now, arm yerselves.”
He nodded at Brandt before marching off toward where one of the men was dismantling their tent from the night before. Sorcha stood rigid, her arms flexing at her sides. She’d abandoned her dress in favor of riding trousers today, he noticed, though she wore the Maclaren plaid draped above it for modesty. Brandt tried not to notice how well the breeches framed her hips through the pleated folds of the navy and red plaid, nor the way the white linen shirt accentuated her chest.
Her glare was frosty enough to freeze a loch. “Why are ye just standing there staring, ye lummox?” she hissed. “Move!”
Those terse words spoken in a lilting brogue gave away her anger, if in fact the look in her eyes and the rigid set of her shoulders already had not.
Ares had already been fed, and Brandt saddled him quickly just as Ronan thundered into the clearing. He was covered in blood, his sword raised high. His battle roar made every man take up arms. “They’re upon us, lads!” He directed the horse toward Brandt, his eyes darting to where Sorcha stood. “I know ye’re set upon leaving, but I need ye, Pierce. I need ye to protect my sister with yer life.”
She scowled her displeasure. “I don’t need protecting.”
Brandt ignored her, drawing himself atop Ares. “How many?”
“Two dozen, maybe more,” Ronan said.
“And the turncoat?”
The Scot’s mouth twisted in distaste. “Slit his own throat. I should have known when he kept asking about the clans in these parts.”
“How did he do it?” Sorcha asked.
“Left behind bits of Maclaren plaid,” he said, whirling his horse around. “Breadcrumbs that led them right to us.”
“Will you break your oath not to raise arms against Malvern?” Brandt asked.
Ronan’s steely blue gaze met his. “If our lives are threatened, we have no choice but to defend ourselves.”
He didn’t seem to be too worried about the oncoming attack. One Highland warrior was the equivalent of ten English ones, but Brandt knew Malvern. The man was deviously clever. He’d earned his dubious rank in the British army by trickery and misdirection. And Coxley was a hundred times worse. He opened his mouth to warn Ronan when shouting and the sounds of battle distracted him.
Loud noises of steel crashing upon steel reached them from the other side of the clearing, when suddenly a band of armored men broke through the tree line behind them.
“They’re attacking from both sides!” Duncan rushed toward them, his sword raised, followed by three other men. They were quickly surrounded and outnumbered, but lived up to their fierce reputation. The first wave of men was easily dealt with, but more kept coming.
“Take her into the forest,” Ronan shouted to Brandt before delving into the fray.
Brandt gritted his teeth. He did not want to run from the fight, but at the moment, Sorcha’s safety was his only concern. “Come,” he said to her. “You heard what he said.”
Angry flames flared in her blue eyes. “Are ye insane? And leave my brother to die? Ye’re ape-drunk if ye think I’m leaving, Sassenach. We Scots never run from a fight.”
He ignored the bite of her address. “Ronan is a trained soldier.”
“And I, too, am a Maclaren.” Her ferocious gaze flashed daggers at him as if daring him to contradict her. “Ye may run if ye like, but I am staying.”
Brandt did not have time to argue as two men on horseback burst through the forest, riding hard toward them with guns raised. He didn’t think. Bracing his thighs on Ares’s flanks, he pulled the pistols from their holsters and fired. Both men toppled off their horses, but they weren’t out of danger yet. More men followed, and Brandt drew his sword at the same moment that Sorcha reached for the bow tied to her saddle.
Instinct took over as he swung and parried, cleaving another man clean off his horse and disarming another with a ferocious upward swipe. Blood spattered onto his clothing, but he was too busy trying to locate Sorcha to notice. Wheeling Ares around, he searched through the dueling bodies. With relief, he found her at the edge of the glade. She was standing in the stirrups, her arrows departing her bow with lethal precision. Enemies fell one by one, and Brandt felt an odd sense of pride in her skill. When she ran out of arrows, she leaped off Lockie and swung her sword with as much finesse as he’d seen that first time in the Selkirk paddock.
Fearless and savage, she was indeed every inch the Maclaren warrior she’d claimed to be. For a charged moment, her blue gaze met his across the clearing, and she scowled, her lips pulling back from her teeth as if he were to be her next target. God, she was magnificent. Exhilaration churned in his blood, and Brandt realized with a start that he was half aroused. He almost laughed. Only one woman could provoke him so indecently in the midst of a turbulent battle.
Kicking Ares into a canter, he ran through two more of Malvern’s men, and intent on reaching her side, he did not see the horse charging toward him from the back. He did see the warning shout freeze on Sorcha’s face as he tumbled face forward over Ares’s neck. The fall knocked the wind out of him, though he had crashed into another soldier who had cushioned his landing.
The man who had knocked him off his horse was a brute almost as large as Ronan, his face beneath the dented helm, scarred and ugly.
“Mr. Pierce,” he greeted him in a guttural voice. “’Twill be my pleasure to deliver your head to his lordship and collect the reward of one hundred guineas.”
“That’s all?” Brandt scoffed, retrieving a fallen sword from a dead soldier. “My good man, I’ll have you know I’m worth much more than that. You’ve been cheated.”
“No matter, the marquess will pay in gold, and you will pay in blood.”
