Page 36 of My Scot, My Surrender
“How’s your wound?” he asked her.
“The dressing needs to be changed, but it’s bearable.” From her wan face, he could see that she was minimizing the pain. “There’s a farmhouse over yonder that may spare us some food and water for the horses.”
“Fine.”
She eyed him sideways, her expression hidden behind a bland but clearly false facade. “Why did you say you didn’t like that name? The Beast of Maclaren?”
“Because you’re not a beast.”
Sorcha shrugged. “I used to hate it. Cried myself to sleep when the children in the keep sang it to my face and ran away hiding. Finlay and Evan used to beat them silly on my behalf, until I learned how to defend myself.” She pursed her lips. “After that, it became like armor. Like it was a badge. People knew who I was.”
“It’s not a name for a lady,” Brandt said staunchly. “For a duke’s daughter.”
“I never wanted to be a lady.”
He sent her a look. “What we want and who we are sometimes do not coincide. Life is funny like that.” He paused, his heart giving a painful kick. “You deserve the life you were meant to lead, to marry a man of influence.”
“A man like Malvern? I’d rather drown in manure.”
Brandt shook his head. “No, not like Malvern, but a titled man. One who can offer you your rightful place in society.”
Not someone like me.
“But what if that’s not what I want?” she shot back. “I can’t fathom wearing dresses and primping and playing coy all day, having tea, singing and playing the pianoforte or any other infernal instrument. Wasn’t there something you wished to be? More? Less? Just not what you were?”
To have a mother. To know who I truly am.
“No.”
Brandt stopped his horse so suddenly that Sorcha had to pull sharply on Lockie’s reins to see what had stopped him. Her face grew alarmed when she took in the horrified expression on his. “Lady Sorcha Maclaren, did I just hear you confess that you don’t sing or play any instrument? Nor primp or flirt? And what, pray tell, do you have against tea?Sacrilegeto the English.”
She compressed twitching lips. “You’re not English.”
“Honestly, what kind of pagan have I married?” She was valiantly attempting to swallow her snickers by that point. He rolled his eyes skyward, clapping a dramatic hand to his chest. “What, dear Lord, did I do to deserve such an abominable punishment?”
Laughing out loud, she punched him in the arm. “It’s Lady Pierce, I’ll have you know.”
Something inside of him warmed, but Brandt squashed it brutally. He’d jested only to turn the conversation away from his empty childhood wishes and the cruel voices she’d inadvertently awakened. The ones that clamored that he was undeserving of her smile or any part of her. His amusement evaporated. He needed to quash this, and he needed to quash it now.
“You’re a Maclaren,” he said. “Trust me, you wouldn’t want to be a Pierce anyway. We’re a tedious, pissant lot.” He kept his gaze straight ahead, his tone even. “An annulment is for the best. No reason for you to be the wife of a bastard when you can be a lady with the life you were born for.”
The humor drained from her lovely blue eyes, hurt shining there for a minute before it was replaced by sparks of anger. “You’re an arse, BrandtPierce. You and your precious name.”
“Precious as dirt.”
“I’ve changed my mind.Amadanis too good for you. Haven’t ye heard a word I’ve said? I never wanted to be a lady.”
“And I never wanted to be a bastard!”
The words slipped out from some hollow, cavernously painful space within him, and the minute he said them, he regretted it. He regretted being so vulnerable. And he hated the sudden pitying look in her eyes. His temper boiled and exploded.
“You’re not the only one who ever wanted another life. You’re not the only one who wished on every star and every ha’penny to be someone else. But we’ve all had to grow up and smell the horseshit. So stop whining about not wanting your life of privilege, when many are born to far less.”
Sorcha recoiled at the last few words, and as his rage receded, Brandt felt a pang of bitter remorse. Angry, hurt tears shone in her eyes. Once more, he’d lost control of his temper.
“I’m sorry.” He reached for her, but she flinched away. Shaking, she opened her mouth and closed it. And then kicked Lockie into a wild gallop.
Bloody hell.
