Page 39 of My Scot, My Surrender
Sorcha didn’t answer for a long time, only sat pondering him in deep thought. Without a word, she slid from his lap to the ground. “I may not be as worldly as some of the women you have known, Mr. Pierce, but I think your life has jaded you to the point that simple things have become unrecognizable. What two people feel for each other can be more than the sum of its parts.”
He watched as she led Lockie to a clearing and started to set up a place to camp for the night. Every time he thought he’d gained the measure of her, he realized how much he didn’t know. She continued to surprise him at every turn, whether it was with her courage or her wit or her intelligence.
Brandt knew he should say something, but words seemed to have deserted him. Perhaps she was right. Maybe he truly was that jaded. It did not matter. She—and no other woman—could not change who he was.
After a while, he descended from his saddle. “I’ll keep watch.”
Chapter Eleven
By the following afternoon, Sorcha’s wound had finally ceased hurting. Though the dried blood on the bandage had clung to the incision that morning when she’d changed it again, this time without Brandt’s help, the sharp pain was gone, replaced by a bruised ache. She had no complaints over small aches, and had learned in the past not to voice them.
After seeing Niall’s hand taken, and the pain he’d endured, even after the bandaged stump had slowly healed, Sorcha had known she would never again complain about cuts, scratches, or any sort of ailment. His wrist and arm, he’d explained, would light up in pain every now and again, as if reliving the brutal separation of his hand. The agonizing sensations had finally gone away, though it had taken well over a year.
Sorcha pictured Niall now, a strong, capable Maclaren warrior. If Malvern sent a contingency of his men from Tarben Castle to the Maclaren keep with orders for retribution, Niall was powerful enough to fight this time. He and the rest of the Maclaren men and women would put up with only so much oppression. Once they learned Malvern had attacked and killed Maclaren men, they would raise arms.
She closed her eyes against the images of her home being attacked. Of her people fighting for their lives.Stop whining about not wanting your life of privilege, when many are born to far less.Brandt’s admonishment the day before kept coming back to haunt her, and each time it did, what felt like a piece of her soul ripped apart. Her healing wound was nothing in comparison, and no salve like the one she’d been applying to heal and keep out infection would ever be able to extinguish it. He was right. She’d been more than selfish.
The afternoon sun had risen through the canopy of trees, which had been starting to spread out, making it a bit easier for her to direct Lockie through the mossy and rocky undergrowth. It would be several days’ journey to Brodie, and stopping at the monastery would be a welcome respite after their punishing pace. She heard Ares moving close behind her, his low huffs and snorts more noise than Brandt himself had been making all morning. He’d said more than enough yesterday, after he’d pulled her into his lap and kissed her with unmistakable longing. He’d wanted her. Badly.
I’m not worthy of you.
As much as she shunned being a lady, Sorcha wasn’t naive. She knew what her rank demanded. She was the daughter of a duke and would be expected to make marriage alliances as her sisters had for the good of the clan. She would be required to marry according to her station, as Brandt had said. But if marrying a nobleman meant marrying someone like Malvern, she’d rather elope with the pauper son of a pig farmer. She’d come close, though Brandt wasn’t a pauper and he raised horses. The fact that he was illegitimate had no bearing on his worth as a man, but Sorcha knew many others, including her father, might not see it that way.
What Brandt felt and why was an old injury, one as old as the scars the she-wolf left upon Sorcha’s body, and just as deeply rooted. It had to do with his mother and the callous way she’d abandoned him, Sorcha supposed. He did not trust easily, and for good reason.
If only Brandt knew the truth, that she did not intend to marry, either. There was no man she trusted enough to get that close. What she did want, however, was to experience what it would be like to be thoroughly seduced by a man. What woman wouldn’t? Just because people called her theBeast of Maclarendidn’t mean she didn’t dream of having someone look at her the way Brandt did. With thirst and desire in his eyes.
Lust, he’d called it.
She blushed, her insides clenching. Sorcha knew exactly what he expected their kissing would lead to.Copulation.Consummation of their false marriage vows.But what he didn’t know was that she’d gladly surrender her precious virtue for one night with him. One night of unstoppable pleasure. Lord knew she’d never have it with anyone else.
Sorcha shifted in the saddle and winced at the pull of her healing skin. Her mother’s balm had indeed done its job. The cut was no longer weeping and had lost its angry red color. It had been a stroke of luck—no, a miracle—that Lockie had turned up, saddlebags intact, with Ares.
When she’d asked Brandt if that was normal behavior, he had smiled.
“Horses are like humans. Ares and Lockie respect and like each other.”
“But they’re both males.”
He chuckled. “Not all relationships are about mating.” It had taken every ounce of her self-control not to blush at his matter-of-fact statement, though she had failed miserably.
“I only meant,” she said, thankful that he was busy murmuring to Ares and not looking at her, “that as a pair of males, I expected them to butt heads the way most men do.”
Brandt smiled. “Like your brothers?” Sorcha answered with a roll of her eyes. “No. Like humans, horses just seek connection. Some do it by color, by breed, by instinct.”
Fascinated by the unexpected change in his demeanor at the turn of the conversation, Sorcha had gestured for him to go on.
“Different groups gravitate toward each other. Certain breeds like to be with other equines of a similar temperament. They eat together and graze together. A gentle mare can find it quite stressful to be with a high-strung stallion.” His expression had grown fond when he’d stroked his horse lovingly from mane to hindquarters, and the envy she’d felt had been surprising. What would it be like to have such devotion directed at her? “Horses have a wonderful ability to bond. They’re amazing creatures. We can learn a lot from them.”
When he’d spoken about his beloved horses, Brandt’s face had relaxed, along with every corded muscle in his body, and his chameleon eyes had warmed several notches. His voice had warmed, too, making her skin tighten and her body achingly attuned to his every word. Crooning to Ares and stroking the stallion’s withers, Brandt’s voice had taken on dulcet tones that madeherwant to rub against his palm.
It had been puzzling, such an indecent reaction to his whisperings. She wasnota horse. Though she had not been able to help imagining how it would feel to have those large, callused palms running the entire unclothed length of her body.
“Enough, Sorcha,” she murmured, focusing on the widening path.
She eased a breath into tight lungs as the edge of the forest thinned, a stretch of heather-topped field on the horizon, and grew anxious. With every change in the landscape, it reminded her that they drew closer and closer to their destination. And when they arrived, it would be the end. None of this would matter…not her unfulfilled desires, nor his. Brandt would leave, and she would stay.
She came through the trees and into a field and, moments later, spotted the spire of a monastery. Just like Mrs. Maxwell had said. Her chest throbbed, her ribs feeling constricted. It wasn’t the wound, but another ache. One of blessed relief shot through with deep-reaching desolation.
