Page 40 of My Scot, My Surrender
God’s teeth,she felt as if she were being sundered in two.
They were nearly upon the ancient stone monastery, and she did not want Brandt to see her transparent feelings when they stopped to dismount and he finally looked at her. Not one to miss a thing as they drew near, his eyes narrowed on her face and dipped to her ribs.
“What is it? Are you well? Is it your wound?”
She shook her head, her body humming at his nearness. “It’s fine and healing.”
Sorcha steeled herself as Brandt continued to regard her with a doubtful look. She pushed a smile to her lips to reassure him, but it only made him frown. “You Scots like to insist you’re not in pain when you are.”
“I am not in any pain.”
Brandt went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “And while that is admirable for some, I know from experience that ignoring signs of pain can lead to greater injury.”
She scowled. “I am not one of your animals, Brandt.”
“You misunderstand,” he said mildly. “Monty broke his ankle when he fell from a horse. Instead of tending to the break, he ignored it. The break worsened, and he ended up walking with a limp for the rest of his life.”
“It’s a cut, not a break.”
His gaze swept her. “And yes, you are most certainly not an animal.”
Something in his eyes and the faintly suggestive tenor of his words made her temperature spike. The knowledge that men at their basestwereanimals crept into her brain. Sweet Lord above, her entire body went molten at the prurient thought of their bodies entwined in the most primitive and bestial of mating rituals. Their gazes collided, and sensation upon sensation scoured every hot inch of her.
“I am well,” she croaked. “I promise you.”
Diah, the man had an unholy way of making her lose her wits. Last night, she’d barely been able to sleep for the way she’d longed for him to abandon his post guarding their camp and come ravish her where she lay on the mossy ground.
And earlier that morning, when she’d woken to find her waterskin filled and a pile of beechnuts he’d gathered for her on the ground at her side, together with the remaining leftovers from Mrs. Maxwell’s basket, she’d sighed at the unexpected thoughtfulness. How many times had he put her own comfort and safety before his own?
Her body and her mind were equally susceptible to the force that was Brandt Pierce.
She would have to be especially careful with her heart.
Banishing her thoughts, she dragged her eyes away from him and, instead, focused on the monastery itself. Paddocks surrounded the monastery’s collection of small stone buildings, enclosing sheep, pigs, and a few cows. The main structure, with its moss-covered, crumbling stone architecture, looked much like an abandoned monastery bordering Maclaren and Kincannon lands, where she often used to go as a child to pray to a very busy God to take her scars. He’d never answered her frantic pleas, and eventually, Sorcha had stopped asking.
A quintet of matching curved archways dotted the stone on the lower levels, rising to a square upper story with a pointed stone-slate turret. This monastery seemed to be in good repair. Sorcha wondered blasphemously if the God who resided here was as deaf as the one near Maclaren. Though, in hindsight, she’d since come to terms with her scars, which was perhaps what He had intended all along. She’d give Him the benefit of the doubt.
Chickens wandered helter-skelter, and as they cantered toward the main chapel, a man in plain brown robes carrying buckets of water upon a shoulder yoke stopped to greet them.
“Madainn mhath,” he called, showing no fear at all at the two armed strangers riding up to his place of worship. But why should he, Sorcha reasoned. Being hunted by Malvern, with a savage such as Coxley on their heels, seemed to have colored her own perception. This was a man of the cloth, who believed in the inherent good of people. She had, too, once upon a time.
Until the devil had showed his face at Maclaren.
“Madainn mhath,”she replied in Gaelic, and then with a glance at Brandt, “good morning.”
“Good day,” Brandt said as he reined in Ares beside Lockie. Sorcha kept her eyes on the Franciscan monk, who had stooped to remove the shoulder yoke. “I’m Brandt Pierce of Essex, England, and this is my wife, Lady Pierce of Maclaren. We’re journeying north, toward Brodie lands, but our provisions are low. Could we implore for your aid?”
The monk brought his palms together before his chest, showing no surprise at Brandt’s clipped English. “We will aid any traveler in need of it. Please, come. Let us see to yer horses.”
They thanked the monk and dismounted, Sorcha sliding from her saddle and landing on her feet with less steadiness than she usually would have. Despite her avowals to the contrary, her wound and the hours she’d spent in the saddle over the last handful of days had taken their toll. It was not her shameless thirst for her husband’s hands and mouth leaving her lightheaded. She wouldn’tletit be.
The monk took her hand, bowing over it and pressing his lips lightly to her knuckles. “Lady Pierce of Maclaren. I am Abbot Lewis. Ye’re the daughter of Lord Dunrannoch?”
She expelled a breath before nodding. What she’d told Brandt was indeed the truth. It didn’t matter how far they traveled in any direction in Scotland, her facial scars were all that were needed to announce who she was.
“He will thank you for your kindness,” she replied. The abbot started to straighten, but paused. She saw his eyes were fastened to the ring she wore. The one Brandt had slipped onto her finger what seemed like ages ago.
After a few beats of silence, the abbot stood and showed them into the monastery. The modest chapel at Maclaren keep had always soothed her, even though she had never paid much heed to the vicar when he would drone on and on. Instead, Sorcha would look at the stained glass windows and try to piece together the meaning in the depicted scenes of holy bloodshed, grace, and beauty. She would imagine stories for them all, only half listening to the sermons. But the chapel was a place of peace, she knew, and she felt it settle over her as she and Brandt were led through a series of cloisters.
