Page 42 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt didn’t answer her question before a few more monks entered the refectory with plates of food for them.
“Eat yer fill,” the abbot said, “and then we will show ye to yer room.”
Brandt shook his head tightly. “It isn’t safe. Your monastery is unprotected.”
“We are protected by the Lord’s light and love.”
“I prefer stone walls, a moat, and plenty of steel,” Brandt replied. “Besides, I don’t want to put your monks here in danger. We’ll rest for a while, but will ride before sunset and make camp again.”
Sorcha was secretly grateful Brandt did not want to stay. When the abbot had mentioned a room, she had thought of the small one at the inn where they had shared their wedding night. Too much had happened between them since then, and sharing the intimacy and luxury of a real bed would have been untenable.
The abbot bowed. “Then I insist ye take what ye need from our kitchen and cellarium. Whatever supplies ye require are yers to sustain ye.”
It was a generous offer, but as Brandt thanked him, Sorcha imagined the abbot would have parted with a week’s worth of provisions if only to avoid a skirmish at his monastery involving Malvern’s men. She had not missed his look of relief when Brandt had said they would be leaving. She clenched her jaw. Malvern was a monster who needed to be stopped. His reputation for brutality via Coxley’s hands ran far and wide. It was no surprise that the monks here feared his name. Sorcha had no idea why the king would condone Malvern’s actions, but perhaps he simply did not know his man was committing such atrocities in his name.
They finished eating their simple meal of venison, turnips, and bread, made all the more palatable by the ewers of wine brought to replenish their cups. Brandt spoke little, his mind no doubt tumbling over the revelation the abbot had laid down before him. She longed to ask him what he was thinking. Longed to touch his cheek and force him to look her in the eye. But the abbot’s presence didn’t allow it. Nor did her own sense of self-preservation. It was both a blessing and a curse, for if she touched him as she wanted to do, the desire to touch him more would catch fire inside of her.
It would not surprise her if he was a Montgomery. Though he spoke and dressed like an Englishman, he had the heart and courage of a Highlander. But in truth, it would not have mattered if he were a blue-blooded, English-bred Sassenach…she would have come to respect him anyway.
But Sorcha also understood that what she felt could be exaggerated because of their circumstances. After all, people thrown together in impossible situations came to depend on one another out of necessity. Brandt had said as much, too.
This is not what you’re imagining it to be.
Perhaps he was right. She was confusing fondness for respect. Or her physical desires for something more. And there was no denying her attraction—she’d begun to vibrate like a tuning fork whenever he was near. After the last few days, she couldn’t deny the way he made her feel…as if she could take on Malvern with him at her side.
For a moment, Sorcha wondered if it were possible to keep one’s heart completely detached from the demands of one’s body. She could, she supposed, with effort, though it wasn’t just his kisses she craved…she delighted in his spare smiles and his sly repartee. His wit and intelligence. The mellow voice that resonated through her worries, calming her in an instant.
Diah. A small sigh departed her lips. None of it mattered anyway. He was incapable of ever truly trusting anyone, and she had her own demons. Real ones that had carved their marks upon her flesh. Best to keep them covered—both her scarsandher utterly unwelcome feelings.
Chapter Twelve
When they left the monastery, the afternoon sky had been crisp and clear, but by sunset they were riding into the odd pale light of a brewing storm. It was far too late to turn back and retrace their steps to the monastery. They would just have to endure the storm when it hit.Ifit hit. Weather in the Highlands was more capricious than he’d expected. Sunny one moment, and stormy the next.
Much like how Brandt’s life had been the past few days.
Brief breaks in the thunderous sky above showed a fiery setting sun, intermittently glazing the vibrant green grass with golden light before the slate clouds shut them out again. They rode west, toward the blocked sunset, squinting when the rays pierced through. Though even then, Brandt felt cold and empty, and yet also filled to the brim with restless energy.
Odd, how he found he had nothing to say to Sorcha, who kept Lockie only a few paces in front of Ares. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He had plenty to say, including an admission that she had every right to be angry with him, considering he’d deviated from their plan. However, the looks she kept sending his way were not ones of anger, but of concern.
Perhaps it was his silence that worried her. Ever since the abbot had spoken the name Montgomery, it had felt like one stone after another piling onto his chest. Until he felt grounded, but breathless. He couldn’t seem to open his mouth to utter one bloody word.
His mother’s ring. His father’s name.
It could not be a coincidence. Brandt’s mother was a Montgomery.Hewas a Montgomery.
He had no idea what to expect as they rode westward, the feeble protection of the monastery sliding behind the hills and valleys in their wake, and uncertainty over whether they would find welcome and shelter with the Montgomerys weighing heavy. But Brandt could not have continued north, not only because Brodie lands were still days away, and there was the risk of Malvern having already predicted it was their destination. Nor because Sorcha’s wound needed more time to heal while she was inside stone walls that had warriors on guard instead of monks with wooden crosses. No, he could not have continued north because of the unassailable driving need to grasp the one vision his mind had clung to for nearly all of his life.
He wanted to find her…hismother. He wanted to show her what he had become. And then he wanted to leave her with the knowledge that he would never think of her again.
Perhaps it was selfish. Brandt didn’t care.
It was too close. A few days ride, and he would have the answers he’d sought for so long. Answers his father had never been able to truly explain. He’d had an affair with a married woman, but had he loved her? Had he asked her to run away with him, and had she dismissed him without care, as she had clearly dismissed her own infant?
One night, during one of the rare times Monty had been in his cups, Brandt had made the mistake of questioning him and had gotten answers that had cut him to the bone. Loosened by drink, Monty had sobbed, bits and pieces of truth spilling out in incoherent parts. That Brandt’s birth mother had been a Scottish highborn lady. That Monty and Brandt had both been sent away from the clan and begged never to return.
When Monty sobered, Brandt had confronted him with his ramblings, but he had resumed his staunch refusal to talk about the land of his birth or his clan. Only to say that Brandt’s mother hadn’t wanted either of them to come back, and that Brandt had been a mistake she could never recover from.
Amistake.
