Page 44 of My Scot, My Surrender
Amazed at her foresight and calm, he nodded, and a few moments later, Brandt could hear Sorcha undressing behind him as he set himself to task with the fire. He tried not to pay attention to the intimate rustling sounds or imagine the glow of her pale skin by storm light. She would look like a pagan Celtic goddess. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to turn around and see for himself. When she moved to settle in beside him, bundled in one of the Maclaren plaids, he saw that she had hooked her damp dress and underthings to a nail that jutted out on the wall.
“I’ve left a plaid for you there,” she said and turned her face away.
Brandt noticed the rosy tinge of her cheeks—clearly, she was as potently aware of him as he was of her. And for good reason. She was stark naked beneath that covering. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the dangerous knowledge that made lust simmer to life within him.
He removed his own clothes swiftly and found other nails on which to hang them. By the time he was finished, Brandt was shivering, but the warm woven plaid felt like heaven as he squatted beside Sorcha.
“How long do you think the storm will last?”
“Hard to tell with squalls like these. Sometimes they can last for minutes, other times for hours.” She peered through the door opening. “This one looks like it means to stay a while.”
“We should get some rest, then,” Brandt said. He rose and went over to the horses, where he unrolled the pallet he had saved from Ronan and spread it on the hard, filthy ground behind them. He was grateful for it, mostly for Sorcha’s sake. She might have been accustomed to rough conditions, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t appreciate the small comfort. He also grabbed two apples and handed her one.
“Thank you.”
Sitting together, they ate the fruit in silence, watching the small flames that fought valiantly against the occasional burst of wind that slivered through the entryway. They threw the two cores to the horses. It had become only marginally warmer, even with the body heat of four animals and two humans, as well as the meager heat from the fire, and Brandt noticed that Sorcha was still shivering. He drew her toward him.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes going wide.
“Warming you,” he said. “And me.”
Even through the layers of two plaids, her body was like a slab of ice. Her damp hair had already started to dry in tangled curls, but it seemed that the chill had already sunk into her bones.
“You’re so warm,” she breathed, wriggling closer.
“I spent many cold nights in the stables as a lad. I suppose my body got used to it.”
Brandt tried not to react to her closeness and the faint lavender scent of her—vastly preferable to the other smells surrounding them. She sighed contentedly, snuggling against him. The loose plaid pressed between them was not much of a deterrent to his stiffening body, but Brandt steeled himself. He wasn’t a beast, driven by rutting. She needed warmth, and he was simply providing it so she wouldn’t catch a chill.
Or so he told himself.
“What do you know of the Montgomerys?” he asked, his tone gruffer than he’d intended.
Sorcha went slightly rigid beneath his arm. “Not much. My father used to know the prior Duke of Glenross quite well. Ronan said the old duke used to visit Maclaren on occasion before I was born when he was a lad. But when the new duke—his brother—took his place, things changed. The Montgomerys keep to themselves.” She shrugged, her shoulder pushing into his rib cage. “Much like many other Highland clans, even Brodie. It’s normal…only…”
She glanced up at him, something warring in her expression.
“Only what?” he asked.
“They don’t like strangers.”
His eyes narrowed. “How do you mean?”
Sorcha chewed her bottom lip and sighed quietly. “Well, I suppose you should hear it if they are indeed your kin. There were rumors surrounding the death of the old laird, the Duke of Glenross. He died in a suspicious accident. He was thrown by his horse and fell to his death in the quarry on Montgomery lands, and the one to find him was his younger brother, Rodric.” Brandt stared at her, and she rushed to continue. “Ronan said he heard from Papa that it was near an old mining trench that they used to play in as children. Robert, the old duke, knew that land like the back of his hand. He knew all the traps and the dangerous parts, and yet he fell into a sinkhole.”
“Was it murder?”
“It was never proven, but it was strange that Rodric inherited the titleandwent on to marry his brother’s widow.” Her voice went quiet. “He’s known throughout the Highlands as the Mad Montgomery because of his rages. Ronan used to tease Finlay, Evan, and me when we were little that the Mad Montgomery was going to come and steal us away in the night.” She shuddered slightly. “I do not know that we will be welcome there, Brandt, even if they are your kin.”
“You will be safe, Sorcha, I promise you,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”
She drew a slow breath. “I’m not afraid, but I do fear that you won’t find the answers you seek.”
Brandt wasn’t sure he would, either. But it was closer than he’d ever gotten to the truth of who he was. He owed it to himself, and to Monty, to pay his respects. And if he wasn’t welcome, then he would leave.
After a while, they fell into silence, and as her weight slumped into his side, Brandt realized that she had fallen asleep. Gently, he lowered her to the pallet and tucked the plaid around her body. The small fire had already burned out to red embers, so he lay back next to her. Seeking his warmth with a soft sigh, Sorcha turned to fling one arm over him, and his entire body went taut as her forearm draped over the prominent bulge at his groin. He’d sported an inconvenient erection the minute she’d undressed, and now, at her unknowing touch, it swelled further.Christ. Even in sleep, she was going to be the death of him.
He loosed a shaky breath, and angled his hips a quarter turn so that her hand was no longer resting on top of him. And damned if he didn’t miss the slight, innocent pressure of it. God, he was bitterly depraved if that was what he had sunk to. Moving quietly, he shifted his body so that he was resting on his side away from her. Instinctively, Sorcha followed the movement—and the source of heat—snuggling into his back and tightening her hold against his abdomen.
