Page 45 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt closed his eyes and tried to ignore the press of a luscious pair of breasts against his back and the spooning cradle of warm female thighs against his buttocks. He groaned as his groin tightened to the point of pain.
It was going to be a bloody long night.
Brandt moaned softly, awakening to warm wet lips nibbling on his chin…and to the sound of low laughter. Opening his eyes, he blinked, and a very large horse’s head came into view as Ares tried to swallow his nose. He pushed the horse away and propped himself up. Sorcha had already risen and dressed and was grinning at him while munching on an apple, her gaze bright with amusement. “Nice dreams?”
“They were quite pleasant until a minute ago, thank you.”
Brandt pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and stretched, the plaid falling to his waist. Sorcha’s gaze riveted on his bare chest and stomach before she turned hurriedly away toward Lockie. He half wondered what she would have done had he risen upright. His lower half was in no way relieved from the tortures of the night.
“He’s hungry,” she said, and Brandt blinked twice before realizing she was talking about Ares. “But I didn’t want to let him graze without checking with you first. Seems he had the same idea.”
“By eating my face?”
“He was simply bidding you good morning with a kiss,” she said with an irrepressible wink over her shoulder.
He’d have vastly preferred a kiss fromherin the vicinity of his lap.
Smirking at the bawdy thought, Brandt grabbed the tartan and stood, making no move to disguise the conspicuous tent at his hips. He was rewarded with a smothered gasp as he strode from the shack.Take that, Highland sprite.
Outside, dawn was breaking across the cloudless skies in bright, pinkening touches. The storm had left everything washed and gleaming. Even the grass seemed greener and the patches of heather more purple. Tucking the plaid around his waist and throwing one end over his shoulder in a loose imitation of what he’d seen on Ronan, Brandt inhaled deeply and moved around to the back of the hut to take care of his morning needs.
“The plaid suits you,” Sorcha said when he returned. Her voice had taken on a husky quality, no doubt from the eyeful she’d gotten.
“It’s a bit too free for me,” he said, grinning and arching an amused eyebrow. It had the intended effect. Her cheeks went scandalously pink as she caught his meaning that he was bare-arsed beneath the fabric.
“Most civilized men wear undergarments,” she said primly. “And shirts.”
“Do they?” he said, jutting his hips forward slightly.
Her face flamed. “This is unseemly conversation,sir, even for me.”
“We are married, Sorcha. We have slept together, multiple times.” He eyed her, enjoying her embarrassment. “Surely, you’re not going to turn into a proper, prissy maiden on me now?”
She scowled. “I’ll have you know that I was brought up to be a lady.”
“Sheathe your claws, wife.” He chuckled and ducked inside to find his clothing. “’Twas only a bit of teasing. I wouldn’t change one wild hair on your head for all the well-behaved ladies in London.” Laughing, he ducked as her apple core came sailing at his head.
After a light meal of oats and grass for the horses and fruit for him, they mounted their steeds and headed west. The night’s rest had done them all a world of good, and their pace was swift. With any luck, even with the delay from the rain, they would make Montgomery lands by the next morning. Sorcha cantered ahead of him, her back straight, her long hair braided into a neat, thick plait. He grinned. Undoubtedly, his comment regarding her “wild” hair had inspired her to be contrary. He had never enjoyed goading a woman more…and provoking the wit and fire of her response.
Suddenly, something whizzed by Brandt’s cheek, tickling the tip of his ear. He glanced at Sorcha, expecting another apple core to come his way, but her back was to him. An arrow lodged itself into the dirt at Ares’s hooves. Blinking, he looked over his shoulder to see two men in pursuit. They were mounted on two horses and dressed in brown striped plaids. Highlanders, then. They couldn’t be Montgomery men—they wore the wrong colors for that. Who were they? Another arrow passed perilously close.
“Sorcha!” he yelled, drawing his sword.
But she had already turned, her own bow nocked. One of the men fell out of his saddle as her shot landed true. The second man released another arrow, and Brandt felt Ares rear up beneath him with a pained whinny. He jumped off the saddle, but there was no sign of an arrow in the horse’s hide. With a furious shout, he ran toward the man, lifting his sword high above his head and swinging into the man’s thigh as he rode past. His attacker toppled to the ground, clutching at his bleeding leg.
Brandt stuck the tip of his sword into the man’s grimy neck. “Who sent you?”
The Scot scowled, his eyes going mutinous.
“It will give me great pleasure to carve your worthless head from your body,” Brandt said softly. “Don’t make me ask again.”
The man paled as the point of the sword drew a drop of blood. “The Marquess of Malvern.”
“Malvern?” Sorcha gasped, dismounting. “How? We’ve been on the road for days. They couldn’t have followed us so quickly.”
“How?” Brandt prodded the man.
“There’s a bounty on yer head, dead fer ye, alive fer the lass.”
