Page 53 of My Scot, My Surrender
“Come, then, be welcome, daughter of Dunrannoch.” Rodric frowned. “How is yer father faring these days? Heard he lost some land to an English marquess when his uncle was proven guilty of associating with the Jacobites.”
“He’s well, thank you, Your Grace.”
She said nothing about her uncle or about Malvern, and after a moment, Rodric continued. “And yer mother? She was a bonny lass for a Sassenach.”
Something in the way he said it was insulting. His gaze scoured Sorcha, his mouth curling in a leer as they rested on her scars. A flush suffused Sorcha’s face, but she did not drop her chin even when his eyes lowered to her breasts in the borrowed green gown. The man was coarse and seemed adept at playing games. Brandt shifted his footing and brought himself closer to her side, the act earning him a sideways glare.
“She’s well, too,” Sorcha said sweetly. “And my brothers and my sisters, and all my cousins. They are all well.”
If the duke sensed the underlying irritation in Sorcha’s sugary tones, he did not remark upon it. They followed the laird into the keep. Surprisingly, the great hall was pleasantly kept with fresh rushes before the fireplaces and beautiful tapestries adorning the stone walls. Nothing about it was familiar, though he felt a strange kinship with the stones of this place. Had he been born here? In the castle or in one of the cottages that had dotted the rambling hillside? If he was indeed the son of one of the duke’s relations, was she still alive? Brandt’s mind roiled with question after question.
The keep was bustling with people, though the expressions were the same—morose and stern. Other than the laughing children, Brandt had not noticed a single smile on any of the adults. The happiness of a lord’s people said a lot. Though Archer was a stern man, his tenants in Essex and his other estates respected and loved him. They had always nodded and called out a pleasant greeting whenever he and Archer had ridden through while inspecting the farms and properties. And Archer would often stop and chat with all of them. The solemnness of these people made Brandt uneasy. All was not well here.
“Morag will show ye to yer chambers,” Rodric said before leaving the keep again. “We sup at eight.”
A slight figure hurried forward and bobbed before her laird, then turned to them. Morag was an older woman with a shock of cinnamon hair and a lined face. Kindly blue eyes shone and widened when they took in Sorcha’s scars. Her mouth fell open when she looked at Brandt.
Morag didn’t speak until she’d led them into a large chamber at the end of the hall. It held a grand bed, a pair of throne-like wooden chairs set before a hearth, and a table and mirror, though a thin layer of dust had gathered upon the furnishings. Their packs and belongings had been removed from the horses and set on the floor in the middle of the room.
“The laird and lady were no’ expecting guests,” she said apologetically. “The chambermaids will see that ’tis cleaned while ye’re at sup.”
“Lady?” Sorcha asked.
“Lady Glenross,” Morag said. “The duchess is in the village to tend a birth.”
Brandt was surprised. “She’s a midwife?”
“Nae, but she has a gift for handling difficult births. Our people say that Lady Glenross has the touch o’ the fairies.”
She trailed off into silence as her gaze fell upon him once more. Disbelief and confusion warred in her eyes as she drank in his features. Unlike the other women, she did not make the sign of the cross, but she did look as if she’d seen a ghost.
Since her eyes were the first warm pair he had met upon arriving at Montgomery, Brandt shot her a wry smile. “I look like your laird.”
Morag shook her head. “Nae, lad, ye’ve the look of the laird’sbrother, Robert.” Her hand flew to her mouth in horror as if something had occurred to her. “Her ladyship will no’ be expecting it…to see the verra image of her husband back from the grave.”
Brandt frowned, wondering whether the old woman could be of use. Morag was certainly old enough to have been around for a long time. “Does the laird have any sisters or female cousins?” he asked.
“Two sisters, and many cousins,” she replied, squinting at the odd question and opening the door to admit some servants with water to fill the washbasin. They, too, gawked at them before Morag shooed them from the room. “Tongues will be waggin’ all o’er Montgomery today. A ghost and the Beast—” She broke off in horror, her aggrieved gaze darting to Sorcha. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady. I didnae mean any insult.”
“None taken, Morag.” Sorcha smiled kindly at the woman’s aghast face. “It’s truth I am a beast. Ask any of my brothers and they’ll swear to it.”
Morag shook her head. “Ye were such a bonny lass.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened. “Did you know me?”
“Ye father brought ye here as a wee lass one summer. I wept when I heard the news of the wolf attack.” Morag had tears shining in her eyes. “But ’twas no’ as bad as I expected. Ye’re still bonny, ye ken.” Her gaze slid to where Brandt stood. “And ye’re married to this strapping man.”
Sorcha opened her mouth, as if to contradict the statement, and then closed it. Regardless of his opinion on the matter or what had happened between them, in the eyes of the clan and everyone else, theywerewedded.
Morag looked like she wanted to reminisce more, but she straightened and made for the doorway as though suddenly frightened. She stopped at the door. “Be on ye way as soon as ye can,” she whispered. “’Tis no’ safe here. The devil roams these lands.”
The door slammed shut behind her before either of them could respond, but her ominous words remained in the air like a warning. Brandt exchanged a glance with Sorcha, but she looked as bemused as he felt.
“That was odd,” he said.
“Highland folk believe in their legends.” She moved toward the washbasin. “It’s said that when the old duke died, a curse fell upon the land. Perhaps that is the devil she speaks of.” Sorcha glanced at him over her shoulder, and when their eyes met, hurt and resolve passed over hers. “I wish to wash in private.”
Brandt frowned. His wife’s voice had taken on the same chilling reserve from earlier that morning when they’d broken camp by the river. He missed their easy camaraderie, but he’d hurt her with his dispassionate remarks about what had happened at the river. Eventually, she would appreciate the sense of his actions, but for now, the more space between them the better. He nodded and left the chamber.
