Page 54 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt had half expected to see a guard posted outside his door, but there was no one there. The occasional maid scurried by as he passed several closed doors that he assumed led into other bedchambers. He walked down a long hallway until he came to a large gallery. Immense portraits hung on the walls, spanning from floor to ceiling. His breath caught as he saw the similarities in some of the older paintings, but it was certainly nothing to lose one’s accounts over.
He strode deeper into the room, hoping that perhaps there would be a painting of the laird’s sisters. Deep down, Brandt felt that he wouldknowhis mother. But other than a few paintings of some older women and one painting of a family with two girls and two boys, one of which Brandt wagered was the laird at a young age, there was nothing that gave him any hope at all.
Frustrated, he’d turned on his heel and headed back down the gallery, when his gaze fell on a curtained portrait in an alcove at the end of the hall. Black silk hung over its surface, as if someone had wanted to banish the person in the portrait from the others. Brandt held his breath as he lifted one edge of the silk. His heart sank as his gaze took in a pair of strong male legs encased in boots and a kilt. It was not a woman.
He tugged harder on the silk, and to his dismay, the delicate fabric tore into ragged pieces and floated to the ground at his feet. But the portrait was fully exposed. It showed a man on a horse. A warrior in a Montgomery tartan with a broadsword held high and a proud look on his face. Brandt staggered back, suddenly understanding what all the clansmen had been whispering about.
Laird Robert Montgomery was Brandt in the flesh. From the deeply bronzed red of his hair to his stern features and long brawny stature. The only difference was the eyes—they were the same wintry blue of his brother’s. Brandt drew his fingers along the edges of the man’s plaid.
Had this been his uncle? Had he been the one to send Monty away with the newborn babe he’d fathered with one of the duke’s sisters? Had it been some form of revenge? Punishment? Brandt’s heart ached for his father, who’d been banished so callously from his clan for falling in love with a woman he could not have. Sisters of dukes did not marry stable masters.
And neither did daughters of dukes.
Suddenly, Brandt couldn’t care less about his parentage. His heart ached for the woman he’d left in his chambers. The one he’d cut down so callously, before she’d had the chance to offer him her misguided affection. He had nothing to offer her in return, though, and if he accepted or encouraged her esteem, she would pay the price for her foolish choices.
Just as Monty had.
Chapter Fifteen
To Sorcha’s surprise, there was a knock on the door and men waiting at Morag’s side with a wooden tub. She had just splashed her face with the cool, refreshing water in the basin, and, though she’d been grateful for the chance to wash away the half-day’s worth of travel dust, she longed for a bath. No sooner had she thought it than the knock had come. The servants emptied pails of steaming water into the tub until it was full. Some of them stared openly at her, and Sorcha resisted the urge to duck her head.
“Will ye need help, lass?” Morag asked. Sorcha shook her head, and the old woman curtsied, shutting the door behind her.
Stripping bare with a delicious sigh, she sank into the warm water, scented with rose petals and lavender. God, she missed baths. She loved riding and hunting, but being on the road took its toll. It made her long for the simple luxuries of home. After scrubbing her entire body from top to toe, she wrapped herself in a long length of toweling and sat before the fire to dry and comb her hair. She heard the chamber door open and close, but it was only Morag with a gown in hand. Still, she crossed her arms over her chest.
“Yers was filthy, so I brought ye another one.” Morag studied the pale blue muslin she held with a critical eye. “Ye’re a tall lass, but it should fit.”
“Thank you,” Sorcha said with a grateful smile as the maid curtsied and left.
She’d brought no other suitable gowns with her, and all of the clothing in her pack needed washing or mending. She hadn’t wanted to go to dinner in the laird’s hall looking like a pauper with borrowed threads from charity, but she didn’t have any other choice. At least now she would not bring shame to Maclaren. Or her husband.
Not that he would care if she appeared clothed in rags.
Sorcha blinked. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of Brandt since they departed for Montgomery. After what had happened between them at the river, she’d wanted to kick herself in the teeth. Repeatedly.
The bluntness of his response had burned through to her bared heart like hot embers upon an open wound. Even now, the memory scalded. What had she expected? That he would fall to his knees and confess his devotion? In truth, a small part of her had hoped he would. But his cruel words had shattered her girlish fantasies.
He did not want marriage. Nor did he wanther.
Oh, he wanted her body. She’d felt his arousal on the way to the keep. But Brandt appeared to view any intimacy between them as weakness. Oridiocy. It seemed he was far more adept than she was at keeping his desires separate from everything else. Perhaps all men were built that way, able to take pleasure and only pleasure when it was given, without the inconvenient entanglement of feelings.
Well, no matter. Soon, they would be at Brodie, and she could put Brandt Pierce behind her for good, as he clearly wanted.
The chamber door opened and closed again, and she did not look up, thinking it was only Morag. But after a moment of strange silence, she did glance up. It wasn’t Morag. Brandt stood watching her, his face pale as if he’d seen a ghost himself. Sorcha did not want to care, but she couldn’t curb her tongue…or her sudden burst of concern.
“What is it?” she asked.
A muscle jumped in his stubbled jaw as he scraped his fingers through the bristle. “I saw a portrait of the old laird,” he said. “The clansmen were right to stare. I look like him.” He drew a slow breath. “Exactly like him.”
Brandt walked toward the bed and sat on the edge, one hand raking through his hair. Sorcha clutched the toweling tighter as she stood, setting the comb down on the chair.
“What is it you’re thinking?” she asked, her mind searching for possible explanations. The resemblance to Rodric was strong, and the stares of the Montgomery people had been too pointed to ignore. “That your mother is one of the duke’s sisters?”
She walked toward him, her bare feet cold upon the stone floor. Brandt had asked Rodric earlier about other siblings, and she had suspected that was the reason why.
“Perhaps, and she must have had a tryst with Monty,” he answered, his hand falling from the crop of hair he’d been clutching in frustration and landing upon his thigh. Without thinking, Sorcha reached for it, curling her fingers over his with a soft squeeze. He needed comfort, and she couldn’t be so cruel as to withhold it. No matter if she still wanted to throw an overflowing chamber pot at his head.
“If she’s married, she may not be here, then,” she said, thinking of her own sisters, sent far away to other lands when they’d wed.
