Page 56 of My Scot, My Surrender
Her eyes lingered on Brandt for a few moments.
“No,” Sorcha answered. “Scottish born, with Montgomery kin.”
Aisla turned back to her, her coppery eyes wide. “Montgomery?”
Sorcha didn’t know if it was her place to give away her husband’s father’s name or not, but she sensed something within Aisla that she had in Morag—a willingness to help. Perhaps, also, the possession of answers. But Sorcha wasn’t able to speak before the men in the hall rose, yet again. Looking toward the entrance to the hall, she saw another woman threading between the row of tables. Lady Glenross, she determined.
Though older, with fine lines near her temples and around her mouth, she was beautiful, like Aisla. Lady Glenross had given both Callan and Aisla their fair coloring, and as she approached the table, Sorcha noted the regal poise of her back and chin. She’d nearly reached the laird’s table before her steps slowed, then stopped completely. Her attention seemed to be hinged on Brandt, who’d also stood in greeting. But the moment he lifted his gaze, hers floundered and fell away.
With every passing second, Lady Glenross’s pale complexion grew more pallid. Her initial expression had been shocked, as if she had not been forewarned in advance of their visitor…or his uncanny resemblance to her dead husband.
Recalling Morag’s words, Sorcha’s gaze swung to the duke, who was watching his wife with narrowed, calculating eyes. Of course—he’d planned it this way. Rodric was relishing every moment of what had to be an awful shock for her. It was clear the lady still grieved the loss, and it was also abundantly clear that the current duke resented it. Something was at play here, something sinister. Sorcha didn’t like it.
Aisla stood. “Mother?”
The woman faltered on her next step, and Callan’s chair scraped against the stone floor as he pushed it aside. He reached Lady Glenross within seconds, but by then she was already shaking her head and apologizing.
“I am fine, perfectly fine. I was a little dizzy for only a moment,” she said, Callan leading her to her chair anyway. Two bright spots of color had suffused her cheeks by the time she sat beside Rodric, and as she reached for her goblet of wine, Sorcha noticed her hand was trembling violently.
Rodric, who had also remained seated for his wife’s entrance, let an uncomfortable—somewhat punishing—minute pass by before finally opening his mouth and introducing her. “Mr. Pierce and Lady Pierce, this is my wife, Catriona, the Duchess of Glenross.”
“’Tis my pleasure.”
Lady Glenross kept her eyes on the table, though no food had yet been delivered. She had not greeted Sorcha as warmly as Aisla had, but it wasn’t due to blatant rudeness. No. Sorcha knew from the woman’s dazed and distant expression that she was a thousand miles away in her own mind. The goblet rose to pale lips in an unsteady hand until the entire glass of wine was drained. It was just as quickly refilled by a waiting servant.
Sorcha glanced toward Brandt and found him sitting rigidly in his chair. His jaw was tight, his nostrils flaring. She cursed Rodric and his stringent rules separating the men and women at the laird’s table. It wasn’t normal asking an honored guest to sit apart from her husband, but nothing about this wretched hall was normal. Though the men conversed, it was in low, controlled tones, not the boisterous noise she was used to in her own keep, interspersed with the animated sounds of laughter and praise.
“Pierce,” Rodric said as the first tide of serving maids entered the hall with large trenchers in their hands. The appearance of food distracted the Montgomery men, but not Sorcha. She cut her eyes to the duke. At last, perhaps his game would be made clear. “Ye’ve come all the way from England to pay respects to yer dead father’s kin.”
Brandt was still as stone in his chair when he answered, his voice tightly leashed, “Yes.”
“’Tis a long way for such sentiment. His name?” Rodric asked.
Brandt seemed to pause, considering his reply and how much of the truth he should impart. “Montgomery Pierce,” he answered, adding, “he worked in the stables.”
Lady Glenross’s glass lifted to her lips, but Sorcha was intent on the duke.
“I cannae recall him,” Rodric said quickly, not having taken enough time to truly try to remember. He just as swiftly directed his attention to his left and met Sorcha’s stare. “Though I do recall the name of the man ye were betrothed to, Lady Pierce. The Marquess of Malvern. The verra Englishman yer traitor uncle lost his lands to.”
Though she had not set eyes upon him since Selkirk, the mere sound of Malvern’s name was enough to sour and turn her stomach. “Yes. It was the marquess.”
“And he released ye from the betrothal so ye could marry this Sassenach?”
A platter of roasted venison was set on the table before her, and she felt even more ill. “No,” she answered. “We eloped.”
The lie was like a mouthful of salt. So focused was she on not meeting Brandt’s eyes that she did not realize that the duke was staring at her with his mouth set in a white line until she became aware of the eerie silence descending upon the table.
“Yeeloped? Ye’ve broken yer betrothal contract, ye foolish chit,” he said in a low, yet strangely pleasant, voice. It made Sorcha’s skin crawl, and every hair rose on the back of her neck. She’d always trusted her instincts, and right now they were signaling danger.
The Duke of Glenross was not an ally.
“If ’tis asylum from Malvern ye seek here, then I cannae help ye. It is ye who have wronged.” His pale eyes flicked to Brandt as he went on in the same conversational tone. “Have ye no honor, ye coxcomb? She was given to another. A contract was signed. She was her father’s property to do with as he wished, and ’twas his wish for her to marry the Marquess of Malvern, ye ken.”
Sorcha felt her temper rise and fought to control it, but something inside of her snapped. Perhaps it was the combination of the subdued hall, the insult to Brandt, or the stricken look on Lady Glenross’s face, but she couldn’t curb the words that leaped to her tongue. “I am not property,” she hissed, drawing the consternated eye of every man in the room. “Promised or not, would you marry your own daughter to a man such as Malvern? A man whose cruelty and greed touches every corner of Scotland?”
Waving his arm for chatter to resume, Rodric arched an eyebrow, impaling her with his reptilian stare. “Aye. Aisla will do her duty, even if ’twere my wish for her to wed a dog.”
Sorcha saw the young woman stiffen beside her, but Aisla did not utter a word. Clearly, the man was a despot. “And if that dog bit and mauled her?”
