Page 57 of My Scot, My Surrender
The duke smiled. “’Tis a husband’s right.”
A man such as Rodric would not hesitate to put his hands on his wife if she disobeyed him. And even now, Lady Glenross remained silent, her gaze upon her plate. If Sorcha’s father dared speak to her mother like that, said dishes would be flying. She felt sick to her stomach.
“Then any daughter of yours has my deepest condolences,” Sorcha muttered, uncaring of what her words might provoke.And also your wife, she added with a look to the lady who had taken on the hue of a ghostly wraith.
“Why? Malvern is a marquess,” Rodric said, his lip curling. “A powerful, wealthy English lord. Ye have betrayed yer family and forgone yer duty for what? A quick tumble in the woods? Perhaps that encounter with the wolf did more to ye than disfigure yer face.”
“Rodric!” Lady Glenross gasped.
Once more, his words made the hall go quiet, his vile insinuation echoing in the silence…that she was little more than an animal herself. Flushing with shame, Sorcha opened her mouth, but Brandt shoved his chair back slowly and pushed to his feet.
“Donotinsult my wife,” he snapped through clenched teeth as the duke’s sons both stood, ready and bristling. “I married her becauseIwanted her. If you wish to take offense with someone, do so with me. We have sought sanctuary here, but perhaps it’s best if we leave.”
The duke smiled and speared a piece of meat with the tip of his knife. “Rest easy, Mr. Pierce. Apologies to you and your lady if any insult was felt.” The insincerity in his voice was clear, as was the fact that he hadn’t truly apologized. “There are untold dangers roaming the fells at night. Be assured Montgomery is welcome to ye for as long as ye require.”
Though Sorcha had the forbidding feeling they would be better off out there than in here, they had no choice. The journey to Brodie, in the remotest part of the Highlands, could not be made upon a lame horse. Brandt would not leave Ares behind, nor would she ask him to do so.
Two days, she thought. Three at the most. Perhaps by then, Brandt would be able to find the answers he sought and Ares would have had enough time to heal. She would just have to stay out of Rodric’s way before she did something stupid and truly unforgivable, like sink her dirk into his blasted eye.
“’Tis all right, Brandt,” she whispered, and then lifted her voice and her chin. “No insult taken, Your Grace, but you can be sure my father, the duke, will be pleased to learn of your kindness.”
Rodric’s pale eyes narrowed at the veiled threat, but Sorcha did not cower. She stared right back at him. Maclaren was a powerful clan, and he knew it. Insulting her father with his wide-reaching influence would not be wise, no matter how protected Montgomery lands were. She only hoped she hadn’t lost her father’s support. No use making threats that wouldn’t come to fruition if Dunrannoch had disowned her.
Lady Glenross cleared her throat, breaking the silence and the tension, and lifted her goblet. “To new friends,” she said.
Everyone, with the exception of the laird, lifted their glasses and echoed her toast. And as Sorcha sipped her wine, she couldn’t help noticing Rodric and Brandt engaged in a silent battle of wills, the resemblance between them more marked than it had been earlier. Her skin grew chilled, as if touched by the spirit of whatever it was haunted these halls.
She suppressed a shiver. She recognized the expression on Rodric’s face, having seen a similar one on Malvern. It was full of calculated malice. She realized then that Rodric had never inquired about the identity of Brandt’smother.
Sorcha was willing to bet anything it was because Rodric already knew exactly who she was.
Chapter Sixteen
Once the Duke of Glenross had finished his ducal posturing, the dinner conversation took on a lighter, more jovial, tone. As much as one could be jovial in such a suffocating atmosphere. Brandt was glad for it because he was two breaths short of tossing the duke on his privileged arse in front of all his men in his own keep, and teaching him a much-needed lesson.
He’d known men like Rodric before…men who believed women were meant to be seen, not heard. That they were little more than possessions. Men like him wielded their power—and cruelty—with equal ferocity. It was clear in the way he’d tried and failed to intimidate Brandt. In that respect, Rodric was very much like Malvern. It made him regret that he’d brought Sorcha here.
He spared her a glance. She was deep in conversation with Aisla, and the worry that had been written all over her before had disappeared. He had not told her how beautiful she looked in blue—the light color made her creamy skin luminous and her eyes glow like sapphires.
Brandt had been proud of how well she’d stood up to Rodric’s interrogation, but he hadn’t been about to let the man insult her. It was only by a slim thread that he’d been able to stop himself from calling the duke out. Not that he doubted his own skill at twenty paces, but he’d made a promise to Sorcha to see her through to Brodie, and he couldn’t do that if he were wounded or dead.
Still, Brandt wondered if anyone would miss the duke if he met an untimely end. His sons, perhaps. His wife and daughter, not as much, he’d wager. Other than having the blond coloring of her middle son and daughter, he hadn’t taken much measure of Lady Glenross. Though she was tall, she seemed frail and delicate. Her features were fine-boned, much like her daughter’s, and she had long elegant hands. Shadows slunk beneath her eyes, and like the rest of the women in the keep, she seemed beaten down. Brandt wondered if she would be amenable to questions about her sisters-in-law, their whereabouts, or any secret bastard children born out of wedlock.
Brandt’s gaze tumbled to where Lady Glenross was moving the food around her plate. Other than her earlier toast, she hadn’t spoken once. Neither had she looked up. The duchess’s reaction upon seeing him had been expected, especially after he’d seen the portrait of the late duke in the gallery, though the depth of her surprise had been puzzling. The previous Duke of Glenross had been dead over a score of years. Brandt wondered at loving someone so deeply that no matter how long they had been gone, they never truly left you. His gaze flicked back to Sorcha, and he felt an unfamiliar sensation compress his lungs. He couldn’t imagine ever forgetting her, not in a week, not in twenty years. Not in a lifetime.
Brandt gave his head a hard shake. He would have to.
He sighed and speared another mouthful of poached fish. The food, to his surprise, was delicious and flavorful. The roasted fish was seasoned with herbs and cooked in a buttery wine sauce that hinted of French origins. The duke clearly did not spare the expense to employ a superb cook, which Brandt knew was uncommon for the Highlands. It was another thing about the man that rankled. He was a duke, and chieftain of Montgomery, but he acted like a king. A pampered, spoiled king.
Callan, the younger of the two brothers, cleared his throat, drawing Brandt out of his thoughts. “Whereabouts do ye hail from in England?”
“Essex,” he replied, with a longer look at the lad sitting beside him. He seemed to be about twenty and wore a less constipated look than his elder brother.
“Have ye been to London?”
Brandt nodded. “Many times.”
“White’s?” Callan’s brown eyes had grown more animated.
