Page 59 of My Scot, My Surrender
A dozen Montgomery men stood to fall in line with their laird, leaving the hall half empty. Callan called for more ale. Brandt was surprised he hadn’t been allowed to accompany the laird, but perhaps it was the way things were done. The young man’s sour face indicated that it wasn’t the first time he’d been left behind.
“You wish to go with them?” Brandt asked.
“My father likes to keep us apart,” Callan said, after a long draught on his mug. “Patrick is being groomed for the role of laird, and I am but a nuisance.”
“Ye’re not a nuisance,” Aisla said loyally.
Callan grumbled but sent his sister a grateful glance. They were allies, then, Callan, Lady Glenross, and Aisla. Brandt could sense it in the easy way all three of them were acting together now that the laird, his heir, and half the men in the hall had gone, though he suspected Patrick cared deeply for his mother as well.
Catriona sipped her wine, relaxed again. In her husband’s absence, it was as if another woman had taken her place…a vibrant hint of the woman she used to be. “I’ve no’ met the Marquess of Malvern, but I’ve heard of him. I cannae blame ye for marrying another man, Lady Pierce. But pray tell, how did ye and Mr. Pierce meet? In England?”
She cast a curious look in Brandt’s direction, but the moment he met her eyes, she glanced away again, concentrating instead on Sorcha. His wife had gone pink cheeked, her lips pressed tightly. Rodric had shamed her enough for eloping. Should the duke learn the truth that she’d coerced a man into marriage in exchange for a horse, too, his disgust would only be renewed.
“At the common lands festival in Selkirk,” Brandt answered for her. The hell if he’d let one more thing humiliate her. “I caught sight of her as she was competing in a sword fight against a much bigger, much stronger man.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened, as if pleading with him to be quiet. He only smirked, his gaze trained on her. So much had passed between them since then…since that moment he’d first laid eyes on her, but Brandt would never forget the memory of her, ferocious and beautiful in equal measure. A virago in battle armor, flush with victory.
“And yet, she bested her opponent with her skill. I was watching from afar when she pulled off her helm and I realized she was a lady, not a boy as I’d assumed.”
Aisla gasped and grinned, turning to stare at Sorcha with awe. Callan huffed an impressed laugh and drew from his tankard.
“I knew I had to meet her,” Brandt went on, Sorcha’s alarm setting the tips of her ears afire. “And when I did, I knew…she wasn’t just a swordswoman. She was a sorceress.” Brandt raised his tankard to her. “Because I immediately fell under her spell.”
Sorcha’s tensed shoulders fell and, though her cheeks and ears stayed bright with color, she was breathing easier. Suddenly shy, she couldn’t seem to hold his stare. It wasn’t as though he’d strayedthatfar from the truth. He’d withheld only the specific terms of their agreement, but he had been mesmerized by her from the very start in that paddock.
Athena, he’d thought her.
Though now, as he had discovered, that comparison failed to come close to the reality.
“Love at first sight, ye ken.” Aisla sat back in her chair with a sigh, a hand covering her heart and girlish stars in her eyes. “’Tis so lovely. So verra romantic.”
Brandt saw Sorcha shake her head slightly, and he smiled. Their meeting had not been romantic in the least, despite his gawking, and he knew it was exactly what his wife was thinking.
What was romance anyway? A collection of words, maybe, said to another person. Promises made. Though words were forgotten, promises easily broken. It was action Brandt admired. Loyalty and resolve. Sorcha was a stubborn, unflinching, maddening woman, and yet she would not give up. She’d proven her mettle in the last handful of days as they’d traveled, fighting Coxley and Malvern’s hired men at every turn.
Laying herself bare to him at the river—that had taken courage, too.
And he’d belittled her for it.
Aisla sighed again, though the sound had taken on an edge of despair. “Truly, I only wish I could meet a man as ye did. With my luck, I’ll be married off to the Buchanans fer the sake of an alliance.” She scowled and then laughed. “Or a dog. Though I ken I’d marry the dog over Dougal Buchanan. ’Twould smell heaps better.”
Callan snorted with laughter. “Aye, dunnae fash yerself, Aisla. Patrick and I would toss the Buchanan into the loch before he put one finger upon ye.”
She stuck her tongue out at her brother. “I’d elope with a handsome Sassenach over that lout.”
“Hush, Aisla,” Lady Glenross said with a nervous glance over her shoulder as if expecting her husband’s return any moment.
“How did you and the duke meet?” Sorcha asked, and then clamped her hand over her mouth with an appalled look. It was well known how they had met, Brandt knew, and well rumored that the late duke’s death had been fratricide.
However, the duchess did not seem troubled by the question. Brandt felt her gaze linger on him for a protracted moment before she answered.
“I was married to his brother, Robert,” she said. “He died in a fall, and Rodric was there to share the burden of my grief. We married shortly after the mourning period had passed.” She shrugged delicate shoulders. “’Twas the best thing for the clan.”
Brandt grasped at the opening. “That must have been hard for you and the laird’s sisters. Where are they?” he asked. “Did they grow up here at Montgomery? Were they of comfort to you as well?”
He didn’t care if he sounded oddly inquisitive. He didn’t plan to remain under Rodric’s roof much longer, and he still wanted answers.
“Aye. ’Twas a difficult time, but Jean and Una had already married. They visited, of course, and mourned their brother’s death, but they had their own lives. I was inconsolable, and Rodric was the only one there to pick up the pieces.”
