Page 61 of My Scot, My Surrender
The duchess had been appalled at Brandt’s confession that he’d been born a bastard. Affronted, even. The woman seemed to believe that he had not been born out of wedlock, which hinted to her knowing much more about Brandt than she’d led them to believe. But then she’d fled the hall like the very devils Morag had spoken of were at her heels.
Brandt didn’t answer Sorcha’s question, only giving an abrupt shake of his head. Clearly, he didn’t wish to speak about it. And why should he confide in her? Her heart had swelled during sup, when Rodric had insulted her and he’d risen in her defense. But Sorcha also knew that had he stayed quiet, Brandt would have been pegged as a weakling. A man of no courage. Perhaps her husband had only stood in her defense to prove that he would not be trifled with.
The excuse hurt, and it also rung hollow. She wanted to believe he’d meant his words, and that his defense had been genuine. But he kept changing his mind, this obstinate man, and the moment Sorcha thought she knew what he was about, he seemed only to go and prove her wrong. One moment, he couldn’t keep his hands off her. The next, he was walking away. She wanted him to at least talk to her, the way he had during their travels here. But most of all, she wanted to chase off the haunted look in his eyes.
Sorcha went to him, her feet padding across the floor, swept clean by the maids and covered in spots by rugs and animal pelts that had not been in place when Morag had first shown them the room. Brandt seemed to sense her approach, and she saw the muscles in his back and shoulders tense.
“You should get some sleep,” he told her without turning around. “Take the bed, and I’ll take the chairs here. It will be hours yet before I will be able to close my eyes.”
Standing so close to him, she couldn’t stop her hands from reaching for the knots of tension in his shoulders. He inhaled audibly when she touched him, her fingers pressing firmly into his bunched muscle.
“Don’t be daft,” she replied. “That bed is big enough for the two of usandour horses.”
“I don’t think Morag would appreciate that mess.” She caught sight of his profile again as he tilted his chin, and saw his lips break into a smile. Sorcha massaged his shoulders some more, and his head lolled back, a soft groan expelling from his throat. Her thumbs dug into the muscled flesh beneath the soft linen of his shirt, kneading and rolling, until she felt the largest of the knots start to loosen.
“You have strong hands,” he murmured.
“Sit,” she told him, gently leading him into one of the cushioned chairs in front of the hearth.
“Sorcha—”
She pushed the heels of her palms into the tops of his shoulders. “Let me do this for you,leannan.”
“What does that mean?”
Sorcha hadn’t realized what she’d called him. She felt herself flush. “It’s a silly Gaelic term of endearment; it means nothing.”
Without giving him a chance to protest her touch or react to her stupid slip calling himsweetheart, Sorcha sank her fingers deep into the muscle tissue just above his clavicle, wringing a deep groan from him as she squeezed firmly. She kept the pressure on while following circular motions with her thumbs along his upper back. She worked for a few minutes in silence, punctuated only by the sounds of pleasure escaping his lips.
The small moans tugged at places deep inside her own body, but Sorcha kept herself focused on the task. She wasn’t able to stifle a small gasp when she slipped her fingers inside the neckline of his shirt to palm his warm skin. She loved to touch him, the feel of his bare skin against hers. Any part of her. His muscles leaped reflexively beneath her touch, but she calmed them with wide stroking oscillations. She wanted to press her lips to the hollow where his neck met his shoulders, follow in the path of her fortunate fingers, and trail her lips along the length of his spine. Sorcha marveled at the texture of his skin. He was steel overlaid with silk, strength wrapped in tenderness.
Her fingers crept into his soft hair as she massaged his scalp, threading through the long burnished strands. Brandt sighed with pleasure again, and this time, her entire body responded. The more she touched him, the more she craved. Sorcha kept going, even after she’d felt the tension dissolve and his flesh became malleable. She was only torturing herself, she knew, but she was so drunk on the sensation of him that she couldn’t stop if she tried.
“That feels incredible,” he murmured.
“Good, I’m glad. You’re as stiff as an old branch.”
His chuckle was low and deep, striking a pleasant chord within her. “Stiffness seems to have become my Achilles’ heel these past few weeks.”
“Perhaps you need to stretch more,” she suggested innocently.
Brandt made a choked sound and then forcibly cleared his throat. “Are you volunteering your services, my lady?”
A heated blush overtook her at the underlying innuendo, and she was grateful she was out of his range of sight. Their banter was most dangerous when combined with desire. She took the coward’s way out. “Only my fingers.”
“I give myself over to your leisure, then,” he said softly.
Cheeks scorching, Sorcha returned to the muscles around his collarbone, thinking of howhisfingers had pleasured her. How his tongue and mouth had done the same. Pleasing him now, giving him the same sensation of complete release as she massaged the worry and stress he’d built up inside over the last many days, made her feel powerful. In the moments when Brandt had brought her to ecstasy, there had been nothing in this world she wouldn’t have done or given or said to be able to continue what she was feeling. In those moments, he’d held complete sway over her. He’d had the power.
Now, as his head relaxed against the back of the chair, and her fingers delved under the collar of his shirt, she knew she was the one who held sway. For a tantalizing moment, she wondered if she were to walk around the chair and climb into his lap whether he would continue to succumb. The scandalous thought made her dizzy.
The smooth feel of his bare skin was heaven and hell in equal measure. She wanted to lick his sleek neck. Bite into the corded muscle. Rub her breasts against his bare back in wicked abandon.
I want you, leannan. I want you.
Every rational bone in her body argued that she should move away, but she couldn’t stop. He needed this. He neededher, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
She moved from his neck to his shoulders once again, the breadth of them and the heavy muscle under her palms strumming a violent chord of want inside her. It throbbed along the insides of her ribs and cascaded down to her thighs in molten ribbons. Her senses were so heightened it wouldn’t take much to push her over the edge…the same precipice he’d brought her to twice before. Sorcha squeezed her legs together, and her breath snagged.
