Page 71 of My Scot, My Surrender
“All the better,” she replied, stepping out of the semicircle of Fergus’s arm, and swung the quiver to her back. Geordie tossed a small burlap sack into the air as hard as he could. Sorcha grabbed an arrow, following its flight and speed with her eyes before releasing. The arrow smacked into the bag in midair. Loud whoops filled the grounds as Fergus flung another upward to soar into the sky. She took it down with the same effortless ease, and the cheering grew.
Suddenly, loud controlled clapping interrupted the fracas. It was not frenzied with delight. No, this was cold and purposeful. Every head turned to see the scowling laird atop a giant horse with his unsmiling son at his side. A few other mounted soldiers stood in grim silence a few feet away. Most of the men scattered like leaves in a windstorm. Sorcha noticed Patrick’s gaze flick to Aisla, concern glimmering for a brief moment, before his features took on the look of stone once more.
“What have we here?” Rodric thundered. Sorcha could feel Aisla quail beside her, and she bristled.
“A bit of sport, Your Grace,” Sorcha said, releasing the bow and quiver from her grip. “Nothing more. Lady Aisla agreed to accompany me so I would not get lost.”
“Perhaps ye should have remained in the keep where ye belong.”
She frowned at his acidic, patronizing tone, but managed to keep her own civil. “At Maclaren, the women train with the men. And it’s not unusual for ladies to take the air on occasion.”
Rodric’s gaze went pointedly to her scars. “And look at where that got ye. Taking the air, and ye got yer face torn off for it.” A gruesome smile stretched his lips. “Who kens what kind of predator ye can find out here, aye? Ye’ll want to be careful, Lady Pierce, or ye’ll again find yerself as prey.” The insidious hint of threat left Sorcha cold as his reptilian stare moved to his daughter. “Get ye behind Patrick up to the keep. Yer disobedience will warrant the strap, ye ken.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened at the open promise of punishment. She wanted to hold Aisla back as she moved to climb up behind Patrick. Her face was pale, though to her credit, she did not show any emotion.
Hell. This washerfault. But Sorcha held her tongue, knowing that any response would only make it worse for Aisla. Challenging the laird and his brutality in front of his clansmen would not be a wise course of action. She did not say a word until he wheeled his horse around and rode away.
Patrick did not follow immediately, but trotted his horse toward her. “Up to the keep, Lady Pierce. The laird is right, ’tis dangerous for ye.”
Sorcha wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a certainty.
“I’m so sorry,” she said to Aisla.
“’Twill be all right,” Aisla whispered. “Some of it is only bluster.”
But not all of it, Sorcha knew. Aisla had confessed as much earlier. Foreboding settled upon her skin as though she’d walked into an unexpected web of spiders. Spiders that spun their sticky threads and waited for spoils. Shivering slightly, she rubbed her arms and began the long trek back to the keep.
Chapter Twenty
It wasn’t until later that evening, once the sun had lowered behind the craggy hills that fortified Montgomery land, that Brandt returned to the keep and the room he shared with Sorcha. He’d spent the bulk of the day on foot, walking the undulating terrain around the fortress, visiting the stables for an unnecessarily lengthy visit with Ares and Lockie, and learning the layout of the rooms and corridors inside the keep itself. All in all, he’d made a day of avoiding both his mother and his wife.
Never before had he worked so hard not to think about women. How was it, he mused for the near hundredth time that day, that he had lived a quarter of a century without ever finding himself so frustrated and confused about the female set that he wanted to pull his hair out at the roots, when in less than a fortnight now he’d been subjected to the full spectrum of torture. Both mental and physical.
On the one hand, there was Lady Glenross. His mother. A woman who had never had a face in his imaginings before, and whom now he saw so clearly. All his life, she’d been a nameless person to hate, to be furious with. He’d been so certain that his mother was a cold, uncaring witch of a woman. How wrong he’d been.
Everything was changing now that he knew the truth; everything he thought he’d known had shattered, and ever since breaking his fast that morning, Brandt had been waiting for the pieces to settle into new order. With each step he took as he roamed the keep and lands, he was reminded that he wasn’t just a stable master. He wasn’t a bastard at all. Every inch of this gorgeous, intimidating land was rightfullyhis. And his mother wanted him to reclaim it.
On the other hand, he had Sorcha. Hiswife. His beautiful, intoxicating, blood-boiling wife. She had been the one who had consumed his mind most of the day. Brandt had left the great hall after his hushed conversation with the duchess, his mind reeling, his pulse unsteady. He’d needed air and distance from the unexpected burden of truth laid down at his feet. At the top of one knoll rolling down toward the training fields, he’d had a clear view of the Montgomery men training there—as well as two slim and skirted ladies. He should have known his mighty Athena would have finagled her way into the center of a training session among Scots warriors.
Brandt had quelled his initial alarm at seeing her among those men when they’d stood back to watch her instruct Aisla with a bow. The young girl was his half sister, he knew, but he hadn’t been able to think about that. In that moment, he’d wanted only to watch his wife’s strong, trim arms as she helped Aisla nock the arrow and aim. The curve of her neck as she cocked her head and waited patiently for one of her pupil’s arrows to drive home.
And when she had taken up the bow herself, even with the distance between them, he’d imagined he could hear the sound of her breathing. He’d felt the steady and calm focus of her aim, as though he were right there at her side. The cheers and whistles the Montgomery men had rained down upon her when she’d proven her skill had given him the oddest burst of pride, too.
When the tall and burly dark-haired Scot had thrown his arm around Sorcha’s shoulders, the burst of pride had become something else entirely. Brandt had clenched his fingers into balled fists, wanting only to charge down to the group of men and rip the Scot’s arm from its socket. But that would have meant facing Sorcha, and she’d have no doubt seen his troubled expression. He hadn’t been ready to speak about any of it yet, and besides…she’d looked so light and happy, showing off her skill. Had the flirtatious Scot tried it again, Brandt wagered Sorcha would have stuck him with her dirk.
Brandt had left then, listening to the cheers in the distance as his wife had done something else spectacular.Easily done, he thought to himself as he now entered their bedchamber. Shewasspectacular, and not just with a weapon in hand. As his eyes coasted over the chair in which he’d sat the night before, with Sorcha massaging his muscles so reverently before coming to kneel before him, Brandt thought of several more ways she’d surpassed his expectations.
“There you are,” came her voice from the far corner of the room. He closed the door behind him and prepared himself. He had to tell her what he’d learned. And what he’d decided to do about it.
“I’ve been looking for you all afternoon,” Sorcha said as she came out of the shadowy corner. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she seemed to be holding herself tightly. Awareness prickled up his spine, and Brandt’s eyes narrowed in on her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, every last thought and worry of his own fleeing.
Why had she been hiding in the corner?
“We must leave,” she said, adding, “as soon as possible.”
Brandt crossed the room in a few swift strides and took her by the shoulders. “Tell me what’s happened. Are you hurt?”
