Page 9 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt frowned but stepped away from the table, taking his tankard with him. He headed for the stairs, a set of bare board steps that led to a platform overlooking the inn’s main room. From there, a turn in the stairwell would take them out of sight. As Sorcha rose to follow him, whistles and hoots rained through the room, making it almost impossible for Brandt to hear the innkeeper as he met them at the base of the steps.
“Second room on the right!” the old man shouted, and with a nod, Brandt took up his wife’s hand. It was no longer sweaty, but like a block of ice. He closed his hand around it and pulled her along behind him, raising his tankard to the jeering crowd below. He had to at least give them a show of excitement at taking his bride to bed, otherwise, he wouldn’t put it past the drunkards and heathens to follow them up and listen at the door.
Once they’d entered the upstairs corridor and fallen from view, Brandt could have released her palm. He didn’t, though. His hands were warm and dry, and he already felt her skin beginning to thaw. She stayed quiet and didn’t tug her hand free.
Their chamber was spare but clean. His belongings had been moved from the smaller room he’d taken for lodgings two days before, along with a portmanteau of clothes he suspected belonged to his new bride. As he’d requested for himself the prior nights, a tub full of steaming water had been filled and placed behind a screen at one end. He eyed the floor and a lumpy armchair by the bed. Either would do for the night.
Sorcha followed with none of the bravery she’d been able to manifest downstairs during the feast. He closed the door as soon as she entered and threw the lock. Her shoulders jumped at the sound, and she spun around on her heel to face him. What he saw nearly stopped his heart. She wasn’t just hesitant, she was frightened. Of him.
The faster this ended, the better.
Brandt took a step toward her. “Is there any place you’ll be safe from Malvern?”
Sorcha’s lips pulled into a frown. “What?”
“Here in Scotland, or even England, is there a place where Malvern won’t be able to touch you?”
She shot him a mystified look but nodded. “My sister is a Brodie and her husband will protect us if need be.”
“Why didn’t you go to her before?”
“I would have, but my father would have pursued me to fulfill the betrothal contract.” Uncertainty swam in her eyes. “But Lord Malverncan’ttouch me now. Don’t you have a home in England? Essex or someaught?” she asked, her voice rising on a rattled note.
“Until I bed you, the marriage can still be annulled. Malvern can see to it. And if you were promised to him, there’s the possibility he won’t give up his claim so easily.”
In England, broken marriage contracts were call for serious reparation. He doubted it was any different in Scotland. If anything, the consequences were even more dire. But as he’d said to Sorcha earlier, all men had a price—and he was willing to bet Malvern had one, too.
Brandt crossed to the other side of the small room in four fast strides and pulled the drape in front of the window, blocking the unfettered view of the lush rolling fields surrounding Selkirk and the tents that had been erected for the common lands festival.
“Yes, well…I believe that is why we are here. In this room. At this…uh, time,” she replied, her voice tripping over the words. She cleared her throat, and when he turned back to her, saw the blush riding high on her cheeks. It had spread down the creamy column of her neck to the pillowy décolletage her dress plumped up into view. He wondered idly how deep the rose-tinted flush descended, whether it bloomed over the neat curves of her breasts to that nipped-in waist as well.
Damn it all to hell.
He had to act before he lost whatever was left of his reason—and his will. Brandt drained his tankard of ale, set it down, then crouched to pull his hunting dirk from the sheath he kept inside his boot.
Sorcha retreated. “What are you doing with that?”
Brandt stood, rolled up his sleeve, and with a fast, firm motion, sliced open the top of his forearm.
“Stop!” she gasped, lurching forward, as if she meant to take the blade from his hand.
“I don’t think you really want me to stop,” he replied as the shallow slice welled with enough blood to drip down the curve of his arm. “Pull back the bedsheets,” he ordered.
“What? Why?”
“Just do it,” he bit out, losing his patience. Hell, the day had started out perfectly well, and yet now here he stood in a rural Scottish inn saddled with a wife and a bleeding arm. The only bright spot was the coveted stallion waiting for him at the end of this very frustrating road, and even that was fast losing its appeal.
Sorcha held back what would have surely been a tart reply and yanked the coarse woolen blanket back to the plain linen sheet below. Brandt held his arm over the center of the bed a moment and allowed the blood to drip freely.
“Six or seven drops should be enough to convince them,” he muttered, though he wasn’t entirely certain. The few women he’d taken to bed had never been virgins. He’d made sure of it. He’d never contributed to any maiden’s ruination, and yet, here he was, caught in the very trap he’d always prided himself on avoiding.
When he retracted his arm and met Sorcha’s eyes again, her shocked stare had changed. She was no longer confused at his intention, but instead of the relief he’d imagined he’d find, he saw something unexpected. The barest flicker of injury. She quickly blinked and pulled down that mask of composure. Hiking her chin, she crossed her arms. “I see.”
But she didn’t see. The hurt he’d glimpsed for a moment was testament to that. Brandt sighed. “We agreed this marriage was for show, didn’t we?” He searched for something to staunch the trickle of blood and, finding a cloth near the washbasin, did so. “I intend to take you to your sister’s, where you’ll be safe from Malvern. We’ll have the marriage annulled, and you can stay there for as long as it takes for him to forget the wrong done to him.”
“And you?”
“I will return to Essex, of course.” He gave her a pointed look. “With my new horse.”
