Page 81 of My Scot, My Surrender
Finally, Patrick nodded. “If my mother says it to be so, then ye are the true heir by succession. My own father stole that which was no’ his, so until ye have an heir of yer own,”—he glanced at Sorcha who stood with his mother—“I will remain yer heir and the next in line.” He inclined his head in a somewhat stilted way as if uncomfortable with showing any emotion. “Yer Grace.”
Relief shook through him, and his sore limbs were suddenly heavy with exhaustion.
“Good,” Brandt said, clasping his brother by the shoulder. “Because I’m going to need your help.”
“Ye have it,” Patrick said as they walked back toward the keep where Callan and Aisla were waiting. News of Brandt’s victory and their father’s defeat would have traveled like wildfire through the clan. Brandt wasn’t worried his half siblings would be upset over their father’s banishment. In fact, he suspected they would show the same relief and approval as Patrick. “Aye. And ye will need my help, as well.”
Brandt eyed him, detecting an odd note in his voice. “Why is that?”
“My father sent an invitation to Malvern to fetch his bride two days ago.” Patrick’s face was grim. “He and his army will be here inside a week.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sorcha had never sweat so much in her life. As she stood in the courtyard of the Montgomery keep, the noon sun beating down on her and the rest of the men as they skirmished in pairs, she wondered at the unnatural heat of the spring day. It wasn’t out of the ordinary to have an early May swelter, but this one had an oppressive edge to it. It made her feel a stone heavier, and it seemed every man and woman in sight was walking and moving a little bit slower, too. It could have been the heat. Or, she reasoned, it could have been the knowledge of an imminent attack on their clan and keep.
Fergus’s broadsword came sweeping at Sorcha’s head, and she grunted as she blocked it and then struck back before her opponent could take another stab. Her blade came down near his hilt, knocking it from his hand entirely. The Scot stared in wonder at his sword, lying on the muddied ground. He then broke into a wide grin.
“Impressive, Your Grace,” he said.
“You won’t be smiling like that when it’s one of Malvern’s men knocking your weapon away,” she replied.
He propped one dark brow and nodded, accepting her censure humbly.
“Pick it up,” she said, this time a little less brusquely. She’d offered to work with the men, teaching them some of the fighting skills she’d learned at Maclaren, and it had been no small feat that these men had accepted. It wouldn’t be wise to shame them for not being entirely up to snuff when it came to battle.
“When an enemy blocks your strike, swivel toward your opponent’s sword arm,” she said, a bead of sweat rolling off her brow and stinging her eye.
The strikingly handsome Scot she’d been training with the last quarter hour frowned. “Towardmy opponent’s sword?”
“Aye. My brother, Ronan, taught me that. Your enemy will have to turn in order to swing at you again, and you’ll gain a moment to prepare.”
A few other men had overheard her and mumbled their agreement, and then they started clashing swords again. In the fields, another grouping of men were practicing with bows and arrows, and yet more men were out reinforcing the main gate and setting up hidden watch posts in all directions leading into Montgomery keep. They had a natural defense system in the keep’s positioning among the craggy hills, but more defenses would not be unwise.
Sorcha had seen Malvern’s men in action before, and they were brutish fighters, a high challenge for even Ronan and his men. There were a handful of vicious warriors here, like Feagan and Seamus, but for the most part, the Montgomerys had never been put to the test. Most of the men had never fought a life or death battle. And now, because of Malvern, they would.
Because of her.
She’d led Malvern here. She was the reason these men were about to put their lives in danger, and as their new laird’s wife, they would never complain or turn away from the fight. But that didn’t make her feel any better about the situation. In fact, it made her feel only guiltier.
“Ye should take a break, Yer Grace,” came a feminine voice from behind her. Sorcha turned from Fergus to see Brandt’s mother sitting in the shade of a yew tree. Its branches were low and long reaching, and many of the men had hung their shirts upon them as they trained. For that reason alone, there were many lasses, both young and old, who’d come outdoors to do their washing and mending. And then there were some shamelessly gaping at the men’s sweaty torsos as they swung their swords.
Catriona had a long length of faded plaid in her lap, and she was using a pair of shears to cut out long rectangles of the fabric. Sorcha nodded to Fergus, who bowed his head and went to find another partner.
“What are you doing?” she asked Brandt’s mother as she stepped out of the direct sun and into the shade.
“Bandages. They’ll be useful for the surgeon, should Dr. Kinnick need them.”
A lump plunked down like a stone in her throat. Should Dr. Kinnick need them, it would mean Montgomery men were bleeding. That some might have been killed. It was a bitter pill to swallow…the knowledge that she had brought this upon them. But it was done now. Malvern was coming, and it was the least she could do to help them be prepared.
She looked over to where Aisla was practicing her archery with Patrick and Seamus. They would need every able-bodied fighter if Malvern breached the keep, even the women, and Aisla had shown a natural ability for the bow. She could help from a vantage point of relative safety. Several other Montgomery women had volunteered to learn, and it had floored Sorcha at how loyal they were to the son of their previous, beloved laird. She glanced to Brandt’s mother. Their loyalty was largely due to Catriona, she knew.
The lady in question patted the grass beside her. “Sit for a minute,” she said.
“I really should help,” Sorcha said.
“I’m sure Fergus will appreciate the time to soothe his sore pride,” she replied with an arch of an elegant eyebrow. Sorcha peered over her shoulder to where Fergus was demonstrating some of the new moves he’d mastered to a few Montgomery soldiers. Considering he’d spent most of the morning on his arse, he had picked up the techniques well enough. The man was a fast learner, she’d give him that. And he was easy on the eyes, if the sighing of all the Montgomery women around them was any indication.
There was nothing quite like the sight of a man in a kilt, wearing not much else while covered in sweat and swinging a sword. Although Sorcha appreciated that Fergus was a handsome man, he wasn’t the one who made her pulse race. No, that would be the man on theotherside of the training field, also swinging a sword.
