Page 83 of My Scot, My Surrender
Catriona’s eyes fell to the ring on Sorcha’s hand, her eyes misting. “Robert gave me that ring the day we wed. It fills my heart to see it on yer finger. He would have liked ye.” She put down the plaid in her lap and reached across for Sorcha’s hand. “Ye’re a good match for Bran. I ken it in the way he looks at ye”—she broke off with a knowing smile—“and the way ye look at him. ’Twas like that between Robert and me.”
Sorcha couldn’t help the usual stab of guilt. Though Brandt had made her his wife in every way and seemed to care for her, their beginning had not been based on trust. It weighed heavily on her. Yes, she was halfway to falling in love with Brandt, and he had found his family, but at what cost? Malvern was not a forgiving man, and these innocent people would all pay the price in blood. Because ofher.
“Yer Grace,” Catriona began to say.
“Please, none of that. You must call me Sorcha.”
Brandt’s mother nodded, her fingers plucking at the plaid. “Yer clan…do they approve of my son? Or are they angry ye’ve broken the contract with Malvern?”
Sorcha ran a palm over the grass, the blades tickling her skin, as she considered how to answer. The truth was, she didn’t know how most of them had reacted. Finlay and Evan had been furious at first, as had Ronan. But her eldest brother had almost seemed to warm to the idea of Brandt as a brother-in-law. After all, following the attack on their camp, Ronan had placed his trust in him to take her to safety. That had to count for something…if he were still alive.
“Sorcha? What is it?” Catriona asked.
“My brother, Ronan, and his men held off Malvern’s attackers, giving Brandt and me a chance to escape.” She paused, remembering the last image she had of her brother, fighting Coxley. Only one of them would have walked away, and Sorcha’s pulse skipped and throbbed with dread not knowing who it had been.
“So they do support ye?” Catriona presumed.
She nodded. They had, albeit reluctantly. Once her father and the rest of the Maclaren people learned her husband was the rightful Montgomery laird and the new Duke of Glenross, their anger at her impetuous marriage might be somewhat appeased. It all depended on how successful Malvern would be in his retaliation. But she knew no matter what, she was a Maclaren, and Maclarens never abandoned one another. It was their family code of honor, and it was the sole reason she’d done what she did—she’d learned early on that it was easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.
“I only wish we had enough time to send for them,” Brandt’s mother sighed. “The Maclarens are famous for their warriors.”
They would have rushed to the Montgomerys’ aid without hesitation. But then, Lord knew what had happened to them over the last handful of weeks. What if Malvern had already taken his anger out on them? Sorcha closed her eyes against the flashing memory of Niall, his arm pinned to the slab of stone Coxley had used as a chopping block.
The sensation of delicate fingers touching down on Sorcha’s head and sweeping through the tresses at her temple opened her eyes. Catriona looked at her with tenderness. “I shouldnae have worried ye. Our men are strong, as well, and they’ll defend ye with their lives.”
“I don’t want any man giving up his life for me, or for the choices I made,” she blurted out.
“Ye weren’t alone when ye married Bran, were ye? He stood up beside ye and said his vows. Ye made yer choices together, and as his family, we’ll stand by ye as well.”
For the price of a horse for stud, Sorcha wanted to reply.
Their marriage had started on all-too-shaky ground, and recent developments, though pleasant, did not erase that. Nor did it eclipsehowshe had come to marry Catriona’s son in the first place. She’d employed the scheming tactic used by many an English lady seeking to catch a fortune or a title, only the prize had been freedom.
What had been meant as soothing reassurance only crushed Sorcha’s heart more. If Catriona knew the truth, every last drop of compassion she now saw in the woman’s eyes would evaporate. She would instead see the same cold hardness that gripped her chest and stomach whenever Sorcha thought upon her own deceit.
She stood, suddenly longing for another skirmish with Fergus. Or better yet, someone with more skill. Someone who could knock her down a peg or two.
Catriona caught her hand before she could move away, though, her eyes drawn into a frown, as if she had somehow heard a piece of Sorcha’s thoughts.
“We all have our demons, and heaven kens ’tis easier to fight the ones on the outside than the ones that live within us.” She released Sorcha’s hand, leaving it at that. She couldn’t manage more than a small grin at Brandt’s mother before taking up her sword and turning to go back into the broiling heat of the sun.
She did have her demons; she’d brought them to life when she’d made the split-second choice to trap a stranger into ruining her reputation and then suffering through a forced marriage. Had that choice been a mistake, though? Brandt had brought her more pleasure than she’d ever considered possible. He’d made her feel whole for the first time in years. Sorcha expelled a harsh breath. She wasn’t halfway to falling in love with Brandt…she was already hopelessly, irretrievably in love with him.
One thing was certain—they would weather the coming storm together. What was not certain was whether either of them would survive it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He’d made a mistake in letting Rodric go.
Sparing his life had marked Brandt as a merciful laird, and after having lived under the rule of one as stringent and cruel as Rodric, the clansmen and women had seemed awestruck by such action. What Brandt didn’t yet know was whether or not they also thought him a fool for it.
Brandt had spent the last two days and nights with the writhing suspicion that the ousted laird would return one day, a force of warriors at his back, and attempt to reclaim his seat as laird and duke by laying waste to all and sundry who opposed him. Every time Brandt closed his eyes, he saw the tip of his sword at Rodric’s throat. One thrust and it would have extinguished his life, as well as any chance of an unwanted homecoming.
He took the well-worn path from the loch to the stables, the cool hand of evening pressing against the back of his neck. He’d taken a quick swim to wash off the grime and sweat from being in the fields all afternoon and was heading back to the keep to check on Ares. It had been another scorcher of a day, the sun in its cloudless blue sky unrelenting as the Montgomery men and women had trained. Their skills had improved, remarkably so, over the last few days, and Brandt had been relieved to see more clashing steel than swords being knocked out of hands, more arrows flying true than falling short or wide of the hay bales dressed as targets. While he’d been training with them from time to time, he knew he had little to do with their drastic advances. He’d been overseeing fortifications along the keep’s outer walls, preparing traps in the hills and woods surrounding the loch and keep, and organizing the different waves of defense the clansmen and women who could not hold a sword or bow or axe could take to avert the enemy. Things like tossing powder explosives, stones, and hot coals from the ramparts.
No, the Montgomerys’ improved swordsmanship and archery skills were due to Sorcha’s hand in the training. His wife had been tireless, dedicating all hours of every day to the task, barely stopping to eat or drink or sleep. Brandt had bid her to rest once or twice, but after a biting retort that she’d rest after they’d fended off Malvern’s attack and lived to tell about it, he’d left her alone. The weight of unbearable responsibility had been bright in her eyes. They were so transparent, those twin blue depths. He could practically see every thought, every emotion, in them, and he wondered if she could read him as well as he could her. He feared she could. Perhaps that was why she’d been quietly on edge.
Malvern would stop at nothing to see Brandt dead and to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his. It reeked of irony…hadn’t Brandt just fought Rodric for the same reason? For his rightful seat as laird? And he’d won. He’d taken back what was his, and Malvern likely had no doubt he could do the same.
