Page 85 of My Scot, My Surrender
Ares nudged Brandt in the shoulder, seeking another carrot, but Brandt just scrubbed his chin. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
Callan checked around the stables, though they seemed to be the only ones present. The rest of the men and women would be gathering in the keep for sup soon.
“Patrick doesnae spend time with the lasses. He takes notice of them, aye, but he’s never taken to one in particular. I suspect ’tis only because he didnae wish to submit any lass to the same scrutiny and danger as our mother had been made to suffer.”
Brandt understood then. “And Rodric thought Patrick might prefer men to women.”
Callan murmured his agreement. “He may have the look of Rodric, but he’s no’ his man. Nae, he’s more like ye, Sassenach.” His brother grinned. “Or should I call ye, Yer Grace?”
“You should call me Brandt,” he replied, clapping his younger brother on the shoulder. “We should go up to the keep. I don’t think they’ll begin sup without me.”
“Yer their laird. ’Twould be disrespectful to eat before ye were seated.”
Brandt gave Ares a last pat on his neck. “It’ll take some time getting used to that.”
He was laird to an entire clan. The Duke of Glenross. Leader of hundreds of people. Keeper of hundreds of acres of Highland land.Wait until Archer hears the news, he thought with a creeping grin as he and Callan strode up to the great hall.
Sorcha was seated beside him, his mother to her left. Patrick kept his chair at Brandt’s right, though Aisla now sat beside Patrick, and Callan had taken the seat to their mother’s left. And instead of solemn silence in the great hall, there was a contented roar of many conversations, and even some bursts of laughter.
He and Sorcha said little to each other throughout sup; again, he felt her withholding something from him. Using her exhaustion as a shield. He let her be; nothing he wanted to say could be said in the presence of others. After a time and plenty of drink, a handful of older men began to stand and recount past battles. Fights they had won and at what cost. The younger men listened with rapt attention, and Brandt could tell the stories were mostly for them. To fill them with pride and hope that when it came their time to battle, they would live to tell the tales as well.
When Catriona, Aisla, and Sorcha stood to leave the great hall, and leave the men to their tales, Brandt itched to stand and follow his wife. But it would have been in bad form, and it would not have gone unnoticed. So he stayed seated, listening to the banter and joining in the cheers at every retold victory. It had been a long time, though, since Montgomery had waged battle. Their reclusive state over the past quarter century had turned those past warriors into old men. By the time the men had settled down and Brandt stood to withdraw, he felt even more uneasy. The physical yearning for his wife had returned, and he was sorely tempted to enter their shared bedchamber—still the guest room, as the thought of sleeping in Rodric’s bed in the laird’s chamber made Brandt ill—and lose himself in her once again.
Someone cleared his throat, and Brandt realized that Patrick had asked him a question. Callan snorted with a knowing smile, following his stare to where Sorcha had climbed the stairs not a half an hour before, his memory still hinged on his wife’s tempting derriere. “What is it?”
Surprisingly, amusement also glinted in Patrick’s eyes, which was unusual for him. “I asked whether ye were satisfied with the preparations on the loch side. I’m no’ too worried about an army breaching the north shore. ’Tis much too difficult to pass through the quarry, and we need the men on the front side.”
“Agree,” Brandt said. “But we cannot leave it unguarded, either.”
“I’ve ordered a dozen men along the battlements.” He nodded to Feagan, who sat at the next table and was listening intently. “Feagan says Seamus will cover that end.”
Brandt gestured to the seats his mother, his wife, and sister had vacated, and waved Feagan and his men forward. He pushed some of the trenchers to the middle and lined up a few of the empty dishes. “If this is the keep, and here’s the loch, what of this area leading into the pass? And this open area here at the foothills?”
The men all followed his finger on the table, nodding in unison.
Feagan answered. “We have men on either side of it as well as in the hills. Some of our best archers will be here.” He jabbed a hand toward each of the front sides of Brandt’s makeshift outline. “Our best offense will be for it to seem that most of our men are on the plains here in front of the villages.”
“Good,” Brandt said. “I think you should set extra men here and here.” He pointed to where the hills on either side of the loch would be.
Patrick frowned. “Ye suspect an attack from there?”
“I’ve heard of Malvern on the battlefield, and he is clever. It wouldn’t surprise me if he sent Coxley to approach from the rear.”
IfCoxley was still alive. Brandt hoped to God he wasn’t.
“The quarry around the loch is impassable this time of year,” Seamus piped up.
“Let’s not leave it to chance.” Brandt stood and surveyed his brothers and his clansmen. “Get some sleep. If luck favors us, we will have one more day to prepare, but if she doesn’t, we will need to be battle ready.”
“Yes, Yer Grace.”
After the men left the dais and departed the hall, Brandt turned to leave, but a hand at his shoulder halted his departure. “A word,” Patrick asked quietly.
“Of course.”
Patrick looked uncomfortable. “I wanted to thank ye for what ye did for my mother—ourmother—and our sister.” His voice lowered and shook. In fact, his entire body shook with the force of his choked emotion. “Ye have my sword and my fealty, Laird.”
Brandt did not hesitate; he pulled his brother into his arms. He met Callan’s anguished gaze over Patrick’s shoulder and felt his own eyes mist at what the admission must have cost his brother, who had been severely castigated for any sign of weakness, any show of emotion.
