Page 84 of My Scot, My Surrender
As Brandt entered the stables, he felt a physical yearning for his wife, one that had only grown in intensity since he’d taken his place as laird. The need to be with her, touch her, make her his in every possible way. It was how they’d spent the last two nights. No words, just giving. Taking. Coming together and relishing in each other’s bodies. Simply being with her was enough. Or at least it had been.
Right then, as he reached Ares’s stall, he felt a pang of loneliness. He missed her voice. Her smile. He missed listening to her unleash her temper and her opinions. Sorcha had met him with matching ferocity in their bed the last two nights, but now Brandt suspected part of that had been only to ward off conversation. Something was on her mind, and he wanted to know what it was before Malvern showed his ugly face on Montgomery lands.
Ares came to the stall door and whickered hello. Brandt rubbed his hand up and down the stallion’s snout and scratched his chin. “Your leg’s finally healed, you old brute.”
Thanks to Sorcha. Even during the last busy days, he’d seen her darting off to the stables to check on Ares. It touched him that she cared enough to check on his horse’s wound, and it made him doubly awed to then see her pick up a sword and show grown Scotsmen how to properly wield it. She was such a contradiction, and yet so perfectly balanced. She would be an exceptional duchess. The people here already loved her.
Brandt ignored the stitch in his heart and took the carrot he’d been carrying in his trousers pocket. He held it up, and Ares’s lips closed around the top, gingerly accepting the offering. “Your manners have improved as well.”
It was entirely possible his wife was the reason for that, too.
“He’s magnificent.”
Brandt turned to see Callan exiting another stall. His half brother, he reminded himself. The fact that Callan had their mother’s coloring instead of Rodric’s made it easier to look him in the eyes without feeling the need to pick up something to defend himself with. Brandt still felt a bit tense around Patrick. Strange, he knew, considering evenhelooked like Rodric.
“I’ve never seen his equal,” Brandt admitted.
Callan approached the stall, his eyes hinged on the beast currently mashing the carrot to pulp. “He doesnae ken how big he is,” he said, a smile forming.
Brandt cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
Callan crossed his arms and leaned against the stall door, watching Ares still. “He’s a gentle giant. I suspect he still feels like a foal, despite his size.”
Brandt was quiet. He’d thought the same thing more than once. Other men looked upon Ares with trepidation, but Brandt knew the animal was more loyal and steadfast than he was truly intimidating.
“You have an affinity for horses,” he guessed.
Callan nodded, meeting Brandt’s stare. “Our mother does as well.”
That didn’t surprise him, though he hadn’t known. There had been little time to sit and get to know her. Like he and Sorcha and the rest of them, Catriona had been busying herself with tasks of preparation. He hoped for the opportunity to learn more about her, and his brothers and sister, when the threat of attack had passed. He still couldn’t quite believe that he had a family. Monty had been his only family for so long, and even though Brandt now knew the truth, it didn’t change how he felt for the old man. Monty had raised him, kept him safe, taught him everything he knew. Brandt admired him more than before, if possible.
“Is it odd,” Brandt asked, “knowing you have another brother?”
Callan laughed. “’Tisn’t odd. ’Tis a relief. Do ye ken how many times Patrick lorded it over me that he was eldest? Now he kens what it is to be a younger sibling.”
Brandt didn’t join in Callan’s amusement. “I can’t imagine he likes that very much.”
“Truthfully? I think he’s just as relieved as I am. As we all are.” Callan straightened up and turned serious. “I’m sure ye ken what it must’ve been like, living with a man such as my father. He left Aisla and me alone most of the time, but Patrick was never allowed an inch of space to breathe. The laird kept him close. Close enough to let him see how horribly he treated our mother, and all the while Patrick couldnae do a thing about it. It tore him apart. The evil things he did tore us all apart.”
Though Brandt had known of the abuse, powerless fury simmered in the pit of his stomach at the thought of his gentle mother at the mercy of his uncle’s brutality. “What kind of things?” he heard himself ask in the casual tone of a stranger.
Callan met his eyes, mirrored pain blooming in them. “No’ counting the use of his fists, he humiliated her at every turn, flaunted countless mistresses, and he burned her with a brand.”
“Burned?”
“With a hot iron. Marks for every time she spoke about yer father. Her backside’s covered with them, Aisla told us.”
Black dots swam in Brandt’s vision, and sweat peppered his forehead. He felt sick at the depth of his uncle’s cruel perversions. “Could you not get help?” he asked, his voice raw. “From a vicar, anyone?”
Callan shrugged and shook his head. “Who would go against such a ruthless laird? There was a time, once, when Patrick tried to defend her. He was about ten at the time, and he suffered for it.” Callan’s eyes darkened at the memory. “Rodric strung him up in the courtyard yew by his ankles and left him to weather the entirety of a lightning storm.”
“He could have been killed,” Brandt said, repulsed but also confused. Why had Rodric risked his heir’s life?
“Aye,” Callan said. “But he had a spare, ye ken? From that point on, Patrick knew he meant no’ a thing to our father. That he’d no’ hesitate to hurt him, or anyone else, should he defy him.”
He truly had been mad with power. Brandt wished, yet again, that he’d been able to see the challenge for lairdship through to the death, as he knew Rodric would have.
“Nae, ’tis better now ye’re here,” Callan went on. “And the timing was good fortune, too. Lately, Rodric had started to question whether or no’ Patrick would be best suited as heir.”
