Page 89 of My Scot, My Surrender
She snapped her gaze up and came eye to eye with the Marquess of Malvern. “My name is Montgomery.”
“A trifling matter that will be dealt with.” He jerked her closer to him and, with a growl, tugged her forward. Her feet stumbled, tripping over each other as he dragged her toward the kitchen stairwell entrance. She thought she heard her name being shouted, and as she twisted in Malvern’s cruel grip, one of his hands readjusting to wind his fingers into her hair like a barbarian, she caught sight of Aisla’s dark blue shirt dashing through the melee, toward the great hall’s main entrance.
Sorcha prayed the girl got away to alert the men, but as Malvern slammed her into the walls of the kitchen stairwell, her feet sliding down the steps, his brutish grip on her brought tears of pain to her eyes.
“Let me go, ye bastard!” she screamed, anger boiling just beneath her fear.
“You worthless witch,” he replied, his voice unnaturally calm and collected. “Did you truly believe I would allow some dirt-heeled nobody to take a piece of my own property from me? Make me look like a blundering fool?”
The stairs leveled out, and she felt the heat of the kitchens, could smell yeasty breads and burning meat. His grip on her hair wouldn’t let her so much as look around for any nearby weapon, though she knew there had to be knives about. She swung her free arm in futile lashes, reaching for something—anything. But Malvern only laughed and slammed her hips purposefully into the edge of a table.
“You are mine,” he hissed.
A sharp ache dug into her hip as Sorcha scratched at his face, her nails gouging into his skin. “I am wife to the Montgomery and will never be yers!”
Malvern growled and unknotted his fingers from her hair in order to clasp both of her arms together at her back. “Oh, you will be. My men will make you a widow, and then they’ll watch as I take what’s mine. By the time I’ve finished with you, you will beg for my mercy, you savage little hellcat.”
He shoved her through a slim opening between two walls and then yanked her again to the side, the crown of her head slamming into a low ceilinged tunnel as the floor sloped down. It hurt less than his promise to make her a widow; the threat coiled like barbed wire around her heart as her feet skidded downward and landed in a cold murk that went up to her shins. A musty odor overtook the kitchen’s scents, and a ball of panic billowed in her chest. This was the tunnel they’d used to sneak inside, and now, he was taking her from the keep. Taking her away from Brandt.
Her shoulders smarted with pain at the vicious hold he kept, shoving her forward through the black tunnel, her senses overloaded with the smell of rot and mud now rising to her knees, the muted sounds of their heavy breathing, and the taste of blood in her mouth.
She felt the tunnel closing in around her, her hope sinking, drowning in the rising mud. She could not allow this man, this crazed, power-hungry devil, to win—but how could she stop him? With no weapon, no way to defend herself? And with her husband busy battling the hundreds of warriors Malvern had sent in order to see his reputation repaired and upheld.
A spot of sunlight flashed up ahead. They were approaching the tunnel’s exit, and what lay beyond it was anyone’s guess. More of Malvern’s men? What would he do, throw her down and attack her then and there? Panic threatened to consume her wits as the half circle opening drew closer. Through it, she saw reeds and marsh and low scrubby brush. An idea took hold—a desperate, likely impossible idea—but it was all she had. If she could get on top of him somehow…if she could pin him under the swampy mess and hold him there until he drew the muck into his lungs…
At the head of the tunnel, Sorcha heard the shouts of men just outside. Malvern’s men? She came to a stubborn halt at the tunnel entrance, jamming her back into Malvern’s front. He grunted and moved to push her forward, but Sorcha surprised him by dropping as far down onto her knees as his grip on her arms would allow. She wrenched her shoulders in the process, but her intent proved effective—Malvern stumbled forward, bashing his head on the low ceiling as he went. He yanked her forward, but his grip had unintentionally loosened. Sorcha landed on her side in the marsh, and with every ounce of strength she had left, broke free of his hands and rolled on top of him.
More shouting reached her ears, but she ignored it, her hands jamming down against Malvern’s chest and thrusting him beneath the thick, marshy surface. Water and mud closed over his face, and Sorcha screamed with the effort it took to keep him there, his big body thrashing underneath hers. She was strong, but not strong enough. Malvern bucked her off and the next thing she knew, he was on top of her, shoving her down into marshland. Water filled her ears, the cold sting of it rushing up her nose and into her eyes. She clamped her lips, her breath tight in her lungs as Malvern’s fingers throttled her throat, holding her down, squeezing. He wouldn’t kill her, she knew. But that didn’t mean he would be merciful, either.
Bright spots mixed and popped with black bursts of dots before her closed eyes, and Sorcha knew she had but seconds before her mouth opened on instinct and gulped in water. In that moment, she thought of Brandt. Heard his whispered promise to tell her he loved her every day for the rest of their lives. A last pulse of fury shivered through her, and Sorcha bucked, one of her knees miraculously free to move. She slammed it up, connecting with soft tissue, and Malvern grunted and groaned.
In the next moment, all of his weight was lifted from her. Sorcha jolted up, out of the water, hacking for air. She blinked and saw a tumult of men clomping through the marsh around her sodden body, her chest heaving to fill her lungs.
Malvern was on his back, his arms up in surrender as the points of two broadswords pressed into his neck and chest.
“Move, and ye die, ye worthless piece of English scum.”
The voice came through Sorcha’s waterlogged ears and struck her with a sobering clarity.
“Ronan!” she choked, her eyes landing on the broad back and muscled arms of her brother. He was alive! And he wasn’t alone. Beside him, her younger brother, Niall stood with his broadsword gripped menacingly in his right hand, the tip drawing blood from Malvern’s neck.
“Let me kill him, brother,” Niall breathed as Sorcha stumbled to her feet. Behind her, more men on foot, and wearing Maclaren plaid, were taking care of the last of Malvern’s men who had remained behind to stand guard. And cleaving one of the men in half was the Duke of Dunrannoch. Her head was still swimming, her vision blurred, and her throat ached from where she’d been strangled, and yet Sorcha wanted to sob in relief and joy that her father and brothers, and more of the Maclaren warriors, had somehow converged upon Montgomery keep in the height of battle.
“As much as I’d like to see ye do just that, ’twould bring us only more trouble from the Crown,” Ronan answered Niall, his hand coming to rest on Niall’s shoulder. “We deliver the marquess alive.”
Deliver him? Sorcha didn’t understand. Deliver him to whom? Niall grunted as he lowered his sword, leaving a shallow wound seeping blood in its wake. “On yer feet,” he ordered.
A few more Maclarens surrounded them in the marsh, including her brother, Finlay. He took Sorcha by the arm, his fingers too hard on her bruised flesh. But she didn’t mind—this grip was one of support and worry, not cruelty.
“Are ye well, sister? Did the bloody bastard hurt ye?”
She shook her head, her vision still wobbly. “I’m well,” she said, breathless. “Why are you here? How did you know to come to the Montgomery? Or this path through the quarry?”
Niall came to her side as Ronan and Finlay led Malvern away at the ends of their swords. More men kept their muskets trained on him as they splashed through the marsh. The water had drenched her boots and trousers, and she started to shiver.
“Sorcha,” Niall said, his arm coming around her waist as he threw a plaid over her shoulders. “We’ll explain later. ’Tis still a fight at the north wall of the keep and in the hills. Our men are surrounding Malvern’s, but we need to help secure the main gate and beat them back. We left our horses at the top of the quarry.”
She nodded, knowing the time for answers would have to wait. All that mattered was that they were here, now—and that Brandt and his clansmen would have the brawn of the Maclaren warriors at their sides.
