Page 93 of My Scot, My Surrender
“He is no longer our concern,” she said.
“What does that mean? Is he dead?”
“The Maclarens have arrived,” Patrick put in, and Brandt’s eyes jumped from his bruised, yet beautiful, wife to his brother. “They’re helping us to drive out the last of Malvern’s army.”
Brandt tested his leg and tried to stand on his own. If he was to meet the Maclarens, he wanted to do so without looking like he was ready to faint dead away.
“And Malvern?” he asked again.
“My father and brothers have him,” Sorcha answered.
“Theyhadhim,” one of the Montgomery men said from behind Patrick. The dark-haired one named Fergus. The one who’d put his arm across Sorcha’s shoulders and flirted with her during training. Those weren’t the only reasons Brandt scowled at him now.
“What the hell do you mean, theyhadhim?” He limped to where his sword lay and stooped to pick it up. A newfound purpose gave him strength, and that was to see Malvern in irons or dead.
Fergus frowned. “He’s a slippery snake, that one. One minute he was there at the edge of the woods, and the next he wasnae. He cannae have gone far on foot. We’ll find him.”
“Stay with our mother and sister,” Brandt said to his brothers. “There are women here who were wounded by Rodric’s men. I’ll deal with the marquess.” He eyed the tall Scot who had spoken. “Fergus, you and your men, with me.” He glanced over his shoulder to his wife. “Stay with your family.”
Brandt’s scowl deepened as he limped to the bailey as best as he was able. Wounded or not, he’d find the bounder himself and run him through. He pushed open the doors and came to a dead stop. Montgomerys and Maclarens alike thronged the courtyard. Several of Malvern’s soldiers were clad in irons at the center, including his very own target—the marquess was moaning on the ground beside his father-in-law. Though Brandt had never met the laird, he could see where Sorcha got her eyes and her fierce demeanor, and where Ronan, who stood at his side, got his brawn.
“Wee bastard tried to flee,” the Duke of Dunrannoch boomed. “My boy, Ronan, caught up to him right quick.”
“He broke my bloody leg,” Malvern whined.
Ronan shrugged his big shoulders, mouth twitching. “He tripped.”
“He’s lucky he broke his leg instead of his worthless neck,” Brandt snarled as he made his way down the stairs. Sorcha appeared behind him, and he hesitated. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay back with your family.”
“Ye’re my family, ye oaf,” she hissed. Brandt only laughed. God, he loved her temper; even her insults felt like passionate promises whispered in his ear.
“Just so,” he said, reaching back to grab hold of her fingers as they came to the bottom where her father and brother were standing. Ronan smiled but waited out of respect for his father to speak.
“I led my men here expecting to find my daughter married to a Sassenach stableboy,” Sorcha’s father drawled, a pair of assessing blue eyes measuring him from head to toe.
“Stablemaster, Your Grace,” Brandt corrected.
Sorcha’s fingers tightened around his in chastisement, but he could still somehow sense the smile she held in check.
“Though now I’ve kenned ye’re the Duke of Glenross, Laird Montgomery,” the old Scot went on, his eyes falling to their joined hands. Something hopeful flashed in them. “I cannae say ’tis not a vast improvement of circumstances, Yer Grace. Even if ye did steal my daughter from beneath my nose.”
“She was worth stealing,” Brandt said, breathing easier now that her father’s fierce glare held a bit of levity. “As far as the former, I couldn’t agree more.” He made a clipped bow. “Duke of Dunrannoch, Laird Maclaren, I welcome you to Montgomery, and thank you for your timely assistance.”
“Call me William,” the duke said, clasping Brandt by his uninjured shoulder. “And no thanks needed. We always love a bit o’ sport, dunnae we, lads?”
A victorious cheer went up from the Maclarens that was immediately taken up by the Montgomerys. The relief Brandt felt was palpable. His family was safe from Rodric. And Sorcha was safe, at last, from the despicable man sniveling at her father’s feet. “Escort the marquess to the dungeons until we can decide what’s to be done with him.”
The last of Malvern’s army was rounded up, and shortly after, the sound of hoofbeats reached them, the horn once again sounding. In the distance, a huge regiment of horses was cantering up the road through the training fields, followed by several carriages. Men around him reached for arms but paused when Brandt raised one hand. He felt his heart expand as he recognized the flag and the noble face of the man riding at the helm of the contingent.
“Who is that?” Sorcha asked.
“That, my love, is the Duke of Bradburne.” He laughed at the sight of the beautiful woman riding beside him. “Along with his wife, the duchess, if I’m not mistaken.”
The men in the courtyard cleared to make room for the new arrivals as they rode up. Archer dismounted, his proud face scanning the men and falling to Malvern, who kept his head downcast, his shoulders quaking. He had every right to tremble—the Duke of Bradburne was a powerful peer and one who had the influence to strip Malvern of everything he held dear.
Archer assisted his wife to the ground and they approached together. Quick introductions were made to the Maclaren laird and his son, who stepped back to give them some privacy.
“I daresay Brynn and I missed all the fun,” Archer said, clasping Brandt by the arm. Brandt groaned as the embrace pulled his weight onto his injured leg. The duke gave him a cursory glance, quicksilver eyes pausing at his bloody shoulder and narrowing. “Glad to see you’re relatively in one piece, my brother.”
