Page 89 of How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady

She patted Brom on his big hand. “You hide, and I’ll come find ye. Just like I used to,” she whispered, recalling the time it had taken her an entire day to find him.

She’d feared what would happen if she could not find him because she realized he was not going to come out from where he had hidden. He would wait, with his childlike trust, for her to come to him.

Brom nodded enthusiastically. “I hide,” he whispered back.

“Aye, Brom. Ye hide. And dunnae come out until I find ye.” Her gut twisted with the knowledge that the time may not come.

She stood with him, pushed him in front of her so that she would at least be partially blocking him should Hugo order his men to shoot, and moved him toward the woods, ignoring Hugo’s calls for her not to venture so far. She shoved Brom with more urgency, and when footsteps pounded behind her, she whispered, “Away with ye! Hide with the speed of an eagle.”

Brom laughed and dashed off into the thick woods. When one of Hugo’s men started past her in pursuit, she stuck out her foot and smiled with grim satisfaction as he fell to his knees. Suddenly, she was yanked around, and Hugo loomed over her, glaring at her menacingly.

“That was verra foolish,” he hissed as men streamed past them to go after Brom.

Hugo gave her a hard tug and started dragging her toward the castle. “And what do ye intend to do, Hugo?” she demanded, allowing her rage to pour out of her. She gave a derisive laugh. “Ye kinnae marry me. My home is abandoned. There is nae a priest,” she said triumphantly.

Hugo stopped midstride and gripped her chin. “I left the priest, my sweet.” He grinned evilly before jerking her behind him and continuing toward the castle. Except, when he passed the castle entry, she realized that he was headed to the chapel.

She dug in her heels, but it was pointless. Before she knew it, she was inside the chapel and standing in front of Father Grayson, the half-blind, half-deaf, sometimes-moral priest of her childhood home. Hugo held out a coin purse to Father Grayson, and the horrendous traitor took it without even glancing her way.

Broch came to her side, and when she looked at him, she saw that lines of tension creased his forehead and his brows were dipped together in a scowl. As the priest began the ceremony and Hugo said his vows, Sorcha found herself watching Broch and not the priest. The man seemed agitated, shifting from foot to foot, and she could tell he was clenching his teeth by the pulse that appeared at his jawline every few breaths.

“Say yer vows,” Hugo demanded, snapping her attention to him.

“Nay,” she replied calmly, conjuring up a picture of Cameron in her mind to give her strength. “As I told ye, I’d rather be dead than married to ye.”

Rage swept over Hugo’s face, and he whipped toward her and pulled his arm back. Her instincts sent her scuttling backward right into Broch, who shoved her behind him, and said, “Dunnae lay a hand on the lass.”

His deadly voice sent a tremor through her, along with a wave of gratefulness. Whatever anger she had against him for not standing by Cameron’s side lessened in the moment he tried to aid her. But the slow smile that spread across Hugo’s face made her fear what was to come.

“I’m glad to see ye will actually be of use to me,” Hugo said cheerily. He flicked his hand toward his men, and they descended on Broch to seize him.

As Broch fought them, Hugo turned to her. “Either ye marry me now, or I’ll kill him.”

Biting her lip, she glanced toward Broch and cried out at the sight of him, restrained on either side by Hugo’s men with another of Hugo’s guards standing in front of Broch, hitting him repeatedly in the face. Blood spurted from his nose, and his head started to fall forward.

“Fine, I’ll marry ye,” she spat, unable to stand the thought of Broch forfeiting his life because of her.

Something was wrong. Night was descending and the time for Hugo to have ridden this way with Sorcha had long passed. “We ride,” Cameron barked, not waiting to even check with his brother. Cameron had his destrier at a full gallop before Graham overcame him.

“Where are we heading?” Graham asked.

“Back,” Cameron said simply. “Something is amiss.” His chest tightened almost unbearably with worry.

“Let me lead,” Graham offered.

Cameron wanted to deny the request, but he knew well that Graham was the best tracker. He gave his brother a curt nod and fell slightly behind him, never more grateful than at this moment that he was no longer the fool who would not take help from his brothers.

They rode hard through the dark night, back past the Falls, now abandoned, and just as they paused for Graham to decide which way they should go, sticks snapped to Cameron’s left. He and Graham drew their weapons at the same time a large man emerged from the woods, blubbering and half stumbling.

“My Sorcha,” he cried. “My Sorcha, my Sorcha.”

Cameron felt like he was drowning in sudden fear. He remembered Sorcha’s stories about her uncle, and dismounting his horse, he stepped into the giant’s path. “Brom?”

The man stopped and turned his childlike gaze on Cameron. “Me Brom.”

Cameron almost laughed with gratefulness. “Brom, I’m Sorcha’s husband. Lead me to her. I’m here to save her.”

“My Sorcha? Sorcha at chapel. Bad man, evil man, marry her.”

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