Chapter Fourteen
The ride to Montgomery was quiet and strained. Brandt did not want to put additional weight on Ares’s injured foot, so they had agreed to share Sorcha’s horse. The agreement had been stiff and unfriendly, given the circumstances, but it could not be helped. On foot, they would be even more vulnerable and would lose valuable time. Sharing Lockie was a matter of logic and safety.
Logical decisions aside, it had been worse than purgatory from the second he climbed up behind Sorcha. The feel of her strong, svelte body made him think of things he had no business fantasizing about, especially after his brutal words. He knew he’d hurt her, but he’d had no choice. Here in the wilderness, the pretense between them as husband and wife was not the same as it would be once she returned to society.
A few of her family members had encouraged the marriage, but for the wrong reasons. And with too much haste. She would most likely be shunned by her people for marrying someone so below her in status and rejected by any influential English society. It wasn’t something he’d considered when striking their original deal, given their marriage wasn’t destined to last more than a fortnight, but should they remain married, his shame would become hers to bear. And he did not want that for her.
No, he’d done the right thing. He knew from experience that a smaller injury now was better than a larger one later. And he also knew how easily esteem could be misconstrued the more time two people spent together.
The attraction between them was mutual, and one could easily confuse lust for love in the heat of passion.
But lust wasn’t love.
He’d learned that the hard way with his faithless courtesan. Sorcha didn’t have to.
Sorcha’s spine braced forward as they climbed a small hill. It was evident that she was as aware of him as he was of her. Brandt could tell in the rigid way she held herself, as if to refrain from touching him at all, though it was unavoidable given the rolling gait of the horse. His hands clasped her hips loosely, and all he could think about was the feel of those same silken curves writhing beneath her shift. The scent of her skin. The glorious expanse of creamy limbs that had been velvet to the touch. And her taste had been indescribable.
Images of her lying on that rock, giving in to the demands of her body with so much passion, filled his mind. He’d wanted her fiercely, with a savage need he’d hardly recognized. And then what she’d done, cradling him between her thighs, taking the rough thrusts of his hips…it had excited him more than he’d ever dreamed possible. Brandt couldn’t imagine what truly being inside her would be like. Heaven. Hell. Somewhere in between.
“How much longer?” he asked hoarsely, furious with himself and willing his hardening body to subside.
“Soon,” Sorcha said tightly over her shoulder. Her voice was clipped, her posture like a stone statue. “We entered Montgomery lands a mile or so back. Word will have already reached the keep.”
Sentries would have been posted near the borders, he knew, hidden within the hills. Though it spoke of the Montgomery men’s stealthy skill, it left him slightly uneasy that he had not seen them or felt their presence as he and Sorcha had passed.
Brandt had noticed the huts dotting the hillside and the occasional farmer wearing plaids of colors he’d memorized while staring at his mother’s ring as a child. He’d wished for hours on end to know what that striped design and bold blue, green, and gold colors signified. And now he did. They were Montgomery colors. He felt a strange tightness in his chest. Was it anticipation? Anxiety? He recognized an undercurrent of fear and grimaced. He would not allow himself to be afraid. Not of the truth.
Was the woman who had birthed him even still alive? There was a good chance she could be dead, like Monty. And it stood to reason that he would show up at his family’s keep and find no answers. He didn’t even know his mother’s name.
As they climbed down a narrow pass into a lush valley protected by slanted, rocky crags on both sides, Brandt realized how well situated the immense stone keep was. It was tucked into the indent of the valley and protected, with only one point of ground entry. A giant loch shone at its back, a few fishing boats dotting its glistening surface. The loch itself was surrounded by tall mountain peaks, making a water approach difficult at best.
Brandt wondered if they would be granted asylum and protection from Malvern. Any attack from an approaching army would be easy to defend, but if the Montgomerys were allied with Malvern, the castle and its bolstered environs could become a trap. He didn’t have time to ponder that as three men emerged from the rocky crags and rode toward them on horseback. Clearly warriors, they were large, armed, and grim-faced.
“Let me do the talking,” Sorcha said quickly before the first man’s steed was upon them in a cloud of dust.
“Who comes to visit the Montgomery?” the biggest of them, and the obvious leader, asked. He was as wide as he was tall, with scars nicking his face and an untidy mane of black and silver hair.
“Madainn mhath,” she said crisply. “Sorcha of Maclaren.”
The big man’s eyes narrowed on her and then nodded as he took in her scars. “Madainn mhath. ’Tis a fair journey from Maclaren, lass. Who’ve ye go’ with ye?”
Suspicious eyes roved over Brandt. They paused at his face and widened slightly, a beat of surprise breaking across his features before he schooled them back into a scowl. Brandt frowned. The man’s surprise had been one of recognition or at least some familiarity. Was there a resemblance, then? The two other men behind him pulled to a sharp stop. Their reaction upon seeing his face was the same as their leader’s.
“Och, he’s the spit—”
“Enough, Seamus,” the big man barked, cutting him off. Seamus obeyed and shut his mouth but kept his eyes glued to Brandt’s face as if he were some kind of hideous oddity. Brandt did not like the feeling in the least. He resisted the inclination to put his fist in the man’s eye.
“He’s my husband,” Sorcha said.
The big man’s attention refocused on her. “I had no’ heard ye’d taken vows, Lady Maclaren.”
“It’s Lady Pierce now,” she said with a prim toss of her head as she straightened her shoulders. “It was a recent event. Will your laird offer the daughter of the Duke of Dunrannoch his hospitality?”
The man bowed and wheeled the horse around. “Aye, follow me.”
Brandt noticed that the two brawny men with him did not release their grips on the hilts of their broadswords as they fell into line behind them. His body tensed at the sensation of them riding just beyond his peripheral vision, but there was nothing he could do. He could feel their curious attention on him as well. Perhaps he had the look of his mother. Lord knew he’d never favored Monty with his shock of carrot red hair and blue eyes. No, Brandt’s coloring was more muted…his hair a deeper auburn than true red, and his eyes were hazel. Fey eyes, Monty used to call them because they changed color so much.
Children gathered as they rode past, their faces alight with interest and curiosity. They ran alongside the horses, hooting and hollering. At one point, Brandt heard “Beast of Maclaren” called out, but he couldn’t be sure. Sorcha must have heard it as well because she stiffened, though she held her back upright and her chin at an imperious angle. His hand tightened on her hip in a reassuring motion.
“It’s fine,” she said shortly. “Haven’t I told you? I am legend now.”
He opened his mouth but quickly shut it when he saw the corner of Sorcha’s mouth bow into a smirk. Perhaps she didn’t mind the name so much after all, though he imagined it must have taken a number of years for her to settle with it. He saw the way the children widened their eyes in awe and even the grudging hesitation of the warriors leading them when they’d first learned her name. Her scars were legend because she was.
As they neared the gates leading up to the keep, the man in front raised his arm, and they slowly swung open. Men in the nearby training fields stopped their work to gawk. Sorcha made a soft exclamation of surprise.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There aren’t many of them,” she said in a hushed breath. “Fighters. We have dozens more soldiers at Maclaren. My father used to say that the former Montgomery laird was a great warrior, and no one dared take up arms against him.”
“Perhaps there are more than what we see here now. Besides, they aren’t expecting trouble, and their lands are quite protected.”
As they passed by the ragtag band of men, Brandt couldn’t help noticing that, though Sorcha drew their attention with her scarred face, he was the one who kept it. Mouths dropped open in shock, and heads bent together to whisper. His fingers clenched again.
“I told ye, I am fine, Brandt.”
He blinked at the reappearance of her brogue. “For once, I don’t think they’re talking about you, Sorcha. I think they’re talking about me.”
“Why would they be—” She cut off abruptly as they passed a group of women who dropped their washing as they saw him and crossed themselves.
“’Tis a ghost, surely,” one of them mewled, her eyes wide with fear.
Brandt frowned. A ghost? Things could not have been stranger, but the feeling of uneasiness grew as they approached the massive stone steps of the keep. A huge man stood in the archway at the top. His face matched his guards—fierce and unsmiling—as he bent his head to listen to what his first man had to say. Brandt reckoned it had to be the Duke of Glenross, the laird of Montgomery. But as they drew near, his pulse started to pick up speed.
The man on the steps could have been his brother. A much older brother, perchance, but the resemblance was there in the wide slope of his forehead and the angular planes of his cheekbones. They had the same nose, though Brandt’s had been broken once in a London boxing ring.
Sorcha noticed it, too. “You look like him,” she whispered. “Perhaps that is why they were all gawping at you. Your mother could be a relation to the laird.”
Brandt did not answer. They dismounted and walked up the steps. The duke’s hair was brown, not auburn, and though he was tall, he appeared to be a few inches shorter than Brandt.
“Lady Maclaren,” the duke boomed. “I bid ye welcome. Ye and yer husband. I am Rodric, Duke of Glenross and Laird Montgomery.”
Glacial blue eyes passed over him with the same interest as everyone else in this bloody clan, but there was a malevolence beneath it that Brandt felt to his bones. The duke was not a good-humored man. Something dark and ominous glinted in the pale depths of his eyes. Brandt remembered what Sorcha had said he was called—Mad Montgomery—and he made a vow to keep an eye on him.
“Though,” the laird went on, “I was surprised to hear of yer nuptials. Were ye no’ betrothed?”
Sorcha nodded, her face giving away nothing. “The betrothal was broken.”
Rodric’s frigid eyes cut to Brandt and assessed him as one would a piece of exotic horseflesh. “Ye’ve the look of a Montgomery,” he commented. “Where are ye from?”
“England, Your Grace,” Brandt said. “Essex.”
The duke’s eyes widened at his clipped English, and an odd expression broke across his face. “’Tis a verra long way, England. What brings ye here, Sassenach?”
“My father was kin to the Montgomery. He passed several years ago and bid me come pay my respects as his last dying wish.”
He felt Sorcha tense next to him at the white lie, and the lack of mention of the ring. Something told him to keep the ring hidden from the duke. He did not trust the man. Neither did Ares, who whinnied a few feet away and seemed agitated.
Rodric noticed. “What’s wrong with yer horse?”
“He’s injured, Your Grace,” Brandt said. “He would be happy for a good meal and a warm place to rest if you have room in your stables.”
The duke raised his arm, and two stableboys hurried forward. Brandt watched as Ares and Lockie were led away. Brandt wasn’t worried. The horses the warriors had ridden earlier had seemed in good health. They were treated well, and Lockie and Ares would be, too. He and Sorcha, on the other hand, were a different matter. The gazes from the clansmen had not abated in the least, and Sorcha was also getting her fair share of attention.
“Come, then, be welcome, daughter of Dunrannoch.” Rodric frowned. “How is yer father faring these days? Heard he lost some land to an English marquess when his uncle was proven guilty of associating with the Jacobites.”
“He’s well, thank you, Your Grace.”
She said nothing about her uncle or about Malvern, and after a moment, Rodric continued. “And yer mother? She was a bonny lass for a Sassenach.”
Something in the way he said it was insulting. His gaze scoured Sorcha, his mouth curling in a leer as they rested on her scars. A flush suffused Sorcha’s face, but she did not drop her chin even when his eyes lowered to her breasts in the borrowed green gown. The man was coarse and seemed adept at playing games. Brandt shifted his footing and brought himself closer to her side, the act earning him a sideways glare.
“She’s well, too,” Sorcha said sweetly. “And my brothers and my sisters, and all my cousins. They are all well.”
If the duke sensed the underlying irritation in Sorcha’s sugary tones, he did not remark upon it. They followed the laird into the keep. Surprisingly, the great hall was pleasantly kept with fresh rushes before the fireplaces and beautiful tapestries adorning the stone walls. Nothing about it was familiar, though he felt a strange kinship with the stones of this place. Had he been born here? In the castle or in one of the cottages that had dotted the rambling hillside? If he was indeed the son of one of the duke’s relations, was she still alive? Brandt’s mind roiled with question after question.
The keep was bustling with people, though the expressions were the same—morose and stern. Other than the laughing children, Brandt had not noticed a single smile on any of the adults. The happiness of a lord’s people said a lot. Though Archer was a stern man, his tenants in Essex and his other estates respected and loved him. They had always nodded and called out a pleasant greeting whenever he and Archer had ridden through while inspecting the farms and properties. And Archer would often stop and chat with all of them. The solemnness of these people made Brandt uneasy. All was not well here.
“Morag will show ye to yer chambers,” Rodric said before leaving the keep again. “We sup at eight.”
A slight figure hurried forward and bobbed before her laird, then turned to them. Morag was an older woman with a shock of cinnamon hair and a lined face. Kindly blue eyes shone and widened when they took in Sorcha’s scars. Her mouth fell open when she looked at Brandt.
Morag didn’t speak until she’d led them into a large chamber at the end of the hall. It held a grand bed, a pair of throne-like wooden chairs set before a hearth, and a table and mirror, though a thin layer of dust had gathered upon the furnishings. Their packs and belongings had been removed from the horses and set on the floor in the middle of the room.
“The laird and lady were no’ expecting guests,” she said apologetically. “The chambermaids will see that ’tis cleaned while ye’re at sup.”
“Lady?” Sorcha asked.
“Lady Glenross,” Morag said. “The duchess is in the village to tend a birth.”
Brandt was surprised. “She’s a midwife?”
“Nae, but she has a gift for handling difficult births. Our people say that Lady Glenross has the touch o’ the fairies.”
She trailed off into silence as her gaze fell upon him once more. Disbelief and confusion warred in her eyes as she drank in his features. Unlike the other women, she did not make the sign of the cross, but she did look as if she’d seen a ghost.
Since her eyes were the first warm pair he had met upon arriving at Montgomery, Brandt shot her a wry smile. “I look like your laird.”
Morag shook her head. “Nae, lad, ye’ve the look of the laird’s brother, Robert.” Her hand flew to her mouth in horror as if something had occurred to her. “Her ladyship will no’ be expecting it…to see the verra image of her husband back from the grave.”
Brandt frowned, wondering whether the old woman could be of use. Morag was certainly old enough to have been around for a long time. “Does the laird have any sisters or female cousins?” he asked.
“Two sisters, and many cousins,” she replied, squinting at the odd question and opening the door to admit some servants with water to fill the washbasin. They, too, gawked at them before Morag shooed them from the room. “Tongues will be waggin’ all o’er Montgomery today. A ghost and the Beast—” She broke off in horror, her aggrieved gaze darting to Sorcha. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady. I didnae mean any insult.”
“None taken, Morag.” Sorcha smiled kindly at the woman’s aghast face. “It’s truth I am a beast. Ask any of my brothers and they’ll swear to it.”
Morag shook her head. “Ye were such a bonny lass.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened. “Did you know me?”
“Ye father brought ye here as a wee lass one summer. I wept when I heard the news of the wolf attack.” Morag had tears shining in her eyes. “But ’twas no’ as bad as I expected. Ye’re still bonny, ye ken.” Her gaze slid to where Brandt stood. “And ye’re married to this strapping man.”
Sorcha opened her mouth, as if to contradict the statement, and then closed it. Regardless of his opinion on the matter or what had happened between them, in the eyes of the clan and everyone else, they were wedded.
Morag looked like she wanted to reminisce more, but she straightened and made for the doorway as though suddenly frightened. She stopped at the door. “Be on ye way as soon as ye can,” she whispered. “’Tis no’ safe here. The devil roams these lands.”
The door slammed shut behind her before either of them could respond, but her ominous words remained in the air like a warning. Brandt exchanged a glance with Sorcha, but she looked as bemused as he felt.
“That was odd,” he said.
“Highland folk believe in their legends.” She moved toward the washbasin. “It’s said that when the old duke died, a curse fell upon the land. Perhaps that is the devil she speaks of.” Sorcha glanced at him over her shoulder, and when their eyes met, hurt and resolve passed over hers. “I wish to wash in private.”
Brandt frowned. His wife’s voice had taken on the same chilling reserve from earlier that morning when they’d broken camp by the river. He missed their easy camaraderie, but he’d hurt her with his dispassionate remarks about what had happened at the river. Eventually, she would appreciate the sense of his actions, but for now, the more space between them the better. He nodded and left the chamber.
Brandt had half expected to see a guard posted outside his door, but there was no one there. The occasional maid scurried by as he passed several closed doors that he assumed led into other bedchambers. He walked down a long hallway until he came to a large gallery. Immense portraits hung on the walls, spanning from floor to ceiling. His breath caught as he saw the similarities in some of the older paintings, but it was certainly nothing to lose one’s accounts over.
He strode deeper into the room, hoping that perhaps there would be a painting of the laird’s sisters. Deep down, Brandt felt that he would know his mother. But other than a few paintings of some older women and one painting of a family with two girls and two boys, one of which Brandt wagered was the laird at a young age, there was nothing that gave him any hope at all.
Frustrated, he’d turned on his heel and headed back down the gallery, when his gaze fell on a curtained portrait in an alcove at the end of the hall. Black silk hung over its surface, as if someone had wanted to banish the person in the portrait from the others. Brandt held his breath as he lifted one edge of the silk. His heart sank as his gaze took in a pair of strong male legs encased in boots and a kilt. It was not a woman.
He tugged harder on the silk, and to his dismay, the delicate fabric tore into ragged pieces and floated to the ground at his feet. But the portrait was fully exposed. It showed a man on a horse. A warrior in a Montgomery tartan with a broadsword held high and a proud look on his face. Brandt staggered back, suddenly understanding what all the clansmen had been whispering about.
Laird Robert Montgomery was Brandt in the flesh. From the deeply bronzed red of his hair to his stern features and long brawny stature. The only difference was the eyes—they were the same wintry blue of his brother’s. Brandt drew his fingers along the edges of the man’s plaid.
Had this been his uncle? Had he been the one to send Monty away with the newborn babe he’d fathered with one of the duke’s sisters? Had it been some form of revenge? Punishment? Brandt’s heart ached for his father, who’d been banished so callously from his clan for falling in love with a woman he could not have. Sisters of dukes did not marry stable masters.
And neither did daughters of dukes.
Suddenly, Brandt couldn’t care less about his parentage. His heart ached for the woman he’d left in his chambers. The one he’d cut down so callously, before she’d had the chance to offer him her misguided affection. He had nothing to offer her in return, though, and if he accepted or encouraged her esteem, she would pay the price for her foolish choices.
Just as Monty had.