Chapter Sixteen
Once the Duke of Glenross had finished his ducal posturing, the dinner conversation took on a lighter, more jovial, tone. As much as one could be jovial in such a suffocating atmosphere. Brandt was glad for it because he was two breaths short of tossing the duke on his privileged arse in front of all his men in his own keep, and teaching him a much-needed lesson.
He’d known men like Rodric before…men who believed women were meant to be seen, not heard. That they were little more than possessions. Men like him wielded their power—and cruelty—with equal ferocity. It was clear in the way he’d tried and failed to intimidate Brandt. In that respect, Rodric was very much like Malvern. It made him regret that he’d brought Sorcha here.
He spared her a glance. She was deep in conversation with Aisla, and the worry that had been written all over her before had disappeared. He had not told her how beautiful she looked in blue—the light color made her creamy skin luminous and her eyes glow like sapphires.
Brandt had been proud of how well she’d stood up to Rodric’s interrogation, but he hadn’t been about to let the man insult her. It was only by a slim thread that he’d been able to stop himself from calling the duke out. Not that he doubted his own skill at twenty paces, but he’d made a promise to Sorcha to see her through to Brodie, and he couldn’t do that if he were wounded or dead.
Still, Brandt wondered if anyone would miss the duke if he met an untimely end. His sons, perhaps. His wife and daughter, not as much, he’d wager. Other than having the blond coloring of her middle son and daughter, he hadn’t taken much measure of Lady Glenross. Though she was tall, she seemed frail and delicate. Her features were fine-boned, much like her daughter’s, and she had long elegant hands. Shadows slunk beneath her eyes, and like the rest of the women in the keep, she seemed beaten down. Brandt wondered if she would be amenable to questions about her sisters-in-law, their whereabouts, or any secret bastard children born out of wedlock.
Brandt’s gaze tumbled to where Lady Glenross was moving the food around her plate. Other than her earlier toast, she hadn’t spoken once. Neither had she looked up. The duchess’s reaction upon seeing him had been expected, especially after he’d seen the portrait of the late duke in the gallery, though the depth of her surprise had been puzzling. The previous Duke of Glenross had been dead over a score of years. Brandt wondered at loving someone so deeply that no matter how long they had been gone, they never truly left you. His gaze flicked back to Sorcha, and he felt an unfamiliar sensation compress his lungs. He couldn’t imagine ever forgetting her, not in a week, not in twenty years. Not in a lifetime.
Brandt gave his head a hard shake. He would have to.
He sighed and speared another mouthful of poached fish. The food, to his surprise, was delicious and flavorful. The roasted fish was seasoned with herbs and cooked in a buttery wine sauce that hinted of French origins. The duke clearly did not spare the expense to employ a superb cook, which Brandt knew was uncommon for the Highlands. It was another thing about the man that rankled. He was a duke, and chieftain of Montgomery, but he acted like a king. A pampered, spoiled king.
Callan, the younger of the two brothers, cleared his throat, drawing Brandt out of his thoughts. “Whereabouts do ye hail from in England?”
“Essex,” he replied, with a longer look at the lad sitting beside him. He seemed to be about twenty and wore a less constipated look than his elder brother.
“Have ye been to London?”
Brandt nodded. “Many times.”
“White’s?” Callan’s brown eyes had grown more animated.
Brandt understood the allure. White’s was the most famous gentleman’s club in London. He’d, of course, been to it only with the Duke of Bradburne. But to any young man, White’s was the exclusive, crowning glory of a gentleman’s social life in London.
Before he could reply, the duke’s voice interrupted. “White’s is a members-only establishment, ye ken,” he scoffed. “How would the pauper son of a stable master ever set foot in such a place?”
Brandt tented a slow eyebrow. “Perhaps by not being as poor as you’ve assumed.” He turned his attention to Callan. “And yes, I can assure you I’ve been to White’s.”
“How is that possible?” Callan asked with a nervous glance to his father. “If ye’re no’ a lord, ye ken?”
“The Duke of Bradburne is like a brother to me.”
Brandt was not a title-thrower, but he hoped his double entendre was clear. If anything should happen to him—or his wife—no stone would be left unturned, not even in Scotland. Though Malvern was indeed a powerful marquess, Bradburne’s sphere of influence was unrivaled. There weren’t many men in England or the Continent who had not heard of Lord Archer Croft.
“Bradburne, aye?” the duke remarked.
Brandt smiled. “Indeed.”
After a while, Rodric stood and moved to confer with one of his men who begged a word, the big older warrior who had met them on the road on the way in to Montgomery. They shifted out of sight of the great hall. At the duke’s departure, Lady Glenross seemed interested in the conversation. In fact, for the first time since she had arrived, it seemed as if she could breathe. Yet again, Brandt frowned at the thrall Rodric Montgomery held over them all.
“Ye said yer father was a Montgomery,” Patrick said.
It was the first time the Glenross heir had spoken directly to him. Brandt nodded. “As far as I understood it, yes.”
“My father doesnae recall such a man.”
Brandt inclined his head. “Perhaps it was before his time as laird.”
Lady Glenross’s head snapped up, though her eyes did not meet his. Patrick, too, seemed to notice his mother’s unusual response. She did not look at Brandt, but her low-pitched musical voice was clear. “What did ye say his name was?”
Brandt noticed that Sorcha’s attention had become focused on him. “Montgomery Pierce.”
“We had a Pherson Montgomery once,” she said softly. “A loyal lad who worked in the stables.”
Brandt’s frown deepened. Monty had been all of eighteen when Brandt had been born and he’d fled Scotland. It was conceivable that his name could have been Pherson. It wasn’t that far from Pierce. Perhaps he had simply reversed the two for anonymity after he left the only home he’d known. Once more, Brandt felt a compelling need to determine the identity of his mother. For Monty’s sake.
“I dunnae recall anyone of that name, either,” Patrick said.
“Ye were no’ even a glimmer in my eye yet, dear heart,” Lady Glenross replied, smiling at her son. It was a smile that contained so much love that Brandt could feel its warm force like a wave cresting over him. She loved her children, that much was clear, even the stoic Patrick who seemed to be his father’s man in the flesh. “’Twas a long time ago. Long before any of ye were even born, when I was but a young lass.”
To Brandt’s surprise, Patrick’s eyes softened and, reaching for his mother’s hand, he leaned over to place a kiss on her knuckles. “Ye never talk of yer childhood.”
Lady Glenross stared affectionately at her son, her gaze falling to Callan and then to Aisla. “My life found renewed purpose and hope when ye were born. A wounded heart was restored.”
Wounded from the death of her husband? The previous duke?
The duchess looked up then, her dark gaze catching Brandt’s for the briefest of moments in the flickering light, and he was filled with the strangest feeling. He could see knowledge swirling in their glittering depths before she cast her gaze away. Lady Glenross knew more than she was letting on; he would stake his life upon it. He had to keep her talking before her husband came back.
Sorcha seemed to have the same idea because she was the one to ask the next question. “Who was he? Pherson Montgomery?”
A fond smile graced the duchess’s lips. “A stableboy with the bravest heart a boy could have. He was my dearest friend.”
It was an odd answer. Cryptic at best. He didn’t understand why the laird’s wife would have remembered Monty as brave, if indeed his father had been this Pherson she spoke of. Or even how he would have won the friendship of the lady of the keep to begin with. Had he impregnated the laird’s sister? Had he been forced to leave Montgomery?
“What happened to him?” Brandt asked. “He never told me why he left.”
But before she could answer, the laird came stalking back to his seat at the table, and the duchess stared once more into her plate. Brandt swallowed a curse at the lost opportunity. The duke did not sit.
Instead, Rodric hooked a hand toward Patrick. “Declan reports that there has been an incident at the mill. Come,” he commanded brusquely before turning to Brandt and Sorcha. “My apologies for my absence. I’m sure ye understand.”
“What kind of incident?” Patrick asked, but was quelled by the glacial look in his father’s eyes. He rose and bowed. “I bid ye good night, mother. Mr. Pierce, Lady Pierce.” Patrick nodded to his sister and brother, and followed his father out of the hall.
A dozen Montgomery men stood to fall in line with their laird, leaving the hall half empty. Callan called for more ale. Brandt was surprised he hadn’t been allowed to accompany the laird, but perhaps it was the way things were done. The young man’s sour face indicated that it wasn’t the first time he’d been left behind.
“You wish to go with them?” Brandt asked.
“My father likes to keep us apart,” Callan said, after a long draught on his mug. “Patrick is being groomed for the role of laird, and I am but a nuisance.”
“Ye’re not a nuisance,” Aisla said loyally.
Callan grumbled but sent his sister a grateful glance. They were allies, then, Callan, Lady Glenross, and Aisla. Brandt could sense it in the easy way all three of them were acting together now that the laird, his heir, and half the men in the hall had gone, though he suspected Patrick cared deeply for his mother as well.
Catriona sipped her wine, relaxed again. In her husband’s absence, it was as if another woman had taken her place…a vibrant hint of the woman she used to be. “I’ve no’ met the Marquess of Malvern, but I’ve heard of him. I cannae blame ye for marrying another man, Lady Pierce. But pray tell, how did ye and Mr. Pierce meet? In England?”
She cast a curious look in Brandt’s direction, but the moment he met her eyes, she glanced away again, concentrating instead on Sorcha. His wife had gone pink cheeked, her lips pressed tightly. Rodric had shamed her enough for eloping. Should the duke learn the truth that she’d coerced a man into marriage in exchange for a horse, too, his disgust would only be renewed.
“At the common lands festival in Selkirk,” Brandt answered for her. The hell if he’d let one more thing humiliate her. “I caught sight of her as she was competing in a sword fight against a much bigger, much stronger man.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened, as if pleading with him to be quiet. He only smirked, his gaze trained on her. So much had passed between them since then…since that moment he’d first laid eyes on her, but Brandt would never forget the memory of her, ferocious and beautiful in equal measure. A virago in battle armor, flush with victory.
“And yet, she bested her opponent with her skill. I was watching from afar when she pulled off her helm and I realized she was a lady, not a boy as I’d assumed.”
Aisla gasped and grinned, turning to stare at Sorcha with awe. Callan huffed an impressed laugh and drew from his tankard.
“I knew I had to meet her,” Brandt went on, Sorcha’s alarm setting the tips of her ears afire. “And when I did, I knew…she wasn’t just a swordswoman. She was a sorceress.” Brandt raised his tankard to her. “Because I immediately fell under her spell.”
Sorcha’s tensed shoulders fell and, though her cheeks and ears stayed bright with color, she was breathing easier. Suddenly shy, she couldn’t seem to hold his stare. It wasn’t as though he’d strayed that far from the truth. He’d withheld only the specific terms of their agreement, but he had been mesmerized by her from the very start in that paddock.
Athena, he’d thought her.
Though now, as he had discovered, that comparison failed to come close to the reality.
“Love at first sight, ye ken.” Aisla sat back in her chair with a sigh, a hand covering her heart and girlish stars in her eyes. “’Tis so lovely. So verra romantic.”
Brandt saw Sorcha shake her head slightly, and he smiled. Their meeting had not been romantic in the least, despite his gawking, and he knew it was exactly what his wife was thinking.
What was romance anyway? A collection of words, maybe, said to another person. Promises made. Though words were forgotten, promises easily broken. It was action Brandt admired. Loyalty and resolve. Sorcha was a stubborn, unflinching, maddening woman, and yet she would not give up. She’d proven her mettle in the last handful of days as they’d traveled, fighting Coxley and Malvern’s hired men at every turn.
Laying herself bare to him at the river—that had taken courage, too.
And he’d belittled her for it.
Aisla sighed again, though the sound had taken on an edge of despair. “Truly, I only wish I could meet a man as ye did. With my luck, I’ll be married off to the Buchanans fer the sake of an alliance.” She scowled and then laughed. “Or a dog. Though I ken I’d marry the dog over Dougal Buchanan. ’Twould smell heaps better.”
Callan snorted with laughter. “Aye, dunnae fash yerself, Aisla. Patrick and I would toss the Buchanan into the loch before he put one finger upon ye.”
She stuck her tongue out at her brother. “I’d elope with a handsome Sassenach over that lout.”
“Hush, Aisla,” Lady Glenross said with a nervous glance over her shoulder as if expecting her husband’s return any moment.
“How did you and the duke meet?” Sorcha asked, and then clamped her hand over her mouth with an appalled look. It was well known how they had met, Brandt knew, and well rumored that the late duke’s death had been fratricide.
However, the duchess did not seem troubled by the question. Brandt felt her gaze linger on him for a protracted moment before she answered.
“I was married to his brother, Robert,” she said. “He died in a fall, and Rodric was there to share the burden of my grief. We married shortly after the mourning period had passed.” She shrugged delicate shoulders. “’Twas the best thing for the clan.”
Brandt grasped at the opening. “That must have been hard for you and the laird’s sisters. Where are they?” he asked. “Did they grow up here at Montgomery? Were they of comfort to you as well?”
He didn’t care if he sounded oddly inquisitive. He didn’t plan to remain under Rodric’s roof much longer, and he still wanted answers.
“Aye. ’Twas a difficult time, but Jean and Una had already married. They visited, of course, and mourned their brother’s death, but they had their own lives. I was inconsolable, and Rodric was the only one there to pick up the pieces.”
Brandt exhaled, his fingers clenching into fists on his lap. “Did Jean and Una have any children?”
Lady Glenross blinked at the question, her pale brows coming together in concern. “Several. Why do ye ask?”
“No reason.”
And Brandt had none. None that would be acceptable. He had no way to ask outright if either of the Montgomery girls had been ruined by her friend, the stableboy, and given birth to a son some twenty-five years before. He wished that Monty had given him more to go on, a name even. But the names Jean and Una were not familiar. Brandt was certain Monty had never mentioned either of them.
“What was yer father like?” The soft question came from the duchess.
“Monty?” He smiled, noticing that Sorcha had also leaned forward in interest. Brandt didn’t see any harm in talking about his father now that Rodric had left.
“He was a good man. Brave. Principled. Believed in the inherent goodness of men, and that one did not need to be born a nobleman to be noble. He managed the Duke of Bradburne’s stables for years, and when he died, I took over.” Nostalgia for the old codger crept over him. It had been a long while since he’d felt such a sharp yearning to see him again.
“Was he kind to ye?” The duchess was focused on her hands that were knotted tightly together on the table, but she waited intently for his reply.
“Yes, he was. Monty didn’t have a malicious bone in his body.”
“And yer mother?” she asked, her voice wobbling slightly. Her bloodless fingers weaved and cinched together as if in agitation, though her countenance remained rigidly composed. “Was she there with ye in Essex?”
“No,” Brandt replied, not curbing his bitter tone. “My mother remained in Scotland while my father raised me on his own. I was born a bastard.”
Aisla gasped, as did Sorcha. Callan watched him with interest. But it was the duchess’s response that stunned Brandt the most. Her shoulders curled backward as she gave a short bark of laughter, and then leaned across the table to meet his stare directly.
“Ye’re no’ a bastard.”
The furious intensity of her reply hit him first, but Brandt couldn’t breathe. All the oxygen was sucked out of the room the minute her eyes connected with his and held them. They weren’t dark as he’d initially assumed.
They were hazel, flecked with gold and green. Fey eyes.
His eyes.
Everything tilted on its axis. The floor, the hall, his entire world. Brandt lifted narrowed eyes to the woman seated across from him. “Who are you?”
Lady Glenross’s mouth opened and closed, but then she stood. Tears replaced her laughter and streamed down her cheeks as she rushed from the hall. Brandt’s chest felt too small to contain his hammering heart. But if he had her eyes, and he looked like the dead duke, then that would mean…
Good God, it was impossible.
No. Monty was his father. His mother had to be the laird’s sister. It was the only thing that made sense. Unless Monty had lied. The room spun in tune with his brain as Monty’s broken parting words came back to haunt him.
I never told…you…truth. I’m no’, no’…
His father. He’d been about to say not your father.