Chapter Twenty
It wasn’t until later that evening, once the sun had lowered behind the craggy hills that fortified Montgomery land, that Brandt returned to the keep and the room he shared with Sorcha. He’d spent the bulk of the day on foot, walking the undulating terrain around the fortress, visiting the stables for an unnecessarily lengthy visit with Ares and Lockie, and learning the layout of the rooms and corridors inside the keep itself. All in all, he’d made a day of avoiding both his mother and his wife.
Never before had he worked so hard not to think about women. How was it, he mused for the near hundredth time that day, that he had lived a quarter of a century without ever finding himself so frustrated and confused about the female set that he wanted to pull his hair out at the roots, when in less than a fortnight now he’d been subjected to the full spectrum of torture. Both mental and physical.
On the one hand, there was Lady Glenross. His mother. A woman who had never had a face in his imaginings before, and whom now he saw so clearly. All his life, she’d been a nameless person to hate, to be furious with. He’d been so certain that his mother was a cold, uncaring witch of a woman. How wrong he’d been.
Everything was changing now that he knew the truth; everything he thought he’d known had shattered, and ever since breaking his fast that morning, Brandt had been waiting for the pieces to settle into new order. With each step he took as he roamed the keep and lands, he was reminded that he wasn’t just a stable master. He wasn’t a bastard at all. Every inch of this gorgeous, intimidating land was rightfully his. And his mother wanted him to reclaim it.
On the other hand, he had Sorcha. His wife. His beautiful, intoxicating, blood-boiling wife. She had been the one who had consumed his mind most of the day. Brandt had left the great hall after his hushed conversation with the duchess, his mind reeling, his pulse unsteady. He’d needed air and distance from the unexpected burden of truth laid down at his feet. At the top of one knoll rolling down toward the training fields, he’d had a clear view of the Montgomery men training there—as well as two slim and skirted ladies. He should have known his mighty Athena would have finagled her way into the center of a training session among Scots warriors.
Brandt had quelled his initial alarm at seeing her among those men when they’d stood back to watch her instruct Aisla with a bow. The young girl was his half sister, he knew, but he hadn’t been able to think about that. In that moment, he’d wanted only to watch his wife’s strong, trim arms as she helped Aisla nock the arrow and aim. The curve of her neck as she cocked her head and waited patiently for one of her pupil’s arrows to drive home.
And when she had taken up the bow herself, even with the distance between them, he’d imagined he could hear the sound of her breathing. He’d felt the steady and calm focus of her aim, as though he were right there at her side. The cheers and whistles the Montgomery men had rained down upon her when she’d proven her skill had given him the oddest burst of pride, too.
When the tall and burly dark-haired Scot had thrown his arm around Sorcha’s shoulders, the burst of pride had become something else entirely. Brandt had clenched his fingers into balled fists, wanting only to charge down to the group of men and rip the Scot’s arm from its socket. But that would have meant facing Sorcha, and she’d have no doubt seen his troubled expression. He hadn’t been ready to speak about any of it yet, and besides…she’d looked so light and happy, showing off her skill. Had the flirtatious Scot tried it again, Brandt wagered Sorcha would have stuck him with her dirk.
Brandt had left then, listening to the cheers in the distance as his wife had done something else spectacular. Easily done, he thought to himself as he now entered their bedchamber. She was spectacular, and not just with a weapon in hand. As his eyes coasted over the chair in which he’d sat the night before, with Sorcha massaging his muscles so reverently before coming to kneel before him, Brandt thought of several more ways she’d surpassed his expectations.
“There you are,” came her voice from the far corner of the room. He closed the door behind him and prepared himself. He had to tell her what he’d learned. And what he’d decided to do about it.
“I’ve been looking for you all afternoon,” Sorcha said as she came out of the shadowy corner. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she seemed to be holding herself tightly. Awareness prickled up his spine, and Brandt’s eyes narrowed in on her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, every last thought and worry of his own fleeing.
Why had she been hiding in the corner?
“We must leave,” she said, adding, “as soon as possible.”
Brandt crossed the room in a few swift strides and took her by the shoulders. “Tell me what’s happened. Are you hurt?”
God damn it all to Hades, what the hell had he been thinking, wandering around the fortress and grounds all day? He should have found her and made certain she was safe and still with Aisla. What kind of fool protector was he, to not keep an eye on his own charge? And here of all places, where Rodric ruled with an iron thumb.
“I’m not hurt, Brandt,” she answered, shaking her head.
He’d been so obsessed with everything Lady Glenross had divulged that morning, so torn about whether to stay and stake his claim, or leave and deliver Sorcha to the Brodie as promised, that he hadn’t even stopped to think.
“Was it that warrior?” he asked, the dark-haired man from the training fields leaping to the forefront of his mind as his grip tightened on her shoulders.
Sorcha frowned. “Which warrior?”
“He put his arm around you,” Brandt answered, the hot sparks of a simmering frenzy igniting in his stomach. He’d find him. He’d thrash him to within an inch of his life. He’d break his bloody arms.
Her pinched expression smoothed out, and a smile touched her tense lips. “You were watching.”
“I left too soon,” he replied, grating out the words. “What did the bastard do?”
“Nothing,” Sorcha answered, her smile now a full-fledged grin. She even laughed, the husky sound striking him right in the groin. “Not a thing.”
Brandt loosened his grasp. “Then why are you so eager to leave?” He took a glance around the room, the deep purple and blue shadows of dusk having crept in. “And why are you hiding in here?”
It would be time to go to the great hall soon, and he’d thought he’d find her getting ready. Her smile faded. The confidence and fire he’d come to expect and admire in her had paled. “It’s the duke, Rodric. I don’t trust him, Brandt.”
He peered at her, a new lance of guilt digging into his chest. “You saw him today.”
Brandt had not. He’d been told the laird would be away until sup and had been glad to hear it. Sorcha nodded.
“I angered him by bringing Aisla to the training fields.” Her lower lip quivered. “I fear he’s punished her.”
He released Sorcha’s arms to avoid leaving accidental bruises; he wanted to throttle the duke, not her.
“And you,” he asked, his voice barely audible. “Did he touch you?”
If he had, Rodric would suffer. On his life, Brandt would see the man dead before nightfall. Sorcha must have noticed the threat glowing in his eyes, too, because she swallowed hard and shook her head again. “No,” she answered. “I don’t believe he’ll harm me that way. It’s Malvern…what if Rodric has summoned him? There was something in his eyes today that made me nervous, Brandt. He looked all too pleased with himself.”
Brandt nodded slowly as he turned toward the window overlooking the fields. He’d wondered himself if Rodric was allied with Malvern, but the notion that he might have been off summoning him instead of riding out to Montgomery farms had not crossed his mind.
“You’re right to be wary of him. He’s dangerous,” he replied, and nearly laughed. It was an absurd understatement. “The man is a murderer.”
Behind him, Sorcha drew in a sharp breath. “Do you speak of the late Duke of Glenross?”
Brandt crossed his arms and turned away from the window, his eyes coming to rest on the inky-haired beauty who had become his unerring compass. All day he’d spent wandering, alone, lost in his own mind. Not ten minutes here with her now, and Brandt felt grounded to the very floor. Rooted to wherever she happened to be standing. He wanted to tell her everything, and so he did.
He unleashed it all—everything Lady Glenross had revealed that morning. All the while, Sorcha stared up at him, her lips parted in awe, her expression shifting with every new confession.
“I should have found you earlier,” he finally said, guilt wriggling back into place. “It was selfish of me to stay away, wrapped up in my own troubles.”
Her eyes flashed with temper. “Selfish? Don’t be an idiot.”
She reached for him then, her arms no longer limp with shock at her sides. The reprimand, paired with the gentle grip of her hands curling around his wrists, made him laugh. But Sorcha wasn’t in the least bit amused. Her stare remained unyielding.
“You are the true Montgomery laird,” she whispered. “The rightful Duke of Glenross.”
“Yes.”
The expression of fear he’d seen her wearing as he’d come into the bedchamber slammed down into place again.
“Mo Diah.” She blinked back sudden tears. “You’re going to challenge him.”
“He murdered my father,” Brandt said. “He would have killed me.”
“He still could,” she replied, her voice rising. “When he discovers who you are—”
“He already knows,” Brandt cut in. “He must know.”
And if that were the case, summoning Malvern would only help his situation. The marquess wanted Brandt dead, and so did Rodric. Men became allies when they had a common enemy…in this case, him.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Sorcha asked, turning around and rushing toward the bench at the foot of the bed. Their packs were there, their laundered clothes and all of their supplies and weapons. “They think we’re heading west, not north. We’ll wait until everyone’s at sup, and then we’ll take Lockie and Ares, and—”
“I’m not leaving, Sorcha.”
She dropped the pack she’d just lifted and turned to stare at him in incredulity. “You can’t, Brandt. Malvern wouldn’t have fought you fair back in Selkirk, and neither will Rodric. Challenging him is unwise.”
He went to her, the tension rolling off her in near palpable waves. She was afraid, and that was an emotion he hadn’t seen grip her before. His brave, fierce warrior would never let a pathetic thing like fear unsettle her. He cupped her cheek, needing to touch her and calm her. All day, he’d felt upended and astray. But not anymore. Here, with her, he saw his path clearly.
“I’m wounded, wife. Do you think so little of my skill?” he asked, attempting to make her smile.
“Of course not, but I don’t think you understand. If he opposes your claim, a challenge for lairdship is a challenge to the death,” she said, her voice breaking over that last word. She rubbed her cheek into his palm, as if seeking the comfort he offered. She sighed. “I know you’re strong. I know you can fight, but if you lose…if I lose you…”
She didn’t finish her thought, and she didn’t need to. The worry was written all over her.
“I understand what it would entail,” he said, his thumb caressing her skin. “I can’t run from this. I won’t leave my mother and Aisla to suffer the brunt of Rodric’s rule any longer.”
They were already living in a prison; his mother’s sacrifice so many years before to keep her infant son safe from harm had never fully come to an end. He had to see it through now. Rodric would never forgive her for what she’d done, and she’d pay the price in flesh.
Sorcha closed her eyes, and he could see she understood.
“And if Rodric has summoned Malvern, like you fear, it will be only a matter of time before he tracks us north, to Brodie lands. I will do anything in my power to keep you safe.” Brandt’s thumb grazed her lower lip. “To protect you.”
Her eyes opened, and he was relieved to see a glimmer of her usual stubbornness. “If you die trying to protect me, I’ll never forgive you, Brandt Pierce. Or Montgomery, or whatever your bloody name is.” He wanted to laugh, but she wouldn’t give him the chance. “You’ve already sacrificed too much for me. If it weren’t for my stupidity back in Selkirk, Malvern wouldn’t even know you existed. He certainly wouldn’t be hunting you.”
“We’ve already gone over this, Sorcha—”
“I should have left. I should have gone back to him and seen the marriage through.” Her eyes dropped from his, and she stared into his chest. He could see her mind whirling, her thoughts forming in their deep blue depths. He knew exactly what she was thinking—that she could still appease Malvern, even now, if she returned to him.
“Don’t,” he gritted out. “Don’t even think it, Sorcha. I would only come after you.”
And he would.
He’d ride through hell and fight until his last breath before he let her surrender to the bastard. He brought his other hand up and cradled her cheeks, his fingers pressing firmly into her skin. “You will never be his.”