Chapter Twenty-Two
The woman lying beside Brandt snored gently in her sleep. He smiled. She would be mortified and would likely argue that she’d never, not once, snored, but he quite liked the contented little sounds. They were the breaths of someone who was caught in the cradle of a deep, satisfying slumber. And the new Lady Glenross had indeed been satisfied. He’d made sure of it. She slept on her stomach, one arm flung above her head, the other draped loosely over his hip as the morning rays from the rising sun crept over the windowsills.
Glossy curls of thick ebony hair were strewn across the lithe expanse of her back, of which he had kissed every delectable inch. Including the many scars that traversed it in a heartbreaking tapestry. There was no part of her body that he did not now intimately know…the silken skin of her nipples, her lean strong legs, her sweet pliant thighs.
Unsurprisingly, Brandt felt himself growing stiff. If it were up to him, he would keep his wanton wife in bed all day. Last night had been eye-opening in more ways than one. Not only did her lustful passions match his, but Brandt had come to the slow realization that she was his match in every other way as well.
Hell, he didn’t know if what he felt was love, but he did know that the thought of being without her left a gaping darkness inside him. Perhaps that was how love felt—like light in a darkened room or that first sliver of sunrise chasing away shadows. Love or not, there was no way he was turning her over to the Brodies. No, Lady Sorcha Montgomery belonged to him. As did this keep and the entire clan. She was a Montgomery now—the wife of a duke, not the wife of a stable master. And Brandt wanted to keep it that way.
He shifted, gently disentangling himself from her sleepy embrace, hoping not to disturb her. But warm fingers drifted over his bare hip bone. His glance slid to meet an awake and curious blue gaze. “Do you always think so heavily when you awaken?” she asked, her voice still husky with sleep. “You have grooves just here.” She drew the pad of a fingertip between his brows.
“Were you watching me?” he asked with a smile.
She blushed, her finger inching down his nose to press against his lips. “It’s my second favorite thing to do.”
“Oh?” He drew the tip of her finger into his mouth and sucked gently. “And what’s the first, Lady Glenross?”
Her blue eyes instantly darkened with desire and then widened. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that name. In my heart, I’ll always be Lady Pierce. That’s who you were when we first met.” Brandt bit gently, and her eyes flared in response, her words going breathy. “And now you’re a duke, or you will be.”
He released her finger from its wet prison. “And you’ll be a duchess.”
“It never mattered to me, you know,” she said. “Who you were. You’re everything that I hoped for when I prayed for someone to save me from Malvern.”
“Prayed for someone?” he teased. “As I recall, my lady, you had a solution well in hand.”
The light fled her eyes. “You speak of my trickery.”
Brandt lifted her by the arms and draped her body over him. “I speak of your kiss,” he whispered, pulling her head down to his, “and the way your sweet little tongue did this.” Smiling, he darted his own into her mouth and kissed her soundly. It didn’t take much coaxing for her to respond, and by the time their mouths parted, she was straddling his thick erection, her sapphire eyes glazed with desire.
“Are you not too sore?”
Sorcha blushed. “A little, but not enough to…want to stop.”
“You are insatiable.” He laughed and took her lips again, filling his palms with her breasts and kneading gently.
She wasn’t the only one. He, too, couldn’t seem to get enough of her. Just when he thought he was satiated, his body rose anew, clamoring for more. Brandt had made love to her twice more over the course of the night, though gently. But now she took charge, undulating her hips in a way that made him blind with lust, and when she finally slid down onto him, he almost lost himself then and there. His devilish wife set a maddeningly slow pace, as if relishing the friction and every voluptuous thrust. She watched him with those intent eyes, already understanding what pleased him and what drove him to distraction. And when their movements grew more frantic and they joined in blissful release, Brandt could only clutch her close, words escaping him yet again.
Words that he should have told her…words he should tell her.
But Brandt remained silent, holding her close and letting his body say what his mouth could not.
An hour more passed before they were ready to rise, wash, and dress. Brandt did not want to miss Rodric at breakfast. There were things that had to be said, and truths that had to come to light. It would not come as a surprise if the duke already suspected the truth himself, what with Brandt’s uncanny resemblance to his late brother and the fact that he had his wife’s eyes. But Brandt knew that Rodric was not a man to be underestimated. He’d been laird for as long as Brandt had been alive and was indubitably cunning.
Sorcha slipped her fingers into his as they walked from their chamber to descend the stone staircase to the breakfasting hall below. It felt good to have her at his side—to know he could depend on her strength and her counsel. He’d told her what he’d planned to do in the wee hours of the morning, after their bodies had been satiated to the point of exhaustion. They’d lain spent in each other’s arms, unable to stop touching as they’d spoken about the future.
“You won’t be going to the Brodie,” he’d told her.
Her heart had been in her eyes. “I won’t?”
“No,” he said. “And I’m going to challenge Rodric as the rightful heir.”
“Is this truly what you want?” she’d asked.
He’d thought it over for a long moment, there in the quiet of the dawn hours with his wife curled against him. Other choices were still open to him—he could go back to Essex to his old life. He would not give Sorcha up, so she would have to return there with him. Archer’s influence would protect her from Malvern should he follow. But what kind of life would it be? Brandt was wealthy, and she would want for nothing, but she would still be the wife of a mere stable master and horse breeder.
He was the son of a duke. She was the daughter of one. Sorcha deserved the life she was meant for, and he wanted to give that to her. He wanted to give her everything.
“Yes,” he’d replied finally. “I want you. And I also want Montgomery.”
“Brandt, I would be happy in Essex.”
“I know,” he’d said and kissed the protest from her lips. “But you belong in Scotland. And so do I.”
Now as they stood on the threshold, she squeezed his hand. He kept their palms joined as they made their way to the table. Rodric was there with his family, though today two of his men stood at his back. The big, older one, Feagan, and his lackey, Seamus. Rodric’s stare speared Brandt and then fell to their linked hands.
Brandt saw the way his eyes narrowed and turned calculating. The man missed nothing. Patrick lifted his eyes from his plate, but offered no greeting. Callan and Aisla smiled thinly before dropping their own gazes as if to avoid the censure of their father. Brandt glanced to his mother, but did not linger. She seemed drawn, her hands fisted together in her lap. For a moment, Brandt wondered at the conversation before he and Sorcha had arrived. Everyone seemed unnaturally tense.
“A word, laird,” Brandt said. “In private?”
Rodric waved a patient hand. “Whatever ye need to say can be said here.”
“In front of your men?” he asked. “This is a family matter.”
The glare Rodric leveled upon him would have made a lesser man quail. Brandt did not. Bullies did not scare him, especially bullies who were cowards at heart and murdered innocent men for their own gain. The duke’s mouth pulled wide in a smile. “Speak then, for they are no’ family and neither are ye.”
The opening was there. Brandt took it. “Actually, as it turns out, I am family. I am your nephew.” It grew so quiet in the hall that the sounds of the sparrows chirping in the field were clearly audible. “I’m the son of the man you claim fell to his death so many years ago. The man you called brother.”
Rodric’s face did not change. In fact, no emotion crossed it whatsoever, which made Brandt suddenly uneasy at the duke’s complete lack of empathy. “Go on. Surely ye have a point with yer blabbering of ancient history.”
The pain that slashed across his mother’s face nearly undid him. His mouth hardened. “Regardless of whether it’s ancient history as you say, I am still the son of Robert Montgomery, and I challenge your claim as the rightful Duke of Glenross and laird of Clan Montgomery.”
The resulting noise was deafening. Patrick shoved his chair so hard that it smashed to the floor behind him. Aisla clapped her hands to her mouth with a small shriek, and Callan had started laughing. Whether it was from amusement or delirium, Brandt did not know. He felt Sorcha sidle closer. The only two people who hadn’t moved were his mother and the laird. The men at his side had drawn their weapons, their faces scowling.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” Patrick roared. “Ye are no’ a Montgomery! Aye, ye have the look of my uncle, but that doesnae give ye the right to come forward with any claim.”
“Easy, lad,” Rodric soothed and spread his thick arms across the width of the table. “’Tis no’ the first time false heirs seeking a fortune have made themselves known. A man must have proof, ye ken.” He eyed Brandt. “Have ye any proof of yer extravagant claims?” Rodric’s stare was lazy and confident. He did not expect to be contested.
Brandt nodded and reached for his wife’s hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles, before removing the ring on her finger. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes communicated everything he needed to know…her support. Her trust. He took both, gladly.
“I have this. A Montgomery ring, and—”
“Ye could have bought that at any county fair,” Patrick interrupted. “Or stolen it from someone in the keep. It means nothing.”
Brandt continued as if his half brother hadn’t spoken or accused him of thievery. “And I have my mother.”
Patrick scowled, not understanding. “Yer mother? What sort of deception is this? Who is yer mother?”
But the laird understood. His furious gaze, promising all sorts of dire punishments, swung toward his wife as she rose from her seat in a slow motion. Not a soul in the hall moved as Lady Glenross lifted her chin regally. They hushed, waiting to hear what she had to say.
“I am,” she said in a clear, proud voice. “This man was born Brandall Cailean Montgomery five and twenty years ago, and is the only son of Robert Cameron Montgomery, the late Duke of Glenross.” Her plaintive gaze swung to her slack-jawed children, but stayed with Patrick, who looked like he’d eaten a toad. “He’s yer brother.”
The duke’s hand snaked across the table like a serpent about to strike. Brandt swung his fist down so hard to intercept it that dishes clattered to the floor.
“Don’t. Touch. Her.”
Each word was snapped with barely leashed violence. It was all he could do not to slit the man’s throat and bathe the stone floors in his traitorous blood. But the light touch of Sorcha’s fingers on the small of his back held him in place. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Callan usher Aisla from the hall after an urgent glance from their mother.
Rodric stormed to his feet, snarling. “Ye dare order me about in my own keep?”
“It’s not your keep, it was my father’s,” Brandt said evenly. “And my claim stands.”
As it was, Brandt had the proof he needed to show his legitimacy, including the word of his very alive mother. But Brandt knew Rodric would not give up what he’d stolen without a fight. By any devious means necessary. And Brandt did not plan to be near any dangerous cliffs if he could help it.
“Verra well,” Rodric hissed. “A challenge ’twill be. Two days hence.”
Brandt’s gaze narrowed as Sorcha’s fingers dug into the muscles of his back in warning. Two days was enough time for any number of things to happen. Including being murdered in his sleep. “It will be now, unless you are afraid, laird.”
“Of ye?” the duke scoffed. “A Sassenach runt?”
Brandt smiled. “I assure you, my mother will attest that my blood is as Scottish as yours.”
Rodric bared his teeth and nodded to Feagan. “Fetch my sword.”
“Father, this is preposterous,” Patrick said, his pale eyes flashing. “Let me accept the challenge in yer stead. Let me fight this…usurper.”
For a moment, a calculated look flicked across Rodric’s face.
“You could if you were laird.” The swift, quiet statement came from Sorcha. “It’s Highland law. Only the laird must prove himself worthy of rule.” She squared her shoulders, her voice carrying far and wide. “As the daughter of the Duke of Dunrannoch, I swear it to be so.”
No one said anything for a long moment, before Rodric turned and whirled out of the room, flanked by his men and followed by his glowering son. Brandt also followed, but stopped first to check on his mother. He pressed a kiss to her brow. “I know that must have been hard for you. Thank you for standing up for me.”
She lifted a slender palm to cup his jaw. “I should have stood up for ye all those years ago. I shouldnae have let ye go, son.” Her voice broke on the last word.
“No,” he said quietly. “You did the right thing. He would have found a way to kill us both.”
His mother hesitated as if she had more to say. “Dunnae blame Patrick,” she said. “He has tried to do the right thing his whole life. He has a great capacity for love, but so much of it has been…buried out of necessity.”
Brandt had a keen understanding of that feeling. He’d buried his heart long ago and, until it had been found by Sorcha, he’d almost forgotten its existence. Brandt had grown up with Monty and, though he hadn’t been his true father, when compared to being raised under the thumb of a man like Rodric, he couldn’t argue that Patrick had likely had the worst of the lot.
“He is my son, as much as ye are,” she whispered, and in her glistening eyes, he saw her fear. That her two sons might come to blows as enemies. Brandt hoped they would not, but at the moment, he could concentrate on only one fight.
As he made his way out to the courtyard, he felt the weight of his decisions pressing upon his shoulders. If he failed, his mother would bear the brunt of Rodric’s rage. So would Callan and Aisla. He wasn’t too worried about Patrick, who seemed to have inherited his father’s survival instincts. But they wouldn’t be the only casualties. Brandt’s gaze flicked to his wife who walked beside him with the carriage of a queen. If he died, she would be sent off to marry Malvern. Brandt couldn’t fathom the brutality she would suffer at the man’s hands.
No, he could not fail.
Just before he walked out into the courtyard, Sorcha pulled him into a narrow alcove before the front doors. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” she said, her blue eyes full of concern and no small amount of fear for him.
“Yes.” He smiled. “I won’t die if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she said with an indignant look. But he kissed her into silence. Deeply. Passionately. She clung to him, her eyes bright and lips rosy and glistening.
“I’ll be careful, mo gràidh.”
Her smile was as bright as the Scottish sun. “Gaelic?”
“I’m a fast learner,” he said, kissing her again, this time swiftly before heading for the door. He looked over his shoulder with a mischievous grin at the woman who had made his fledgling heart beat again. “That’s one of the two words I know.”
“What’s the other?”
“Amadan.”
The bloom of embarrassed color across her cheeks made him laugh. “That was before I knew you,” she called out. “And I only ever called you idiot once. Maybe twice.”
“We’ll discuss that later. In private.”
He was rewarded with another becoming blush that made him want to wrap her in his arms and make a mad dash for the stairs. Brandt didn’t think that Rodric would appreciate being kept waiting while he ravished his wife.
Brandt’s humor stayed with him until he descended into the crowded courtyard. A path cleared for him to the middle where Rodric stood, sword in hand. Someone handed Brandt a sword, which he examined for nicks and cracks in the steel and hefted for weight. It would do. No sooner had he nodded than Rodric rushed toward him with his own sword leading the charge. Brandt managed to fend off the strike, his blade clashing into Rodric’s. The duke was strong and, though fleshy from a life of excess, he still had enough bulk to bolster a heavy swing. They struck and parried, feinted and thrust, each of them trying to find weakness in the other.
Where Brandt was faster, the duke was bigger, and the duel continued as the crowd watched in rapt silence. But Brandt was also younger by a full score of years, which gave him a marginal advantage. After another bone-jarring round, his muscles sore, and a shallow gouge on his forearm seeping blood, he noticed that the duke was beginning to tire. A thin sheen of perspiration coated his brow. Brandt was tiring, too, which made his window of opportunity smaller. He had to end this sooner rather than later. He spun in with his sword, but miscalculated as Rodric leaped aside, his sword coming down hard toward his shoulder.
There was no time to avoid the blow. It was either risk his neck or show his back. He chose the latter. Brandt managed to lurch out of the way, but not before the tip of the sword traced a path of hellish flame down his upper right shoulder and then whipped upward to carve its twin up the side of his ribs. His body was on fire. He could smell blood thicken the air, and dully, from somewhere behind him, he heard a scream.
Rodric grinned. “Dunnae concern yerself about yer lady wife,” he said. “Malvern will take good care of her.”
They circled each other. Though Brandt was bleeding, Rodric had not escaped unscathed. He was limping and holding one arm close to a few bruised ribs. Brandt knew that Rodric was clever. He wasn’t about to do something stupid by not paying attention. He drew a deep breath, ignoring the stinging pain of his separating skin and the burn of open tissue beneath. Sorcha’s salve would fix him once he’d thwarted Rodric. Brandt could sense her in the courtyard and, though he couldn’t see her, he guessed she would be standing beside Lady Glenross near the steps.
“Mayhap I’ll let the men have a turn with her first,” Rodric drawled. “Malvern won’t mind, ye ken. After all, he lets that animal, Coxley, do what he wants.” His grin was ugly. “What do ye think they’re going to do to her?”
Brandt set his jaw. “Are you going to fight or blather on like an old woman?”
“Speaking of old women, mayhap I’ll even let them have yer worthless mother.” Brandt felt a muscle leap to life in his cheek. Sorcha, he knew, would fight tooth and nail to the last, and with her skill and tenacity, she might even be able to escape. But not his mother, and the image of any man attacking her made him sick with rage. The duke pounced upon his weakness like a wolf upon a lame rabbit. “Do ye ken, she came crawling to me like a tavern whore when yer father died? She begged me to take her like the dog she was.”
Brandt didn’t know where his torrent of strength came from, only that he was propelling forward and then colliding with his uncle. With a howl of rage, he swept the duke’s feet out from under him and followed down with the top of his sword. He hovered over the man, grunting with exertion. It would have been so easy to slip the steel through his throat, but Brandt could not kill his uncle in cold blood.
“Do you yield?” he growled.
Rodric’s eyes overflowed with humiliated venom, but he nodded, knowing he was beaten. “Aye.”
Brandt stayed where he was, poised above his uncle, and exchanged a long look with the quietly waiting Feagan. After several tense moments, Feagan nodded. The battle—and clan loyalty—had been fairly won. “Restrain him and escort him off Montgomery lands,” Brandt commanded.
“Yes, laird.”
“He is no’ yer laird,” Rodric hissed. “Do ye want yer laird to be the seed of a weakling who couldnae even fight for his life?” He laughed cruelly, madness glinting in his eyes. “The poor sod would no’ lift a hand against me, no’ even when he knew he was going to die. Ye remind me of him. Ye have his weakness.”
“Empathy is not weakness,” Brandt said. “You don’t understand it because you have none. Your brother believed in the best of you, and you killed him for it.”
“Aye, he was no’ fit to be laird.”
The admission hung thick and heavy in the courtyard.
And then, a keening wail rent the air. It seemed to come from the depths of his mother’s body even as she shoved through a stunned crowd to slap Rodric in the face. “Ye bloody bastard, I kenned ye killed him!” she screamed.
His answer was calm. “Of course I did. I wanted what he had. Ye and the clan.”
“Ye’re not fit to call yerself a Montgomery.”
She slapped him again, but not before Rodric wrenched free of his captors and wound a tight fist into her blond hair. He brought her up to his face before wrapping his other hand around her throat. “I am a Montgomery, ye deceiving bitch. And ye’re still my property to do with as I see fit. Death will suffice for yer disloyalty.”
As his mother’s eyes dilated and her mouth slackened, Brandt prepared to tackle the man, but a blur dashed past him with a roar that shook the hills. He blinked. It was Patrick. With a wild yell, he pushed his mother into Brandt’s arms and shoved his father to the ground. Straddling him, Patrick pummeled him with his bare fists, grunts punctuated by growling sobs. No one moved, until the only sound in the courtyard was one of bones meeting wet flesh.
Handing his mother off to Sorcha, who stood nearby, Brandt moved forward, his hand going to his half brother’s shoulder. “Patrick, enough.” The younger man slowed and obeyed, his face contorted with pain. Brandt knelt beside him. “All will be well, my brother, I promise.”
They stood together, and Brandt indicated for Rodric to be restrained once more. “Give him a horse, and take him to our borders.” He eyed his uncle, who had one eye swollen shut and a puffy lip. “You are never to return. If you do, you will be killed on sight. Is that clear?”
He and Patrick watched as Feagan led Rodric away, and after a while, his brother turned to face him. Confusion and horror warred over his features, but something else shone there, too. Relief. It was an odd thing to see. Brandt frowned. Patrick had been groomed his entire life to be chieftain. There was no reason that he would want to willingly give it up. And despite his claims, Brandt was still a stranger.
“Do you wish to challenge me?” Brandt asked softly.
He was wounded and bruised, and any future duel would have to wait until Sorcha’s magic salve could do its work. His brother’s conflicted eyes met his, and Brandt sucked in a breath. Patrick’s gaze flicked from Lady Glenross to Brandt and back again. She held out her hand to him—love, gratitude, and pride shining in her eyes—and he kissed her knuckles.
Finally, Patrick nodded. “If my mother says it to be so, then ye are the true heir by succession. My own father stole that which was no’ his, so until ye have an heir of yer own,”—he glanced at Sorcha who stood with his mother—“I will remain yer heir and the next in line.” He inclined his head in a somewhat stilted way as if uncomfortable with showing any emotion. “Yer Grace.”
Relief shook through him, and his sore limbs were suddenly heavy with exhaustion.
“Good,” Brandt said, clasping his brother by the shoulder. “Because I’m going to need your help.”
“Ye have it,” Patrick said as they walked back toward the keep where Callan and Aisla were waiting. News of Brandt’s victory and their father’s defeat would have traveled like wildfire through the clan. Brandt wasn’t worried his half siblings would be upset over their father’s banishment. In fact, he suspected they would show the same relief and approval as Patrick. “Aye. And ye will need my help, as well.”
Brandt eyed him, detecting an odd note in his voice. “Why is that?”
“My father sent an invitation to Malvern to fetch his bride two days ago.” Patrick’s face was grim. “He and his army will be here inside a week.”