Chapter Twenty-Four
He’d made a mistake in letting Rodric go.
Sparing his life had marked Brandt as a merciful laird, and after having lived under the rule of one as stringent and cruel as Rodric, the clansmen and women had seemed awestruck by such action. What Brandt didn’t yet know was whether or not they also thought him a fool for it.
Brandt had spent the last two days and nights with the writhing suspicion that the ousted laird would return one day, a force of warriors at his back, and attempt to reclaim his seat as laird and duke by laying waste to all and sundry who opposed him. Every time Brandt closed his eyes, he saw the tip of his sword at Rodric’s throat. One thrust and it would have extinguished his life, as well as any chance of an unwanted homecoming.
He took the well-worn path from the loch to the stables, the cool hand of evening pressing against the back of his neck. He’d taken a quick swim to wash off the grime and sweat from being in the fields all afternoon and was heading back to the keep to check on Ares. It had been another scorcher of a day, the sun in its cloudless blue sky unrelenting as the Montgomery men and women had trained. Their skills had improved, remarkably so, over the last few days, and Brandt had been relieved to see more clashing steel than swords being knocked out of hands, more arrows flying true than falling short or wide of the hay bales dressed as targets. While he’d been training with them from time to time, he knew he had little to do with their drastic advances. He’d been overseeing fortifications along the keep’s outer walls, preparing traps in the hills and woods surrounding the loch and keep, and organizing the different waves of defense the clansmen and women who could not hold a sword or bow or axe could take to avert the enemy. Things like tossing powder explosives, stones, and hot coals from the ramparts.
No, the Montgomerys’ improved swordsmanship and archery skills were due to Sorcha’s hand in the training. His wife had been tireless, dedicating all hours of every day to the task, barely stopping to eat or drink or sleep. Brandt had bid her to rest once or twice, but after a biting retort that she’d rest after they’d fended off Malvern’s attack and lived to tell about it, he’d left her alone. The weight of unbearable responsibility had been bright in her eyes. They were so transparent, those twin blue depths. He could practically see every thought, every emotion, in them, and he wondered if she could read him as well as he could her. He feared she could. Perhaps that was why she’d been quietly on edge.
Malvern would stop at nothing to see Brandt dead and to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his. It reeked of irony…hadn’t Brandt just fought Rodric for the same reason? For his rightful seat as laird? And he’d won. He’d taken back what was his, and Malvern likely had no doubt he could do the same.
As Brandt entered the stables, he felt a physical yearning for his wife, one that had only grown in intensity since he’d taken his place as laird. The need to be with her, touch her, make her his in every possible way. It was how they’d spent the last two nights. No words, just giving. Taking. Coming together and relishing in each other’s bodies. Simply being with her was enough. Or at least it had been.
Right then, as he reached Ares’s stall, he felt a pang of loneliness. He missed her voice. Her smile. He missed listening to her unleash her temper and her opinions. Sorcha had met him with matching ferocity in their bed the last two nights, but now Brandt suspected part of that had been only to ward off conversation. Something was on her mind, and he wanted to know what it was before Malvern showed his ugly face on Montgomery lands.
Ares came to the stall door and whickered hello. Brandt rubbed his hand up and down the stallion’s snout and scratched his chin. “Your leg’s finally healed, you old brute.”
Thanks to Sorcha. Even during the last busy days, he’d seen her darting off to the stables to check on Ares. It touched him that she cared enough to check on his horse’s wound, and it made him doubly awed to then see her pick up a sword and show grown Scotsmen how to properly wield it. She was such a contradiction, and yet so perfectly balanced. She would be an exceptional duchess. The people here already loved her.
Brandt ignored the stitch in his heart and took the carrot he’d been carrying in his trousers pocket. He held it up, and Ares’s lips closed around the top, gingerly accepting the offering. “Your manners have improved as well.”
It was entirely possible his wife was the reason for that, too.
“He’s magnificent.”
Brandt turned to see Callan exiting another stall. His half brother, he reminded himself. The fact that Callan had their mother’s coloring instead of Rodric’s made it easier to look him in the eyes without feeling the need to pick up something to defend himself with. Brandt still felt a bit tense around Patrick. Strange, he knew, considering even he looked like Rodric.
“I’ve never seen his equal,” Brandt admitted.
Callan approached the stall, his eyes hinged on the beast currently mashing the carrot to pulp. “He doesnae ken how big he is,” he said, a smile forming.
Brandt cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
Callan crossed his arms and leaned against the stall door, watching Ares still. “He’s a gentle giant. I suspect he still feels like a foal, despite his size.”
Brandt was quiet. He’d thought the same thing more than once. Other men looked upon Ares with trepidation, but Brandt knew the animal was more loyal and steadfast than he was truly intimidating.
“You have an affinity for horses,” he guessed.
Callan nodded, meeting Brandt’s stare. “Our mother does as well.”
That didn’t surprise him, though he hadn’t known. There had been little time to sit and get to know her. Like he and Sorcha and the rest of them, Catriona had been busying herself with tasks of preparation. He hoped for the opportunity to learn more about her, and his brothers and sister, when the threat of attack had passed. He still couldn’t quite believe that he had a family. Monty had been his only family for so long, and even though Brandt now knew the truth, it didn’t change how he felt for the old man. Monty had raised him, kept him safe, taught him everything he knew. Brandt admired him more than before, if possible.
“Is it odd,” Brandt asked, “knowing you have another brother?”
Callan laughed. “’Tisn’t odd. ’Tis a relief. Do ye ken how many times Patrick lorded it over me that he was eldest? Now he kens what it is to be a younger sibling.”
Brandt didn’t join in Callan’s amusement. “I can’t imagine he likes that very much.”
“Truthfully? I think he’s just as relieved as I am. As we all are.” Callan straightened up and turned serious. “I’m sure ye ken what it must’ve been like, living with a man such as my father. He left Aisla and me alone most of the time, but Patrick was never allowed an inch of space to breathe. The laird kept him close. Close enough to let him see how horribly he treated our mother, and all the while Patrick couldnae do a thing about it. It tore him apart. The evil things he did tore us all apart.”
Though Brandt had known of the abuse, powerless fury simmered in the pit of his stomach at the thought of his gentle mother at the mercy of his uncle’s brutality. “What kind of things?” he heard himself ask in the casual tone of a stranger.
Callan met his eyes, mirrored pain blooming in them. “No’ counting the use of his fists, he humiliated her at every turn, flaunted countless mistresses, and he burned her with a brand.”
“Burned?”
“With a hot iron. Marks for every time she spoke about yer father. Her backside’s covered with them, Aisla told us.”
Black dots swam in Brandt’s vision, and sweat peppered his forehead. He felt sick at the depth of his uncle’s cruel perversions. “Could you not get help?” he asked, his voice raw. “From a vicar, anyone?”
Callan shrugged and shook his head. “Who would go against such a ruthless laird? There was a time, once, when Patrick tried to defend her. He was about ten at the time, and he suffered for it.” Callan’s eyes darkened at the memory. “Rodric strung him up in the courtyard yew by his ankles and left him to weather the entirety of a lightning storm.”
“He could have been killed,” Brandt said, repulsed but also confused. Why had Rodric risked his heir’s life?
“Aye,” Callan said. “But he had a spare, ye ken? From that point on, Patrick knew he meant no’ a thing to our father. That he’d no’ hesitate to hurt him, or anyone else, should he defy him.”
He truly had been mad with power. Brandt wished, yet again, that he’d been able to see the challenge for lairdship through to the death, as he knew Rodric would have.
“Nae, ’tis better now ye’re here,” Callan went on. “And the timing was good fortune, too. Lately, Rodric had started to question whether or no’ Patrick would be best suited as heir.”
Ares nudged Brandt in the shoulder, seeking another carrot, but Brandt just scrubbed his chin. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
Callan checked around the stables, though they seemed to be the only ones present. The rest of the men and women would be gathering in the keep for sup soon.
“Patrick doesnae spend time with the lasses. He takes notice of them, aye, but he’s never taken to one in particular. I suspect ’tis only because he didnae wish to submit any lass to the same scrutiny and danger as our mother had been made to suffer.”
Brandt understood then. “And Rodric thought Patrick might prefer men to women.”
Callan murmured his agreement. “He may have the look of Rodric, but he’s no’ his man. Nae, he’s more like ye, Sassenach.” His brother grinned. “Or should I call ye, Yer Grace?”
“You should call me Brandt,” he replied, clapping his younger brother on the shoulder. “We should go up to the keep. I don’t think they’ll begin sup without me.”
“Yer their laird. ’Twould be disrespectful to eat before ye were seated.”
Brandt gave Ares a last pat on his neck. “It’ll take some time getting used to that.”
He was laird to an entire clan. The Duke of Glenross. Leader of hundreds of people. Keeper of hundreds of acres of Highland land. Wait until Archer hears the news, he thought with a creeping grin as he and Callan strode up to the great hall.
Sorcha was seated beside him, his mother to her left. Patrick kept his chair at Brandt’s right, though Aisla now sat beside Patrick, and Callan had taken the seat to their mother’s left. And instead of solemn silence in the great hall, there was a contented roar of many conversations, and even some bursts of laughter.
He and Sorcha said little to each other throughout sup; again, he felt her withholding something from him. Using her exhaustion as a shield. He let her be; nothing he wanted to say could be said in the presence of others. After a time and plenty of drink, a handful of older men began to stand and recount past battles. Fights they had won and at what cost. The younger men listened with rapt attention, and Brandt could tell the stories were mostly for them. To fill them with pride and hope that when it came their time to battle, they would live to tell the tales as well.
When Catriona, Aisla, and Sorcha stood to leave the great hall, and leave the men to their tales, Brandt itched to stand and follow his wife. But it would have been in bad form, and it would not have gone unnoticed. So he stayed seated, listening to the banter and joining in the cheers at every retold victory. It had been a long time, though, since Montgomery had waged battle. Their reclusive state over the past quarter century had turned those past warriors into old men. By the time the men had settled down and Brandt stood to withdraw, he felt even more uneasy. The physical yearning for his wife had returned, and he was sorely tempted to enter their shared bedchamber—still the guest room, as the thought of sleeping in Rodric’s bed in the laird’s chamber made Brandt ill—and lose himself in her once again.
Someone cleared his throat, and Brandt realized that Patrick had asked him a question. Callan snorted with a knowing smile, following his stare to where Sorcha had climbed the stairs not a half an hour before, his memory still hinged on his wife’s tempting derriere. “What is it?”
Surprisingly, amusement also glinted in Patrick’s eyes, which was unusual for him. “I asked whether ye were satisfied with the preparations on the loch side. I’m no’ too worried about an army breaching the north shore. ’Tis much too difficult to pass through the quarry, and we need the men on the front side.”
“Agree,” Brandt said. “But we cannot leave it unguarded, either.”
“I’ve ordered a dozen men along the battlements.” He nodded to Feagan, who sat at the next table and was listening intently. “Feagan says Seamus will cover that end.”
Brandt gestured to the seats his mother, his wife, and sister had vacated, and waved Feagan and his men forward. He pushed some of the trenchers to the middle and lined up a few of the empty dishes. “If this is the keep, and here’s the loch, what of this area leading into the pass? And this open area here at the foothills?”
The men all followed his finger on the table, nodding in unison.
Feagan answered. “We have men on either side of it as well as in the hills. Some of our best archers will be here.” He jabbed a hand toward each of the front sides of Brandt’s makeshift outline. “Our best offense will be for it to seem that most of our men are on the plains here in front of the villages.”
“Good,” Brandt said. “I think you should set extra men here and here.” He pointed to where the hills on either side of the loch would be.
Patrick frowned. “Ye suspect an attack from there?”
“I’ve heard of Malvern on the battlefield, and he is clever. It wouldn’t surprise me if he sent Coxley to approach from the rear.”
If Coxley was still alive. Brandt hoped to God he wasn’t.
“The quarry around the loch is impassable this time of year,” Seamus piped up.
“Let’s not leave it to chance.” Brandt stood and surveyed his brothers and his clansmen. “Get some sleep. If luck favors us, we will have one more day to prepare, but if she doesn’t, we will need to be battle ready.”
“Yes, Yer Grace.”
After the men left the dais and departed the hall, Brandt turned to leave, but a hand at his shoulder halted his departure. “A word,” Patrick asked quietly.
“Of course.”
Patrick looked uncomfortable. “I wanted to thank ye for what ye did for my mother—our mother—and our sister.” His voice lowered and shook. In fact, his entire body shook with the force of his choked emotion. “Ye have my sword and my fealty, Laird.”
Brandt did not hesitate; he pulled his brother into his arms. He met Callan’s anguished gaze over Patrick’s shoulder and felt his own eyes mist at what the admission must have cost his brother, who had been severely castigated for any sign of weakness, any show of emotion.
“He’ll never hurt any of you again,” Brandt said fervently, looking into his brother’s pale blue eyes. Oddly, the color did not make him think of Rodric. Perhaps because they weren’t inhumanly glacial. No, Patrick’s eyes were all too human and all too vulnerable. “I swear it.”
“Are ye no’ afraid that he’ll return?” Callan asked.
Brandt lifted cold, determined eyes to his youngest brother and reached out to clasp his arm as well. “Afraid? No. Hopeful, yes. I want him to return, so one of us can kill him.” Brandt grinned. “Though, if he does, I wager it will be young Aisla who will put an arrow through him. She’s gifted with the bow.”
Patrick nodded. “Yer wife has been a good influence on her.”
“They’ve been good for each other.”
That reminded Brandt of Sorcha and his earlier inclinations. Callan burst into laughter at the besotted look on his face, but Brandt did not have the grace or will to look ashamed. He would not be faulted for desiring—or loving—his wife.
“I don’t blame ye,” Callan chortled. “Yer duchess is quite a lass.”
With a grin, Brandt chucked his brother in the shoulder. “Go find your own.”
He took the stairs two at a time, stopping to catch his breath at the door to his bedchamber before opening it. He was glad that he had, because the sight that greeted him snatched the air from his lungs. Sorcha had just finished her bath and was rising from the water like a river nymph, her skin rosy and glistening. His greedy eyes followed the droplets sluicing from her breasts to her stomach to the sable triangle between her legs. Brandt felt his mouth go dry with a sudden desperate thirst, one he could slake only with her inimitable body.
Even with fresh bruises from training discoloring her limbs and hips in darkened swatches, she was stunning. A warrior goddess in the flesh. And she belonged to him. He watched the play of muscles on her strong, lean thighs as she stepped out of the wooden tub onto the length of toweling that Morag must have placed there. Brandt could hear the maid moving behind the privacy screen, but he was too busy ogling as Sorcha dried herself, her fingers drifting over her breasts and her thighs. Morag’s presence was the only thing keeping him from crossing the room, picking up his wife, and tossing her onto the bed.
Sorcha’s eyes met his and held them as Brandt looked his fill in silence. A visceral current shot between them, hot and bright. Carnal lust shone boldly in those luminous blue eyes and struck him straight in the groin. He could never get enough of how sensuous his wife was—with those limber legs, mouth-watering curves, and exceedingly passionate nature, she was a hedonist’s dream. He was already painfully erect. When she lifted a slender leg to the edge of the tub to chase the droplets with the toweling, he couldn’t help the growl that broke from his throat.
With a squawk, Morag hurried from the room. His beautiful wife stepped toward him, but before the door closed, Brandt already had her in his arms, with his mouth on hers. He groaned at her taste. She was sweetness and honey, light and laughter. She was water to his thirst. And he wanted it all…every drop of it. When he finally lifted his head, Sorcha’s lips glistened, and her eyes had darkened. The secrets she harbored were still there, but for the moment, they’d been eclipsed by the desire sweeping through her.
“Husband,” she said. His minx of a wife smiled at him and dropped the toweling to the floor. Lust poured through him. She reached for the hem of his kilt and shot him a naughty grin. “My favorite part about kilts is the easy access.”
When she grabbed gentle hold of his erection through his smallclothes, Brandt almost spent himself then and there. He wanted her with a longing that made his brain shrink to the size of a pea, while other parts of him grew larger still. His wife’s fingers left him to undo the ties of his smalls. She made quick work of his shirt, and a few galloping heartbeats later, he wore only his kilt. He arched an eyebrow at the fact that he was still partially clothed, but she only smiled.
Brandt gathered her warm, naked body in his arms, holding her to him. The yielding softness of her breasts pillowed into the hardness of his chest. His thick arousal pressed up through the folds of his plaid into the firm planes of her stomach. She was muscled, too, his Sorcha, though everything about her was all woman—the beautiful peaks of her satiny nipples, her slim waist, her firm, rounded arse. Groaning softly, he took her mouth in another kiss, though this was different from the first. There was nothing gentle in this kiss. It plundered. It ravaged. It took.
Sorcha dug her nails into his shoulders and dragged her lips from his. “Take me here, now, where we stand,” she said, her breathing clipped as she bit her bottom lip. “I couldn’t stop staring at you in the fields today and imagining you…with me.”
“How did it make you feel?”
“Wet.”
Brandt didn’t need to hear any more. If he didn’t bury himself into her, he was going to burst. Reaching down to grasp her buttocks, he hefted her upward and shoved his plaid to the side. Without being prompted, Sorcha hooked her legs around his hips and sank her body onto his shaft. She was, indeed, quite damp. Soft and wet and slick. Their movements were limited, their muscles working frantically as she ground herself down into him using her thighs while he guided her with his hands. It was a ragged, desperate coupling, one with its culmination looming hot and fast.
“Sorcha—”
Brandt wanted her to find her pleasure first, but he’d lost all control. So had she. There was nothing but lust and feeling and carnal heat bursting between them. Her eyes were closed, her mouth parted in cresting bliss as her hips slammed into his. And then her body was rippling around his in molten undulations, coaxing forth his own furious release. He swallowed the sounds of her passion with his mouth as he spilled his seed into her and tumbled backward to the bed, whereupon he collapsed.
Sorcha sprawled on top of him and gave him a satisfied grin. “Well, that was different.”
For the second time since he entered the chamber, he caught his breath. “To say the least. I should wear a kilt more often.”
Sorcha rolled off him to the side and trailed a hand down his coarsely furred thigh. “That you should, my laird. I like the look of your knees.”
“Only my knees?” he teased.
“And other things.”
Brandt laughed and tucked her into his side, drawing the blankets over their legs. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, but he knew that they were both only stalling. He’d wanted to make love to her, but he also wanted to know what was in her head. He grazed one of the fresh bruises on her ribs with the backs of his knuckles.
“Why are you pushing yourself so hard?” he asked.
For a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to answer him, that she was going to shove her feelings down to where she didn’t have to deal with them. But then her head tipped up, her eyes shadowed. “I owe it to them,” she whispered. “To you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Pain flicked over her face. “I do. I’ve brought this on everyone. My family, your family.” She broke off with a pained gasp, her eyes falling away. “Watching all those children learning to fight today gutted me. They shouldn’t have to defend their lives because of what I’ve brought upon them.” A sob shook her frame. “They don’t even know the truth—that the Maclarens forced you into marriage.”
“Actually, I did it for a horse.” He tapped her hip. “A very valuable horse. Which I still have to collect, by the way. Not that I’m complaining about the other very pleasurable benefits to marriage thus far.”
She scowled up at him. “Brandt, they’re fighting for a lie.”
“Sorcha,” he said gently, grasping her chin. “Look at me.” Damp, agonized eyes met his, and Brandt drew his thumb across one tear-tracked cheek. “I love you.”
Her pupils sharpened, her lips parting on a silent gasp. “You love me?”
“More than life. Regardless of where we started, we are here together. I’m here because I want to be. With you. I’ve found my family because of you. I was able to save my mother, my brothers, and my sister from a tyrant because of you.” He kissed her softly. “If you won’t hear me in English, I’ll say it in Gaelic until I’m blue in the face.”
A watery smile tugged at her lips. “All that?”
“Well, maybe not all,” he said, gathering the love of his life close. “Maybe just I love you, then—tha gaol agam ort.”
Sorcha’s eyes pooled with tears again, but her grin was luminous. “Well done, though your pronunciation needs some work. Your tongue needs to roll the vowels.” She reached up to cup his jaw, her tongue darting wickedly into his mouth. “Like so.”
Brandt pursed his lips, thoughtfully. “I may be in need of more lessons.”
“Happy to oblige,” his wife replied saucily. And as he scooped her into his arms, the last thing Brandt was thinking about when her sweet tongue took his to task was Gaelic.