Chapter Six
It had been a long while since Sorcha had thought about all the trouble Finlay and Evan had wreaked upon Maclaren lands when they’d been younger, but over the next few hours, she recounted a number of stories to Brandt.
Like the time they had set all the horses loose and a few of their father’s valuable foals had gone missing for days, or the time they had dared her to climb the tallest tree in the glen and then left her up there until the duke found her hours later, nearly frozen from cold. They were barely a year apart and egged each other on abominably. When Sorcha was old enough to want to prove herself as capable as they were, they became the bane of her existence…and the source of most of her near-death scrapes.
Her sisters, Makenna and Annis, had been older by five and seven years, and they’d never so much as gone against the grain, so her stories revolved mostly around Finlay and Evan, and their father’s meager attempts to take them in hand. Ronan and Niall were the end caps of her siblings. Ronan had always been serious, the weight of being laird one day resting on his shoulders from the time he drew his first breath. And Niall was the baby, though he was by no means spoiled or coddled.
Sorcha had a sneaking suspicion Brandt was trying to distract her, but she was grateful for the attempt. “Niall turned fifteen last winter,” she said. “Of all my siblings, he and I are the closest. He likes to play tricks, especially on Evan and Finlay. He sewed all the cuffs of their shirts closed once.”
“With one hand?”
“You’d be amazed at the things that boy can do.” Sorcha smiled softly. “He never ceases to amaze me.”
Brandt stoked the fire, listening as she spoke, his eyes tracking the play of the flames in the hearth. He smiled and shook his head at all the right moments, and every now and again, glanced her way to see if she’d stopped shivering. She could see the concern in his eyes before averting his gaze again. It was because of how she was dressed, she knew. Or rather, her lack of dress.
Sorcha had seen the brief, but definite, burn of arousal in his eyes when she’d been standing before him in nothing but her shift. His lips had gone soft with surprise in the moments before he’d stalked out of the decaying cottage, gotten his cloak, and covered her with it. Now every time he looked to see if she was still cold, a shot of heat lit through her. He’d distracted her from their situation, not only by asking her to tell him stories about her home and family, but simply by being there, seated on the worn floor, across from her.
Though being this close to him—to any man—was foolish.
Even if he was her husband.
Sorcha sighed. Once they parted ways, it was unlikely she would ever marry again, even if her maidenhead remained intact. Too many men feared the look of her or feared her father and brothers. The arrangement with Malvern had been a matter of duty, until she’d seen the disgust in his eyes when he’d come face-to-face with her years ago. A maimed harlot was his latest insult, but she’d heard them all. She was unfit to be anyone’s wife. Simply looking in a mirror while unclothed told her that. Aric had had the right of it. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, his voice invading her mind. I’ll no’ look at such a beast again.
The rain had tapered, though the leaky roof still dripped in multiple spots around the one-room cottage. Dusk had settled over the valley, and as Sorcha finished with another tale, this one about Evan wrapping their cousin Gavin in bedsheets and hanging him out one of the castle windows until Gavin apologized for calling him a hell-bound heathen, she fell quiet.
Brandt held his hands to the flames, which he’d built time and again with more wood scavenged from around the property. She’d dried out and warmed up long before, and now her limbs had that satiated, loose feeling that reminded her of lazy summer afternoons in the fields near home. Or after hours of rugged training with her sword and bow and arrow. She drew his cloak closer around her and inhaled, yet again, the oddly comforting combination of soap, leather, and horses.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Brandt allowed his eyes to meet hers. “What for?”
“For calming me,” she answered. “My brothers infuriate me to no end, but they also remind me of home.”
It was a place where she knew she would not be able to return anytime soon, and it saddened her. She prayed if she stayed away, it would also keep Malvern away. It was a foolish hope, though, and she knew it.
“What if he goes to Maclaren?” she asked.
Brandt didn’t need to ask to whom she referred.
“He won’t kill Niall,” he said. “Your father, your brothers and people…they won’t stand for it.”
Sorcha didn’t believe they would, either, but she’d seen how intimidated they were by Malvern. People called her the Beast of Maclaren, and she had spent years honing her skill with a sword and bow, determined to live up to the name in a way no one had ever intended. But how could she have possibly found anything but pain and degradation as Malvern’s wife? He loathed her, saw her as little more than an animal. The wolf had stolen more than her flesh; it had stolen her dignity.
“We could go there,” Sorcha heard herself saying, her stomach tight with the same burden of ugly shame she’d borne for much of her life. “To Maclaren. We could warn them that Malvern has been wronged—”
“No. It’s too much of a risk.”
“But I can’t leave them to—”
“Your presence won’t save anyone. They can fend for themselves, Sorcha. Your father is a chieftain and your brothers are trained Highland warriors. They’ll protect their own. You’re my responsibility now, and I’m bringing you north to your sister.” Brandt stood and dusted off the seat of his trousers. “I’m going to take Ares and retrace our last few miles, make sure no one has discovered our tracks.”
But just as he rose, the sound of hoofbeats—a small army of them—rent through the air. Sorcha jumped to her feet, her heart hammering as she tugged her dry dress over her head. Without Brandt’s help to redo the fastenings, she looped his cloak around her shoulders, and hurried to where he stood peering out through the dirty window into the darkness.
“Who is it?” she asked. “Can you see?”
“They haven’t yet come over the rise, but it will prove difficult to see anything without moonlight. The clouds are still thick.”
Sorcha tried to push past him to get a clearer look, but he restrained her with a rigid, powerful arm. She’d forgotten how deceptively lean he was. The man was as strong as an ox.
“Stay put,” he told her, crouching to douse the flames with ash. “And stay out of sight. Whoever it is may ride straight past.”
Or come banging on the door.
Anyone heading out this way to an old goat herder’s hut wasn’t going to be riding past, especially when they scented woodsmoke on the air. And if it was Malvern’s men, she wanted to be prepared, not cowering without a weapon in hand. She ducked out of his reach and grabbed hold of one of his pistols that he’d brought in from his saddlebag. There was no way she was going down without a hell of a fight.
Pressing a finger to his lips, Brandt met her eyes and nodded. She’d expected him to demand the weapon back and tell her to go hide in a corner, but he only palmed the second pistol and gripped his sword hilt in its scabbard. Sorcha wished she had her own sword, but she had left it behind in the wagon in Selkirk. She hefted the gun.
“Do you know how to use that?” Brandt asked in a low voice.
Sorcha set her jaw grimly. “Yes.”
She was an excellent shot. Ever since she’d been betrothed to the man who had cruelly maimed her brother, she’d practiced with single-minded purpose. For so many years, she’d bided her time, training herself. If the chance arose to kill Malvern in a way that would not implicate the Maclarens, she would take it without hesitation.
“I always hoped one day Malvern would be vulnerable, and I planned to be there with a weapon in hand.”
“You’re a bloodthirsty lass.”
She grinned, pleased at the compliment.
The pounding of the hooves drew closer. The noise was thunderous, and Sorcha’s heart banged in time with the rhythmic sounds as she and Brandt took up places behind a large overturned barrel. His face was calm, but his body seemed bunched and ready. It struck her again that her taciturn husband was far more than he seemed. The look on his face was one that she had seen many a time on the faces of Maclaren soldiers—the look of a man not afraid of death.
“How good of a shot are you?” she whispered.
“Decent.”
“Then if it’s Malvern, let me take it,” she said. “I’m better than decent.”
His sudden smile was unexpected. Breathtaking. It made his hazel eyes gleam and a shallow dimple appear in his left cheek. He looked almost boyishly handsome. Pinpricks of awareness flickered all over her skin, and the rest of her words seized on her tongue.
“Humble, aren’t we?”
Sorcha colored. “I know my skill.”
“I don’t doubt your skill in the least,” he said. “But the minute you fire, you will be a target for his men, and I’ve made you a promise to see you to safety. I’ll deal with Malvern.”
“How? You’re going to talk him to death? He won’t listen.”
“Trust in me, Sorcha. I’m not a complete imbecile.”
“I didn’t—”
But the rest of her words were snatched from her lips as the door slammed open. The breath left her lungs with a terrified exhale as a massive hulking form filled the doorway. And as recognition set in, a different kind of dread took hold of her body.
Not him.
Her heart sank. She was relieved it wasn’t Malvern, but she would have preferred nearly anyone else to the man who stood before them: her eldest brother, Ronan. Nearly ten years her senior, she’d always viewed her unsmiling giant of a brother as an extension of their father, and he was. He was relentless and commanding and everything a great Scottish laird would have to be.
Sorcha had always been a little in awe of her oldest brother, though he had only ever been gentle with her on the occasions that their paths did intersect. Now his lips were a hard, flat line, and every muscle in his body was braced for a fight. With a quelling glance to the silent man at her side, she rose.
“Ronan,” she began as his glacial blue gaze swept the darkened room. Sorcha felt it flick over her and then rest for a hard moment on Brandt. A torch was brought into the room by one of his men, and the small dusty space was instantly illuminated.
“What have ye done?” her brother bellowed. “Ye were spoken for, Sorcha. Ye’ve broken the terms of the alliance and insulted the marquess.”
She felt Brandt stiffen at her side at Ronan’s gruff tone, and she hastened forward, despite her quailing heart. Ronan would never hurt her, but she’d seen grown men piss their pants in the face of his anger. “I know how it looks, but I can explain. He, I—”
How could she explain that she’d seduced a stranger in an attempt to save her own skin? That she’d run from her duty to marry Malvern like a frightened hare? That she’d betrayed Maclaren for the sum of a horse? She swallowed hard.
But before she could speak, her husband was moving to her side. Her brother’s eyes narrowed at his advance. Though Brandt was of a height, Ronan was twice as wide and twice as fierce.
She put out a hand to stop Brandt’s approach, but he clasped her numb fingers within his and laced them together. A show of solidarity, she assumed with a jolt of surprise. His skin was warm, engulfing her cold fingers with heat and strength. Ronan’s gaze dipped to their joined hands, and his hard lips flattened.
“Don’t speak to her like that,” Brandt said. “Insult me if you must.”
Ronan folded his massive arms across his chest. “She’s promised to another.”
Brandt stepped forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “That’s too damned bad. She belongs to me now.”
Though Sorcha knew his possessive words were an act—he was more likely thinking of the horse that had been promised to him—she still felt something small and delicate unfold in the pit of her stomach.
But then, her eyes flicked to the shadowed yard beyond his wide shoulders, and she swallowed a nervous gasp. A dozen of his best Maclaren men were armed and grim-faced. They stood silent, deadly and dangerous, waiting for their leader’s command. She felt the blood drain from her face.
Did they mean to drag her back to Maclaren? To Malvern? Make her a widow? Could Ronan be that cruel? Her brother was not prone to displays of emotion. He’d been there in the courtyard when Niall’s hand had been severed, but he had not reacted as violently as his siblings. His face had been devoid of anything, his eyes dead and cold. Much like they were now.
“Are ye prepared to die, Sassenach?”
Sorcha gasped. “Ronan!”
“Stay out of it.” The ominous rasp of steel against leather broke the silence. “Are ye prepared to pay the price for defiling my sister? For scorning an agreement signed in blood?”
Brandt smiled, though it was not like the one earlier. This one was no more than a stretching of lips over his teeth. “If you truly cared about your sister, you would want for her happiness. And safety. What the hell do you think Malvern will do to her now, if you do manage to hand her over? Which you won’t.”
Ronan’s face hardened, something glinting precariously in his eye. A muscle flexed in his cheek. When he spoke, her brother’s voice was little more than a snarl. “And ye think ye can provide safety for her, Sassenach?”
Brandt did not react to the underlying threat. “A damn sight better than you can. And the name is Pierce. It would serve you well to remember it.”
The growl came from deep within her brother’s chest, and from the corner of her eye, she saw his gathered men draw closer. Sorcha moved to throw herself between the two of them, but quickly found herself restrained by Duncan, Ronan’s first man, who had been standing beside Ronan. He was two heads shorter than her brother, but no less lethal. Brandt dropped a murderous look to Duncan’s hands on her arm and clenched his jaw.
“Cat got yer tongue, Sassenach?” Duncan laughed.
Sorcha could have sworn she didn’t see Brandt move, but suddenly she was in his arms, and his pistol was pointed at Duncan’s temple. Shouts filled the room as every man outside rushed the doorway, and only Ronan’s raised fist stopped the ensuing melee.
“The fact that you’re still alive is your warning, Scot,” Brandt hissed to Duncan. “Put your hands on her again, and she will be the last thing you ever touch.”
“Stand back,” Ronan said to his men, keeping an alert gaze on Brandt.
The man had surprised her brother, which was nearly impossible to do. Hell, Brandt had surprised her. She didn’t know anyone could move so quickly. Clearly, neither Ronan nor Duncan had expected it either. They both studied him with a measure of grudging respect. Duncan seemed undaunted by a muzzle in his face, but then again, he’d faced death and won more times than he could count.
Brandt moved her gently but firmly behind him, keeping the pistol cocked and ready. Did he mean to protect her from her own brother? From Duncan? She’d known the man since she was in swaddling; he would never lay a finger on her without say-so from Ronan. But Brandt didn’t know that. Her heart felt encased in butterflies’ wings, and her chest suddenly shrunk two sizes.
Good God, you ninny, get ahold of your wits, she told herself sternly. All this is for the blasted horse, not you.
She knew it was all a bloody act for her brother’s sake… Brandt was protecting his investment, as he’d said. But for the space of an indulgent breath, she let herself wonder what it would be like to be cared for by a man such as Brandt. One would never have to fear for anything.
A wretched tremor shook her. If she were fit, perhaps such a dream could be possible. But men like him deserved women who were sound in body. And she was not.
Furious with her stupidity, she shoved past Brandt and glared viciously at Duncan. “Get out.”
He obeyed after a look from his commander.
“Enough, Ronan,” she said through her teeth. “I was the one to marry Mr. Pierce at Finlay’s and Gavin’s insistence. What’s done is done, and either ye deal with that or ye take yer men and trot back to Maclaren. Blustering yer weight about is no’ going to help anyone.” Her voice broke, her tongue shortening vowels and falling back to her brogue. “I didnae want to marry Malvern, and Mr. Pierce agreed to help me.”
To her everlasting surprise, Ronan’s scowl relaxed slightly. His stare panned to Brandt. “Why are ye doing this? Ye don’t owe her anything. Ye don’t even ken anything about her.”
Sorcha’s gaze shot to Brandt as well. Would he expose what was truly motivating him? That he was doing all this for Lockie?
“Because she sought my help.”
“And ye give it, just like that, even if yer own neck is on the end of the rope?”
Brandt nodded. “It was the way I was raised.”
Sorcha stifled a snort. The way he was raised, her arse. He was an enterprising horse breeder who had taken advantage of a windfall. Now that Ronan was here, Brandt could take Lockie and go without a backward glance. Technically, she was safe. And safely married. An annulment could come later. The tug of disappointment took her by surprise.
“Strange ways for the English.” Ronan’s tone was disparaging. “They care naught for anyone. No’ even their own.”
“I’m not English.”
Ronan grinned and cuffed him on the shoulder. “Ye sound like one.”
Sorcha could feel Brandt relax at her side and knew the worst had passed. Something had changed between the two men—an acceptance, an understanding, perhaps. The tension disappeared like a receding wave. Ronan hadn’t given any signal, but suddenly the men in the yard were unpacking and preparing to settle down for the night, without any bloodshed.
“Who’s yer clan, then?” Ronan asked.
A muscle rippled along his jaw. “My Scottish mother abandoned me at birth, so your guess is as good as mine.”
Sorcha flinched at the stony, sharp-edged coldness of the words. It was clear he held his mother in little esteem, and rightly so. Any woman who would abandon her own baby suffered from a complete lack of moral decency.
“I’m sorry.”
His gaze pivoted to her. “You needn’t be. She means nothing to me.”
Though he sounded indifferent, Sorcha saw a spark of anger in his eyes before he turned away. Or was it pain?
It doesn’t matter anyhow, she reminded herself and was relieved when her brother signaled to one of the men who then brought in a sack containing bread, cheese, and a whole roasted chicken. Sorcha’s stomach rumbled. The last time she’d eaten a full meal had been supper the night before, and only an apple earlier that morning. They used a standing barrel in one corner and divided the food between them.
“The marquess will no’ be far behind,” Ronan said, after chewing and taking a long draught from a flask. He offered it to Brandt who took a deep swallow. “We were riding to meet Finlay and Evan on their way back to Maclaren when we intercepted one of their men, traveling fast with a message for Dunrannoch. We shifted direction to find ye. Malvern is rabid with bloodlust, Pierce. He willnae stop until ye’re dead and he’s taken the lass to wife.”
Brandt handed the flask to Sorcha next, and she felt a hollow thrill at the fact that her lips had touched the exact spot his had. Brandt’s eyes met hers as if he could see right through her, and Sorcha choked on the mouthful of wine. She gulped, coughing until her eyes burned, as Ronan pounded her helpfully on the back. She didn’t know which was worse—expiring of mortification by a lungful of wine or the pressure of her brother’s fist.
“Why are ye heading up this way?” Ronan asked. “Ye should go back to England.”
“We are going north to the Brodie,” Sorcha said. “The keep is deep in the mountains. Malvern wouldn’t dare attack there.”
“’Tis a smart plan,” Ronan said. “I will hold him off for as long as I can to buy ye enough time. Makenna and the Brodie will protect the both of ye.”
Sorcha didn’t see the need to add that Brandt’s plan had been to leave her there all along. Whether he left now or later made little difference. They were clearly unsuited. He belonged in England. She belonged in Scotland. He would never survive in the Highlands. She could never survive out of it. He wanted a quiet life with his horses. She had never been a quiet lass in her life. He did not want a wife. She did not want a husband.
Liar, a voice said.
She shook her head. Brandt had never been hers to begin with. Yes, he was clever and capable, he’d stood up to Malvern and Ronan, and his kisses were, in a word, sublime. But what she wanted and what she was able to offer in return were two different things.
Brandt’s next question made her forget all about her inner debate. “Would you have let her marry Malvern?”
To her shock, Ronan shook his head. “Nae. I would have found a way.” He smiled wryly. “’Tis truth I’d planned to fake her death and send her off to the Brodie in secret. It was near arranged already, but Malvern’s arrival in Selkirk took me by surprise. Though it seems my brothers stumbled upon a solution of their own—with yer help, of course.”
“What?” Sorcha fairly screeched as blood rushed to her ears. “Ye let me ken all this time that I would go to that slithering bastard?”
Ronan’s voice was gentler than she’d ever heard it. “I would no’ have let anyone hurt ye. Finlay or Evan wouldnae either. But I didnae want to give ye false hope until ’twas sorted.”
Sorcha threw herself into her brother’s arms, feeling them wrap around her to hold her close. She was not a crier, but several fat tears rolled down her cheek.
“’Twill be best if ye left at dawn,” Ronan said gruffly when she managed to compose herself. “The rain washed away most of yer tracks, but that doesnae mean Malvern’s men won’t be able to track ye.” He stood and patted her head, his large frame dominating the small room. His blue eyes swept from her to Brandt. “If any harm comes to her, I’ll no’ hesitate to tear ye limb from limb.”
“You won’t have to,” Brandt said. “I won’t be going north. She’ll be safer with you.”
Sorcha froze, her lungs tightening painfully. Here it was…the moment he would take his leave. A frown drew Ronan’s brows together. “With me?”
“You have warriors aplenty to get her north to your sister.”
“And where will ye go, Sassenach?” Ronan’s tone had cooled.
“Back to England.”
“But ye married her.”
Brandt tented a slow eyebrow. “I offered her the use of my name to avoid marriage to Malvern, nothing more. She’s welcome to it for as long as she needs, as I do not intend to marry again.”
Gulping a breath, Sorcha met her brother’s questing gaze. “’Tis all right, Ronan,” she said. “What he says is true. The marriage was an agreement to protect me from Malvern.” She hesitated to reveal all but did so anyway. “He wanted Lockie in exchange.”
“Lockie?” Ronan asked incredulously, his face darkening as he glowered at the man he’d just broken bread with. “Ye took my sister’s virtue for a damned horse?”
Disaster was about to strike if she didn’t do something. “Ronan, please understand. I kissed him in the square. I was the one who dragged him into this. If someone should be blamed, ’tis me. He gave me his name, and the marriage had to be incontestable.” She placed her hand placatingly on his arm. Ronan’s eyes were still spitting fury and brimstone, but he was listening. “You said yourself you wanted a way out for me. Brandt—Mr. Pierce—offered it. Lockie is a small price to pay for my freedom. It was my choice, Ronan. Mine.”
Ronan exhaled without looking at Brandt, who also stood rigid a foot away. He looked like he wanted to smash something with his big hands. Probably Brandt. Though she’d seen him fight, too, and he wasn’t exactly a milksop. Sorcha held her breath, waiting.
“Fine. We leave at dawn for Brodie.” Ronan stood and left the hut without another word.
She didn’t dare look up at Brandt, though she felt the weight of his gaze. “I need some air,” she said after a few scattered heartbeats and rushed from the shack.
Once she was alone and past her brother’s soldiers, Sorcha slumped against a tree in a small clearing. She wasn’t surprised that it had come to this. Brandt had been a means to an end, and now that Ronan was here, Brandt’s part was over. He would leave for good. Glancing down, she twisted off the ring on her finger with its faded crest. She wanted to hurl it away, but instead she clutched it to her chest, cursing fate and the future she could never have.