Chapter Ten
Brandt scanned the surroundings as their horses carefully picked their way along the rough gravel path of the mountain pass. They had ridden through the night, stopping to sleep for a scant hour before heading deeper into the hills once dawn crested. The pass was far too dangerous to ride by night, and a challenge even during daylight.
Sorcha rode ahead of him, and he could see her also alertly looking around, every so often throwing a glance over her shoulder to him. He liked their unspoken communication—a nod here and there to make sure each of them was faring well as they covered more and more ground. Sorcha was leading the way given her familiarity with the terrain, although the gentleman in him did not like the idea of her being so open to any oncoming attacks.
She had scoffed, of course, at his concern. Brandt smiled at the memory of her indignant expression, as if he had called her very honor into question by suggesting she ride behind him.
“I’m a Highlander,” she’d said, affronted. “How do you think ’twould appear if anyone were to see me riding behind a Sassenach? I’d never hear the end of it.”
Brandt had resorted to logic. “How would anyone know who you are?”
She jabbed at her face with a finger. “Don’t forget, everyone knows of the Beast of Maclaren, even old Coxley back there.”
“I don’t like that name.”
Sorcha had stared at him then. “Why?”
“It’s cruel, it’s untrue, and it’s no name for someone like you.”
Her eyes had sparked with affront. “Someone like me?”
“A lady.”
She had clamped her lips together as if to stop herself from saying something she would regret before turning her back and galloping off. It was true. She was the furthest thing from a beast, and Brandt disliked the cruel moniker. He couldn’t imagine her without her scars…her beauty and strength were interwoven with them. But even so, she was still the daughter of a duke, and a highborn lady.
In London, he’d encountered his share of well-bred English society ladies. A vision of Sorcha’s savage expression as she stood like an avenging warrior goddess upon her horse in that thicket came to him. She was so much more viscerally appealing than any of those women. Now, Brandt could see why none of them had ever caught his fancy. It was like comparing a gentle sun-shower to a lightning storm.
“We’ll stop soon,” she called over her shoulder. “There’s a valley around this bend where we might find water and a cool place to rest. From what I recall, it’s below this rise, and there’s a village nearby.” She squinted. “We should be entering Dunwoody lands. We’re not feuding with them.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Ares is tiring.”
The horse wasn’t really tired. He was bred of sturdy Arabian stock and could go on for miles, but every so often, Brandt noticed the drooping slope of Sorcha’s shoulders and the rigid tension in her left side. Her wound had to be paining her, and yet she soldiered on. The rocky ground did not make it easier, and even with his full physical strength, Brandt found it difficult to keep his balance at the brutal pace they were maintaining.
The vegetation—and cover—was sparse, unlike the rest of the Highlands they’d traveled through with Ronan. At the thought of the Maclaren heir, he sobered. He’d said what he had to in order to convince Sorcha to stay the path and not go back. Though he had seen and heard enough of Ronan’s skill to know that he was more than capable in a fight, in a one-on-one match against Coxley, it would likely take a miracle to bring him down.
Brandt shook his head furiously. Malvern was bad enough, but thinking of Sorcha anywhere in the same space with someone like Coxley made his stomach sour. If the man ever got his hands on her, she would not make it back to Maclaren unviolated. His tone when he’d called her the Beast suggested his intentions as such. No, no one, especially not Coxley, would put their filthy hands on her. Not while Brandt drew an ounce of breath.
His anger returning in smoldering force, Brandt gritted his teeth as he followed Sorcha down the hill. Ares whinnied, as if sensing his master’s ire, and Brandt gave his mount’s sweaty flank a reassuring pat, forcing himself to calm. Ares had always been aware of his moods.
There was a reason he didn’t want anyone to touch Sorcha. Envy, he was beginning to realize, was a terrible companion. He was even envious of Lockie, and how Sorcha’s slender thighs were wrapped so lovingly around the horse’s sides. Her body rocked rhythmically in the saddle, the provocative flare of her hips the precursor to a punishing erection on his part. It couldn’t possibly be healthy to remain in such an engorged state for hours on end.
Jesus.
Brandt swore under his breath. Fury and fear, tangled with unrelieved sexual frustration, tended to make a man slightly insane. He wanted her with a desire that made him breathless. She wanted him, too. He remembered her excited breaths as he’d soothed her wound in the cave.
It had taken all of his control to not press his lips to her dewy skin, to push those trousers down and seek out the delectable heaven he knew the taste of her would be. He’d been hard as Scottish steel the entire time. Brandt had felt her thighs quiver, seen the seam of her legs press together, and only the sobering sight of her torn flesh had saved him from tearing her clothes off and thrusting into her.
Brandt expelled a sigh. This journey would be the sodding death of him.
He dragged his eyes away from Sorcha’s delicious rump and focused on the sheep dotting the rolling hills in the distance. In his childhood, he used to count them to put himself to sleep. Perhaps now he could count them to deflate the brute in his pants.
Some two hundred sheep later, the gravel turned to grass beneath Ares’s hooves as they left the path, and sprigs of purple heather brightened the landscape. They rode past more sheep grazing in the lush meadows, but Brandt had no more need of them, at least for the moment.
Now that there was more space, Sorcha slowed her mount to ride beside him. The hills were open enough to see if anyone was in pursuit, and the slackened pace gave the horses a chance to cool down after the grueling trek in the mountains.
“How’s your wound?” he asked her.
“The dressing needs to be changed, but it’s bearable.” From her wan face, he could see that she was minimizing the pain. “There’s a farmhouse over yonder that may spare us some food and water for the horses.”
“Fine.”
She eyed him sideways, her expression hidden behind a bland but clearly false facade. “Why did you say you didn’t like that name? The Beast of Maclaren?”
“Because you’re not a beast.”
Sorcha shrugged. “I used to hate it. Cried myself to sleep when the children in the keep sang it to my face and ran away hiding. Finlay and Evan used to beat them silly on my behalf, until I learned how to defend myself.” She pursed her lips. “After that, it became like armor. Like it was a badge. People knew who I was.”
“It’s not a name for a lady,” Brandt said staunchly. “For a duke’s daughter.”
“I never wanted to be a lady.”
He sent her a look. “What we want and who we are sometimes do not coincide. Life is funny like that.” He paused, his heart giving a painful kick. “You deserve the life you were meant to lead, to marry a man of influence.”
“A man like Malvern? I’d rather drown in manure.”
Brandt shook his head. “No, not like Malvern, but a titled man. One who can offer you your rightful place in society.”
Not someone like me.
“But what if that’s not what I want?” she shot back. “I can’t fathom wearing dresses and primping and playing coy all day, having tea, singing and playing the pianoforte or any other infernal instrument. Wasn’t there something you wished to be? More? Less? Just not what you were?”
To have a mother. To know who I truly am.
“No.”
Brandt stopped his horse so suddenly that Sorcha had to pull sharply on Lockie’s reins to see what had stopped him. Her face grew alarmed when she took in the horrified expression on his. “Lady Sorcha Maclaren, did I just hear you confess that you don’t sing or play any instrument? Nor primp or flirt? And what, pray tell, do you have against tea? Sacrilege to the English.”
She compressed twitching lips. “You’re not English.”
“Honestly, what kind of pagan have I married?” She was valiantly attempting to swallow her snickers by that point. He rolled his eyes skyward, clapping a dramatic hand to his chest. “What, dear Lord, did I do to deserve such an abominable punishment?”
Laughing out loud, she punched him in the arm. “It’s Lady Pierce, I’ll have you know.”
Something inside of him warmed, but Brandt squashed it brutally. He’d jested only to turn the conversation away from his empty childhood wishes and the cruel voices she’d inadvertently awakened. The ones that clamored that he was undeserving of her smile or any part of her. His amusement evaporated. He needed to quash this, and he needed to quash it now.
“You’re a Maclaren,” he said. “Trust me, you wouldn’t want to be a Pierce anyway. We’re a tedious, pissant lot.” He kept his gaze straight ahead, his tone even. “An annulment is for the best. No reason for you to be the wife of a bastard when you can be a lady with the life you were born for.”
The humor drained from her lovely blue eyes, hurt shining there for a minute before it was replaced by sparks of anger. “You’re an arse, Brandt Pierce. You and your precious name.”
“Precious as dirt.”
“I’ve changed my mind. Amadan is too good for you. Haven’t ye heard a word I’ve said? I never wanted to be a lady.”
“And I never wanted to be a bastard!”
The words slipped out from some hollow, cavernously painful space within him, and the minute he said them, he regretted it. He regretted being so vulnerable. And he hated the sudden pitying look in her eyes. His temper boiled and exploded.
“You’re not the only one who ever wanted another life. You’re not the only one who wished on every star and every ha’penny to be someone else. But we’ve all had to grow up and smell the horseshit. So stop whining about not wanting your life of privilege, when many are born to far less.”
Sorcha recoiled at the last few words, and as his rage receded, Brandt felt a pang of bitter remorse. Angry, hurt tears shone in her eyes. Once more, he’d lost control of his temper.
“I’m sorry.” He reached for her, but she flinched away. Shaking, she opened her mouth and closed it. And then kicked Lockie into a wild gallop.
Bloody hell.
Brandt stared at her disappearing shape and nudged Ares into a canter. By the time he got to a rambling cottage in the direction she’d ridden, Lockie was tied in the nearby stable, munching happily on a bucket of oats.
A small boy who looked to be no more than ten standing beside Lockie gave him a friendly wave. “Och, the lass said ye’d be along soon.” His brogue was thick as he eyed Ares. “Wha’ happened to yer horse?”
“He got tangled into some wire.”
The boy’s eyes widened to huge round orbs. “Are ye Sassenach?”
“No, but I was raised in England.”
“Ye talk funny.”
Brandt shrugged. “I suppose I do.” He leaned conspiratorially down to the boy. “What does amadan mean?”
The lad gave him a delighted grin. “It means idiot.”
Indeed, he was that and more. Brandt gave Ares a brief rubdown and settled the horse beside Lockie. Running his fingers along the horse’s gray flanks, he stroked down its nose. The horse nickered and turned its head into his shoulder.
“At least I’ll have you,” he murmured. “Even if I can’t have her. No matter what your mistress thinks, she deserves better than me.”
Sorcha was nowhere in sight, but he expected she was already inside. He thanked the boy and made his way to the cottage. It was a tiny, well-kept place, though he could see that recent repairs had been made to the wooden planking. He knocked on the front door, and it was opened by a pleasant, plump-cheeked lady who all but dragged him to the kitchen where his wife was face-deep into a bowl of stew.
“Yer man is a fine-looking one,” she remarked, pointing out a chair for him. Sorcha scowled into her stew. Cherub-faced children peeped at him from behind a nearby door and scampered back when they saw him staring. They had the look of the boy from the barn.
“I’m Mrs. Maxwell,” she said and placed a hearty bowl of stew on the table. “Sit and eat up, lad, afore it gets cold.”
He offered her a clipped bow and took the seat. “Thank you, madam.”
“Och, lad, so proper,” she said, fanning herself. “We dunnae get many visitors around here. Yer wife said ye were travelin’ through to Inverness. That’s where Mr. Maxwell is, ye ken. For the wool.” She bustled around the small but cheery space, shooing two children from underfoot. “If ye’re lookin’ fer a place to bed doon, ye can sleep in the barn, but ’tis no’ any place fer a lord and his lady. Sorry that we’ve no’ go’ the room.” She grew embarrassed. “The nearest monastery’s a full day’s ride west.”
Brandt had no desire to put this kind family in any danger, and the shorter the amount of time they tarried here, the better it would be for all concerned, especially with Coxley on their heels. No, they would camp in the woods.
“We’ll be on our way. You’ve been very generous, Mrs. Maxwell,” he said as he tucked into the savory stew. After eating nothing but venison, salted meat, and beechnuts during the endless journey north, it was delicious. “Thank you for your kindness and the wonderful meal.”
She blushed. “Dunnae fash yerself, lad. ’Tis a right pleasure.”
Sorcha said something in Gaelic that had the children bursting into laughter. Brandt knew it was likely about him, though he was grateful he hadn’t heard the word amadan thrown in there. Clearly, she was still furious; she wouldn’t even look at him.
Her cold silence continued until long after they’d eaten and been packed up with vittles for the road. Brandt noticed the odd looks Mrs. Maxwell was giving them, and she pulled him aside at the door when they were leaving.
“A bit icy lately, aye, lad?” she whispered. “Yer lass is wantin’ fer yer affection. Dunnae wait too long, ye ken.”
She winked, her meaning evident, and Brandt found himself flushing dully. Good God, since when did he require advice on sexual congress from a sheep farmer’s wife? Was the tension between Sorcha and him that obvious? To his consternation, Mrs. Maxwell gave him a hearty pat on his behind and winked again. “Get the wee lassie with a bairn, and she’ll settle right doon.”
For the briefest of seconds Sorcha met his eyes, as if she had heard what Mrs. Maxwell had whispered in parting, and the ensuing image of Sorcha pregnant with his child stole every rational thought from his head. She would be radiant. But Brandt knew it would snow in hell before he’d let that happen, no matter how much he desired her. He had no intention of spreading his bastard seed about, not for all the horses in Scotland.
Heading west in the direction of the monastery, they did not speak for the first few hours. Brandt busied himself with the counting of sheep again, then cattle, and then boulders. In all that time, Sorcha had not so much as glanced in his direction. He was beginning to long for Malvern’s men to come along so he, at least, would have a diversion. Soon, he grew weary of his own company and pretending to be a human abacus.
It was an odd turn of affairs. Normally he was a man who loved his solitude. Valued it, even. Now, the abundance of it was driving him mad.
Kicking Ares into a canter, he pulled alongside Sorcha. Her face was stony. “You know, most men would long for a wife who doesn’t speak,” he began conversationally.
“Ye don’t want a wife. Ye’ve made that abundantly clear.”
Success! The first words that had left her mouth in hours. “I’m becoming quite partial to the way you fall back into your Scots brogue when you’re angry.”
She looked like she wanted to jump from her horse and pummel him into the ground. Her lips flattened into a line as she increased Lockie’s pace. Ares kept up easily. “Can’t you see I wish to be alone?” she snapped.
Her emphasis on you and her rounded vowels were not lost on him. Brandt smiled. He preferred her temper to the cold silence she’d subjected him to for the better part of the day, and he couldn’t help goading her. “Young ladies tend not to know their own minds.”
He could practically see the flames coming out of her ears. “Ye…you…conceited, arrogant—” She broke off in suffocated rage. “I very well ken my own mind.”
“Ken means know, correct?”
She snarled at him, and Brandt laughed. Her face turned the color of a ripe apple, but he did not heed the warning. The sight of her impassioned, ferocious glower made him ache all over, particularly in his nether regions as he succumbed to the most erotic arousal of his life. Brandt reached for her reins and her eyes widened. He pulled them to a stop, and before she could make a sound, he set his mouth to hers.
Their lips met in a tangle of lust and heat and simmering mutual hunger. Her tongue circled his, drawing it into her mouth. He gave it to her, and she sucked it deep, eliciting a strained groan from his throat. Sorcha tasted like honeyed ale and sunlight, fire and ice, and everything in between. She made him see entire constellations and feel like his body was no longer his own. Brandt clutched her closer, losing himself in the heady sensation. Without breaking their kiss, he plucked her from the saddle into his lap.
Her pliant thighs—the sight of which he’d gorged himself on for days—pressed delectably against his stiff groin. Sorcha moaned into his mouth, her hips wriggling as if she, too, sought the satisfaction that only the merging of those two parts could bring. She experienced pleasure in the same way she expelled anger—with unabashed fervor. Panting softly, her lips parted wider as they sipped and stole from each other. Brandt wanted her mouth, her heart, her soul.
His hand cupped her breast, and his greedy fingers sought her taut nipple beneath the linen of her shirt. God, he loved the shape of her…the soft round weight of her in his palm. Plucking the ruched tip between his fingers, she arched hungrily into him. He needed that pebbling peak in his mouth, but he did not want to release the sweet cling of her lips or the marauding, bold tongue of hers that set him aflame.
Lockie whinnied softly, and reason pierced through his lust.
“Sorcha,” he gasped, pulling apart. “We must stop.”
“Who says?” she asked, banked blue flames simmering in her eyes.
Her mouth was so deliciously pink that he had to kiss her again. It was a mistake; it only made him want more. With reluctance, he dragged his mouth away. “We can’t. We shouldn’t.”
“You want this as much as I do.” She wriggled her bottom atop his jutting length, making his head spin. “It’s just kissing, Brandt.”
Her words made him want things. Impossible things. Things that were out of reach for someone like him. With her, it could never be just kissing. He understood that as well as he knew his horses. She was as lethal as opium…one taste, and he would be lost. Willingly and forever.
And he would drag her down with him.
Brandt reached for the restraint that had never failed him until lately. “I know,” he said hoarsely, “but I also know where this leads, and we have to do what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for me or what’s best for you?”
“They’re the same thing.” He drew a shuddering breath. “And not just so you can have the chance to marry a man of your station. I’m not the man for you.”
Sorcha’s body went still. “Why?”
He did not speak for a prolonged minute, the demons of his past choking him. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m…not worthy of you.”
“Because you’re illegitimate?”
He went still, though he was unsurprised by her candor. He’d come to learn that she was not a woman who played word games. “That’s the least of it. I never wanted a wife. I’m not fit for marriage, Sorcha. Not a true marriage.”
“And there is nothing true about any of this?” There was no hurt in her question, simply quiet curiosity.
“Our deal was real,” he said, avoiding her question. “You had something I wanted.”
“Lockie.”
Brandt nodded. “Yes. At the time, I thought it an acceptable trade.”
A shallow breath lifted her shoulders. “And now?”
Now it was dangerous. More than dangerous.
In the beginning, it had been a neat, quick transaction—a name for a horse. The spark between them had been there from the start. Stupidly, he’d hoped to throttle his desires as he’d done countless times in the past with other females, but then, he’d never met a woman quite like her. Even now, his body’s tension against her soft thighs hadn’t abated in the least. Passion had a way of blinding people to reality. And the reality was he should never have married her.
“Now, everything has changed,” he replied softly.
Something indecipherable flickered in her expression before she hid it. “You told me earlier that what we want and who we are sometimes do not coincide. But sometimes they do. Sometimes things make sense.” She put a hand on his arm, and his pulse leaped beneath it. “What I feel now makes more sense than anything has in days. And I know you feel it, too.”
“That’s lust, nothing more.” He felt her flinch at the vulgarity of his words, but he closed his eyes, knowing she would not let the matter rest. “This is not what you’re imagining it to be, Sorcha,” he said. “I am not your savior, and the emotions you’re feeling are…misleading, brought upon by recent events. Trust me, your gratitude and your misplaced esteem will fade.”
Sorcha didn’t answer for a long time, only sat pondering him in deep thought. Without a word, she slid from his lap to the ground. “I may not be as worldly as some of the women you have known, Mr. Pierce, but I think your life has jaded you to the point that simple things have become unrecognizable. What two people feel for each other can be more than the sum of its parts.”
He watched as she led Lockie to a clearing and started to set up a place to camp for the night. Every time he thought he’d gained the measure of her, he realized how much he didn’t know. She continued to surprise him at every turn, whether it was with her courage or her wit or her intelligence.
Brandt knew he should say something, but words seemed to have deserted him. Perhaps she was right. Maybe he truly was that jaded. It did not matter. She—and no other woman—could not change who he was.
After a while, he descended from his saddle. “I’ll keep watch.”