Chapter Twenty-Three
Sorcha had never sweat so much in her life. As she stood in the courtyard of the Montgomery keep, the noon sun beating down on her and the rest of the men as they skirmished in pairs, she wondered at the unnatural heat of the spring day. It wasn’t out of the ordinary to have an early May swelter, but this one had an oppressive edge to it. It made her feel a stone heavier, and it seemed every man and woman in sight was walking and moving a little bit slower, too. It could have been the heat. Or, she reasoned, it could have been the knowledge of an imminent attack on their clan and keep.
Fergus’s broadsword came sweeping at Sorcha’s head, and she grunted as she blocked it and then struck back before her opponent could take another stab. Her blade came down near his hilt, knocking it from his hand entirely. The Scot stared in wonder at his sword, lying on the muddied ground. He then broke into a wide grin.
“Impressive, Your Grace,” he said.
“You won’t be smiling like that when it’s one of Malvern’s men knocking your weapon away,” she replied.
He propped one dark brow and nodded, accepting her censure humbly.
“Pick it up,” she said, this time a little less brusquely. She’d offered to work with the men, teaching them some of the fighting skills she’d learned at Maclaren, and it had been no small feat that these men had accepted. It wouldn’t be wise to shame them for not being entirely up to snuff when it came to battle.
“When an enemy blocks your strike, swivel toward your opponent’s sword arm,” she said, a bead of sweat rolling off her brow and stinging her eye.
The strikingly handsome Scot she’d been training with the last quarter hour frowned. “Toward my opponent’s sword?”
“Aye. My brother, Ronan, taught me that. Your enemy will have to turn in order to swing at you again, and you’ll gain a moment to prepare.”
A few other men had overheard her and mumbled their agreement, and then they started clashing swords again. In the fields, another grouping of men were practicing with bows and arrows, and yet more men were out reinforcing the main gate and setting up hidden watch posts in all directions leading into Montgomery keep. They had a natural defense system in the keep’s positioning among the craggy hills, but more defenses would not be unwise.
Sorcha had seen Malvern’s men in action before, and they were brutish fighters, a high challenge for even Ronan and his men. There were a handful of vicious warriors here, like Feagan and Seamus, but for the most part, the Montgomerys had never been put to the test. Most of the men had never fought a life or death battle. And now, because of Malvern, they would.
Because of her.
She’d led Malvern here. She was the reason these men were about to put their lives in danger, and as their new laird’s wife, they would never complain or turn away from the fight. But that didn’t make her feel any better about the situation. In fact, it made her feel only guiltier.
“Ye should take a break, Yer Grace,” came a feminine voice from behind her. Sorcha turned from Fergus to see Brandt’s mother sitting in the shade of a yew tree. Its branches were low and long reaching, and many of the men had hung their shirts upon them as they trained. For that reason alone, there were many lasses, both young and old, who’d come outdoors to do their washing and mending. And then there were some shamelessly gaping at the men’s sweaty torsos as they swung their swords.
Catriona had a long length of faded plaid in her lap, and she was using a pair of shears to cut out long rectangles of the fabric. Sorcha nodded to Fergus, who bowed his head and went to find another partner.
“What are you doing?” she asked Brandt’s mother as she stepped out of the direct sun and into the shade.
“Bandages. They’ll be useful for the surgeon, should Dr. Kinnick need them.”
A lump plunked down like a stone in her throat. Should Dr. Kinnick need them, it would mean Montgomery men were bleeding. That some might have been killed. It was a bitter pill to swallow…the knowledge that she had brought this upon them. But it was done now. Malvern was coming, and it was the least she could do to help them be prepared.
She looked over to where Aisla was practicing her archery with Patrick and Seamus. They would need every able-bodied fighter if Malvern breached the keep, even the women, and Aisla had shown a natural ability for the bow. She could help from a vantage point of relative safety. Several other Montgomery women had volunteered to learn, and it had floored Sorcha at how loyal they were to the son of their previous, beloved laird. She glanced to Brandt’s mother. Their loyalty was largely due to Catriona, she knew.
The lady in question patted the grass beside her. “Sit for a minute,” she said.
“I really should help,” Sorcha said.
“I’m sure Fergus will appreciate the time to soothe his sore pride,” she replied with an arch of an elegant eyebrow. Sorcha peered over her shoulder to where Fergus was demonstrating some of the new moves he’d mastered to a few Montgomery soldiers. Considering he’d spent most of the morning on his arse, he had picked up the techniques well enough. The man was a fast learner, she’d give him that. And he was easy on the eyes, if the sighing of all the Montgomery women around them was any indication.
There was nothing quite like the sight of a man in a kilt, wearing not much else while covered in sweat and swinging a sword. Although Sorcha appreciated that Fergus was a handsome man, he wasn’t the one who made her pulse race. No, that would be the man on the other side of the training field, also swinging a sword.
Her very virile, very indefatigable husband.
She didn’t need to see him without a shirt to have her wits scatter. A secret smile touched her lips—she’d seen more than enough of his beautiful naked body earlier that morning. With that shameless thought, she felt her cheeks burn, along with other unmentionable parts of her.
Unlike the other Scotsmen, he wasn’t shirtless. A fact for which she was very grateful. She didn’t much like the idea of other women gawking at her husband.
But they did anyway.
Sorcha had to admit Brandt wore a kilt well. When he’d asked that morning for her help to don the Montgomery plaid, she’d understood how momentous an act it was for him. So had his clansmen. Glimpses of his strong thighs were visible above his boots, sinewy and thick with muscle, with each twist of his lithe body. His handsome face was flushed with exertion, his powerful arms swinging his broadsword with deadly grace. He moved like a dancer on the battlefield, with calculated finesse. Much like he did everything else, including lovemaking. Her knees trembled slightly.
“I was in labor with him for three days,” Catriona said softly, following her stare.
A rush of heat scoured Sorcha’s skin. Christ tossing a caber. She’d been caught ogling her own husband by his mother. She composed herself, though her face felt like it was on fire. “Was it a difficult birth?”
Catriona patted the grass again, and this time Sorcha sat. The promise of learning anything about Brandt was too good to pass up.
“The delivery was quite easy, but the hours leading up to it were no’.” She smiled in memory. “The midwife wanted to force the birth by attempting to turn him, but I told her that the babe would come in his own time when he was ready. And he did.” Her fingers shook over the shears. “I held him for only a scant few minutes, but I could already tell what kind of man he would be. He wasnae sleepy, and he didnae wail. As a babe, he was so alert, so focused and quiet, observing everything around him.”
“He hasn’t changed,” Sorcha said smiling. “Stoic to the core.”
“I already kenned that one day he would be a great laird.” Catriona’s voice broke slightly. “I only hoped that by sending him away, I would be giving him a chance. I still dunnae ken if I made the right decision.”
Sorcha reached for Catriona’s hand and squeezed. “You did. If you hadn’t, your son would have met with an end much like that of the late duke’s. You saved Brandt by letting him go, and now he has returned, as you had hoped.”
The duchess smiled sadly. “No’ quite as I’d hoped. I didnae expect that Rodric would force me to remarry so quickly, and to him.” She glanced apologetically to Sorcha. “Forgive me, I am sure ye dunnae want to hear such things.”
“No, I do,” Sorcha said, guessing that Catriona had never spoken to anyone of what had happened. She’d kept it all inside for so many years, harboring the secret silent hope that one day the son she’d given up would return. “Did he give you a choice?”
“Yes,” Catriona said. “To stay as his duchess or leave. Though it wasnae a choice, no’ really. I could have gone back to my father’s clan in the south, but if Brandall returned to Montgomery, how would I have ever kenned? In setting him free, I had closed my own cage.” Her agony was a tangible thing. “So I married Rodric, even though my heart would always belong to another.”
“I’m sorry.”
“’Twas the bed I made,” she said. “I hoped and prayed for Brandall to return. I love my children, ye ken, but Rodric was no’ the man he pretended to be. Even I didnae ken how deep his hatred of his brother had run all those years. He wanted to erase the memory of him from Montgomery.”
“Brandt told me about the portrait in the gallery. The covered one.”
Catriona nodded. “’Twas all he left of him, though he ordered it draped. I suppose he wanted to appear as if he mourned. But Rodric broke clan alliances and dismantled everything Robert had built. Montgomery became an isolated fortress, and he was its sovereign.” She swallowed. “We were forbidden to speak Robert’s name, to even reminisce of him. Those who did were punished.”
“Punished?”
She shrugged. “Whipped, beaten, humiliated. I was the worst transgressor, of course. But the pain was worth it. I couldnae let my husband’s memory be erased from history. My children ken their brave, kind uncle.”
Sorcha felt a pulse of rage course through her veins. Any man who beat defenseless women deserved a special chamber in hell. But not everyone thought that way, she knew. There were still many clans who believed it was a man’s right to do as he wished with his wife. Including the marquess to whom she had been betrothed. “I truly wish Brandt had not let him go, for it would give me great pleasure to smash my fist into his cowardly face.”
She had not agreed with her husband’s decision to release Rodric. He was too dangerous of a man to be on the loose with an axe to grind. And he would no doubt run to Malvern, if indeed they were allies. But perhaps that was what Brandt hoped for—he wanted a chance to face him on the battlefield, should Rodric return.
“I cannae regret my choices. My son has returned, and I’ve been blessed with Patrick, Callan, and Aisla.”
Sorcha wanted to chase the sadness from her eyes. Marriage to a man like Rodric could not have been easy to bear. Montgomery had not only become Catriona’s prison, the duke had become her warden. She wanted to turn the duchess’s thoughts to happier times.
“What was Brandt’s father like? Is he much like him?”
“Robert?” Her eyes brightened, and Sorcha nodded. “I see a lot of Robert in him. I see his strength and his patience. I also see his dry sense of humor.”
“Dry would be a kind way to put it.” Sorcha laughed. “What about horses? Did the duke like those? Brandt seems to have a way with them that I’ve never seen before.”
The duchess’s smile overtook her entire face, making the eyes that were so like her son’s sparkle. “Och, that he gets from me. My father raised Scottish racehorses, and I learned to ride before I could walk. Everyone used to say that we had a mystical hand with them—the fairy’s touch. ’Twas my father, his father before him, me. And now Brandt. Callan has a bit of it as well, though he lacks the patience.”
Sorcha nodded. When people had special gifts in the Highlands, it was often said that they’d been blessed with them from the fey folk. Brandt did seem to have a magical touch with Ares, and Lockie as well.
Catriona’s eyes fell to the ring on Sorcha’s hand, her eyes misting. “Robert gave me that ring the day we wed. It fills my heart to see it on yer finger. He would have liked ye.” She put down the plaid in her lap and reached across for Sorcha’s hand. “Ye’re a good match for Bran. I ken it in the way he looks at ye”—she broke off with a knowing smile—“and the way ye look at him. ’Twas like that between Robert and me.”
Sorcha couldn’t help the usual stab of guilt. Though Brandt had made her his wife in every way and seemed to care for her, their beginning had not been based on trust. It weighed heavily on her. Yes, she was halfway to falling in love with Brandt, and he had found his family, but at what cost? Malvern was not a forgiving man, and these innocent people would all pay the price in blood. Because of her.
“Yer Grace,” Catriona began to say.
“Please, none of that. You must call me Sorcha.”
Brandt’s mother nodded, her fingers plucking at the plaid. “Yer clan…do they approve of my son? Or are they angry ye’ve broken the contract with Malvern?”
Sorcha ran a palm over the grass, the blades tickling her skin, as she considered how to answer. The truth was, she didn’t know how most of them had reacted. Finlay and Evan had been furious at first, as had Ronan. But her eldest brother had almost seemed to warm to the idea of Brandt as a brother-in-law. After all, following the attack on their camp, Ronan had placed his trust in him to take her to safety. That had to count for something…if he were still alive.
“Sorcha? What is it?” Catriona asked.
“My brother, Ronan, and his men held off Malvern’s attackers, giving Brandt and me a chance to escape.” She paused, remembering the last image she had of her brother, fighting Coxley. Only one of them would have walked away, and Sorcha’s pulse skipped and throbbed with dread not knowing who it had been.
“So they do support ye?” Catriona presumed.
She nodded. They had, albeit reluctantly. Once her father and the rest of the Maclaren people learned her husband was the rightful Montgomery laird and the new Duke of Glenross, their anger at her impetuous marriage might be somewhat appeased. It all depended on how successful Malvern would be in his retaliation. But she knew no matter what, she was a Maclaren, and Maclarens never abandoned one another. It was their family code of honor, and it was the sole reason she’d done what she did—she’d learned early on that it was easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.
“I only wish we had enough time to send for them,” Brandt’s mother sighed. “The Maclarens are famous for their warriors.”
They would have rushed to the Montgomerys’ aid without hesitation. But then, Lord knew what had happened to them over the last handful of weeks. What if Malvern had already taken his anger out on them? Sorcha closed her eyes against the flashing memory of Niall, his arm pinned to the slab of stone Coxley had used as a chopping block.
The sensation of delicate fingers touching down on Sorcha’s head and sweeping through the tresses at her temple opened her eyes. Catriona looked at her with tenderness. “I shouldnae have worried ye. Our men are strong, as well, and they’ll defend ye with their lives.”
“I don’t want any man giving up his life for me, or for the choices I made,” she blurted out.
“Ye weren’t alone when ye married Bran, were ye? He stood up beside ye and said his vows. Ye made yer choices together, and as his family, we’ll stand by ye as well.”
For the price of a horse for stud, Sorcha wanted to reply.
Their marriage had started on all-too-shaky ground, and recent developments, though pleasant, did not erase that. Nor did it eclipse how she had come to marry Catriona’s son in the first place. She’d employed the scheming tactic used by many an English lady seeking to catch a fortune or a title, only the prize had been freedom.
What had been meant as soothing reassurance only crushed Sorcha’s heart more. If Catriona knew the truth, every last drop of compassion she now saw in the woman’s eyes would evaporate. She would instead see the same cold hardness that gripped her chest and stomach whenever Sorcha thought upon her own deceit.
She stood, suddenly longing for another skirmish with Fergus. Or better yet, someone with more skill. Someone who could knock her down a peg or two.
Catriona caught her hand before she could move away, though, her eyes drawn into a frown, as if she had somehow heard a piece of Sorcha’s thoughts.
“We all have our demons, and heaven kens ’tis easier to fight the ones on the outside than the ones that live within us.” She released Sorcha’s hand, leaving it at that. She couldn’t manage more than a small grin at Brandt’s mother before taking up her sword and turning to go back into the broiling heat of the sun.
She did have her demons; she’d brought them to life when she’d made the split-second choice to trap a stranger into ruining her reputation and then suffering through a forced marriage. Had that choice been a mistake, though? Brandt had brought her more pleasure than she’d ever considered possible. He’d made her feel whole for the first time in years. Sorcha expelled a harsh breath. She wasn’t halfway to falling in love with Brandt…she was already hopelessly, irretrievably in love with him.
One thing was certain—they would weather the coming storm together. What was not certain was whether either of them would survive it.