Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Montgomerys had been starved of boisterous celebration for so long that when they began to rejoice a few days after their victory, no one seemed able to stop. Even the death of the previous laird did not curtail the festivities; a murderer would not be mourned.
One feast led into another, one song to dozens more; the great hall was overrun with dancing and singing and booming orations by men who, by the end of each spirited account, had been the very warrior to chase off the enemy and single-handedly save Montgomery keep, along with the women and bairns and all the unborn babies that would no doubt make their debut in nine months’ time.
Sorcha had never smiled or laughed so much in all her life. The clanspeople here had been starved of merriment, just as she had been, and like her new family, she could not seem to satiate herself. She and Brandt had welcomed the Duke and Duchess of Bradburne, as well as their caravans of servants and soldiers, along with her own father and brothers, and every last Maclaren who had trekked to Montgomery lands. Ronan, she discovered, had won his fight with Coxley that day in the field, slicing the English brute across the back. Coxley had gone down, and Ronan, presuming the man dead, rejoined his men who were still fending off the attack. After Malvern’s men had withdrawn, he’d returned for the body, but he’d found naught but a patch of grass, spattered with blood.
Ronan and what remained of his men had turned back toward Maclaren to seek reinforcements. And, though Sorcha had told him she and Brandt were heading north toward the Brodie, the fortified Maclaren army had the luck of passing by the monastery, where Abbot Lewis informed them of Sorcha and Brandt’s change in destination.
Sorcha’s heart filled at the memory of her brother’s words in the hall after the battle…that every last Maclaren warrior has always been, and would always be, willing to die to defend and protect their own. The Maclaren soldiers who had given their lives hadn’t just been defending her—they’d been defending other Maclarens who would suffer the brutality of Malvern.
“You were the one to set our freedom into motion,” Ronan had told her. “Because of you, sister, Maclaren is free, and none of the men who stood up died in vain.”
The release from the guilt that had plagued her had been almost immediate.
She had spent the last handful of days trying not to think on what might have happened had her clansmen not tracked them to Montgomery. If they had not been there at the marsh when Malvern had dragged her out of the tunnel. And Brandt, every time he saw her expression darkening, would take her hand and kiss the ridge of her knuckles, threatening to distract her if she didn’t stop worrying.
“Is that a promise?” she’d whispered once.
“I take my duties as laird quite seriously, Sorcha Montgomery,” Brandt replied, a flare of mischief sparking in his fey-bright eyes. “And it is my duty to make my duchess smile more than she frowns.”
“I’ve been smiling for days,” she shot back, and feigning exhaustion, added, “I don’t know how much more pleasure I can endure.”
Brandt had leaned closer to her ear, his breath hot on her skin. “Come up to our bedchamber with me and I’ll show you how much more.”
And he had. Her husband’s lips and hands had proven time and again that she had a rapacious appetite for pleasure. For him. Even now, as Sorcha sat on a blanket spread under the courtyard yew, with Briannon and Catriona deep in conversation at her side, she watched Brandt with longing. He and Archer, along with some of the Maclaren and Montgomery men, were taking a reprieve from the festivities as they repaired the arch over the water well, damaged during the siege. Though the spring weather had returned to a more expected crispness, shirts had been discarded, and bare chests were shining with sweaty exertion.
Brandt still wore a bandage over his left shoulder and one around his calf, but her mother’s salve was doing its job. Neither dressing, nor the fast-healing wounds he’d received along his shoulder and ribs during his first battle with Rodric, took away from his air of strength and masculinity. They seemed only to enhance it. Sorcha knew the contours of her husband’s chest and stomach and back by heart, and she imagined running her fingers over the dips and swells of his muscles with mounting desire.
Sorcha let her attention drift toward Lord Bradburne, who had clapped his arm around Brandt’s shoulders. “Your duke and Brandt get along so well,” she said to Briannon.
Catriona entered the conversation then. “’Tis true. I cannae tell ye how glad I am my Brandall had a brother in yer husband, Lady Bradburne.”
“And now he has more brothers than he knows what to do with!” Briannon said, the strong Scottish ale she’d been sipping making her voice loud and merry. Catriona and Sorcha laughed, causing Brandt and Archer to look over at them, but they only grinned before turning back to their task.
Yes, her husband’s family had grown exponentially. In the corner of the courtyard, two of his new family members—Ronan and Patrick—were sparring with their hefty broadswords. The competition was friendly enough, but there was no mistaking the pride each man was bringing to the exhibition. She glanced to where her youngest brother Niall lounged against the stone wall of the keep, waiting for his turn to show off his sparring skills. Callan stood at his left, his mouth moving, and every now and again, Niall would break into laughter.
Aisla had seated herself on a ledge jutting out from the keep’s wall to Niall’s right, and more often than not, Sorcha noticed her brother’s eyes traveling furtively over her legs, which she’d crossed at the ankles and swung playfully. The lass wasn’t oblivious to his glances, either, Sorcha noticed, especially when Aisla shifted her seat to slyly raise the hem of her skirt an inch.
A breeze rustled the new leaves on the yew, bringing the scents of roasting meat and vegetables from the kitchens into the courtyard. Sorcha felt as if she’d glutted herself for days on a banquet of food, and that evening she would do so again. The carousing would continue in the form of a wedding celebration. Her mother, the Duchess of Dunrannoch, was due to arrive with yet more Maclarens by that evening, and Catriona had insisted on a proper reception. She had insisted the water well be repaired and in full use before then, too.
Sorcha wasn’t the only one ogling her husband as the men worked—Briannon couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off her duke. It was obvious they were very much in love. They made a handsome couple. Sorcha wondered what their daughters looked like and made a mental note to ask Briannon later if she had any portraits of them.
A whimsical sensation fluttered in the pit of her stomach at the thought of bairns, and her gaze swept to her husband. Brandt had never mentioned them, though he had never taken any precautions during their lovemaking not to conceive. In truth, Sorcha had never seen herself as a mother. Or perhaps she had never allowed herself to imagine it because of to whom she’d been betrothed.
Though now, with Brandt, envisioning her own family—with bairns who inherited his beautiful fey eyes—suddenly seemed like heaven.
…
Brandt leaned back in his chair on the dais watching the dancing unfold. Nearly a week of feasting had gone by and yet, no one showed any signs of slowing down. Sorcha’s mother had arrived the day before, which had necessitated a new round of festivities and marriage celebrations.
Though his wife favored her father in coloring, Brandt could see where she had inherited her backbone of steel. Lady Dunrannoch was a slight woman with chestnut-colored hair. Her eyes were also blue, though not the same vibrant shade as her daughter’s. And she was English, hailing from Cumbria, which meant that she and the Duchess of Bradburne had a few acquaintances in common. They sat together at the table, heads bent and smiles on their lips, their husbands engaged in similar conversation. Archer had promised to do what he could to have Tarben Castle and its holdings returned to the duke once Malvern’s properties were seized.
Sipping some excellent whiskey that Archer had brought from the Earl of Langlevit’s Dumfries estate, his glance drifted to the throng of dancers. He’d narrowly escaped being dragged to the middle of the hall due to his healing leg, but the truth was, he’d rather watch.
Brandt’s gaze sought out Sorcha, who was dancing with Ronan. He would never tire of watching her…whether she was swinging a sword, dancing a Scotch reel, or riding him while caught in the throes of pleasure. She lived life with so much passion, it astounded him. Even now, dressed in a sapphire gown befitting a duchess, she exuded a vitality that made his blood simmer. Her dark hair was pinned in glossy ringlets away from her face, her scars in prominent and proud view. She had never looked more beautiful.
“Ye get that look on yer face every time yer thinking of yer wife,” Callan said, plunking down on one side of him. Patrick sat down on the other. “’Twas the same look that young bounder had with our Aisla.”
Brandt’s eyes narrowed as Niall escorted Aisla back to one of the lower tables for some ale. The two had been getting too close for his comfort as well.
“I could give him a wee thrashing,” Callan suggested with a hopeful look, but Brandt shook his head.
With the amount of testosterone in the hall, any scuffle would turn into a big bloody brawl without much provocation. Sorcha’s middle brother, Evan, was spoiling for a fight, since he had missed out on the battle, and Brandt would rather not indulge him.
“Aisla can handle herself,” he said. “What of you two? No lasses to tempt your palates?”
Patrick shot him a rare smile, his eyes brimming with amusement as a group of young ladies sighed and stared despondently toward where they sat. “There’re so many of them that Callan doesnae ken what to do with himself.”
His brother puffed his chest and winked. “’Tis no’ my fault the lasses find me bonny.”
But Brandt noticed it wasn’t only Callan getting attention. A few of the women had their eyes on Patrick. Brandt suspected it would take his brother some time to loosen up, without the specter of Rodric hanging over his shoulder every minute.
Patrick leaned in as Callan took his leave once more to dance with a buxom blonde. “I’ve been thinking that I’ll head south with Lord Bradburne when he leaves. Travel for a bit. See London and surrounds. He offered to introduce me to London society.” He trailed off uncomfortably. “Now that ye are laird, I mean. Before my place was here, but now…”
The decision did not surprise him. Brandt expected it was twofold. Patrick did not want to hover as the new laird found his feet, and he also wanted to be free of the ghost of his father, who had chained him to his duty from birth. At least for a time. Brandt understood the inclination.
“Go where you must, but know that your place is here, brother,” Brandt told him. “This is your home, and it always will be.”
“Thank ye,” Patrick said. “Ye’ll look after Mother, won’t ye? And the wee lass, too, though I expect that’ll no’ be easy. I dunnae ken what’s gotten into Aisla.”
“With my life.” Brandt grinned, knowing exactly what—or who—had gotten into their sister. “Have you told Callan? I daresay his head might just explode.”
Patrick laughed, the uninhibited sound drawing a startled glance from their mother. “I’ll send for him for a visit once I’m settled.” He stood. “In the meantime, I spot a beautiful lass who needs rescuing from an over-ardent Maclaren.”
Brant watched the carousing for a few moments longer and stretched out his leg, wincing at the twinge. It wasn’t hurting him but tended to stiffen after a while. He kneaded the cramping muscle with the heel of one palm.
“Is it paining you?” a worried voice asked.
He looked up into the gleaming blue eyes of his love, who stood beside his chair. Sorcha’s cheeks were bright with flushed color, and Brandt couldn’t help himself. He reached for her arm and drew her down into his lap.
“Brandt,” she gasped.
“No one’s watching,” he said with a low laugh. “They’re all dancing.”
“Everyone’s watching. Including your mother, and mine.”
He kissed her neck, breathing in the fragrant scent of her. “Actually, they look like they’re plotting how many heirs they should expect.”
Guarded eyes the exact shade of her glittering dress met his. She swallowed and gathered her lower lip between her teeth. “Heirs?”
“We should probably start thinking of that, don’t you think?”
“Now?” she said on a breathless gasp.
Brandt grinned at her one-word answers. “I love throwing you off-balance and making you speechless. Though I much prefer doing it with my tongue in your mouth.”
“Brandt!” But her color had heightened, and he could feel the clench of her thighs on top of his. He was sure that she could also feel the thickened shape of his arousal, a constant affliction, it seemed, whenever she was near.
“I want you,” he told her in a rasping whisper, his knuckles skimming down between their bodies to her trim waist. “I want to put bairns in this flat stomach of yours. I want to see you become round and luscious and beautiful. I want part of me to grow inside of you.”
Her mouth went soft and her eyes grew dark at his words. Words he never imagined he’d utter, but everything had changed. He had changed. And it was all because of the radiant woman cradled in his arms.
She crawled out of his lap and stood as if he hadn’t said a thing, her beautiful face reserved and expressionless. Then she bent and licked his ear, making aching parts of him throb. “Meet me upstairs in fifteen minutes and dunnae be late, ye ken.”
Her hoarse brogue was a seductive promise that nearly unmanned him. It took Brandt more than the allotted fifteen minutes to calm his raging erection enough to stand and not invite ridicule, and another forty-five to take his leave. By the time he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, his body was almost bursting with anticipation. No doubt her punishment for his tardiness would be dire. Brandt opened the door and closed it, his eyes feasting on the sight that awaited him on the bed.
His gorgeous wife was naked.
And asleep.
With a low chuckle, Brandt undressed, climbed into bed, and then proceeded to wake her in the most delicious way possible. He made love to her with exquisite slowness, bringing her to ecstasy with his hungry tongue and hands before allowing himself his own shuddering release. And afterward, when they lay in each other’s arms, spent and satiated, Sorcha looked at him with all the love in her eyes, her hands pressed to her belly. “I hope you succeeded.”
“Me, too.”
“What do you think he or she will be like?” she whispered as he pulled the blankets over them and drew her back into his chest. Brandt curled his body around hers in a protective embrace, one arm tucked beneath her breasts. He kissed her bare shoulder.
“Strong. Brave. Fierce.”
“With your eyes,” she said.
He drew his fingers through her long glossy locks that felt like satin in his fingers. “And your hair.”
“Your quiet reserve,” Sorcha added. “And your humility.”
“Your love for life. Your courage.”
She tilted her chin toward him, and Brandt took her lips in a soft, sweet kiss. “They’ll be loved, won’t they? Any children of ours?”
“Without a single doubt. And even if we didn’t have this tremendous extended family of ours placing wagers on my manly prowess as we speak, any child would be cherished and adored by the two of us.” She laughed, and he stroked her cheek. “I love you, Sorcha, and I will treasure any child made out of that love.”
“I love you, too.”
Brandt held her close as sounds of the revelry from belowstairs drifted up to them. But there was no other place he preferred to be. Montgomery was a place. Worthington Abbey had been a place. The circle of his wife’s arms would always be his home, he knew that now. And for the first time in all his five and twenty years, Brandt’s sense of restlessness eased.
Sorcha shifted in his arms, turning to face him. “I forgot to tell you about my dowry. My father brought the documents turning the land over to you.”
“I don’t need any land.”
“You’ll want this one,” she said. “It’s rich in a vein of cairngorm crystals, remember? Scottish topaz. It was why Malvern wanted his hands on it so badly.”
It could have been chock full of diamonds for all Brandt cared. Mesmerized by the feel of her velvet skin, he stroked his fingers along her arm, dipping to the curve of her waist and the sensual rise of her hip. “I already have the most precious gem of Maclaren lands in my possession, albeit it’s one in the rough.”
Sorcha poked him in the shoulder with a mock scowl, but her voice was small when she spoke. “It’s true I am rough around the edges. I’ll never be like Lady Bradburne. She’s so refined and elegant. I feel like a fumbling lummox beside her. Are you sure this…I’m…what you want?”
“Too late to change your mind now, Your Grace,” he said with a wolfish grin. “And only a true Highland lass will do. Ye and yer horse.”
She pouted prettily. “Ah, I see. This is about Lockie. I should have known.”
“Aye, he’s mine.” His grin widened. “And ye’re mine, ye ken?”
“I ken,” she said smiling at his play.
“And I happen to like your edges.” To make his point, he dragged a slow finger up over her hip bone. “These and these,” he said, moving to the point of her elbow and up each rib before filling his palm with her scarred breast. Her nipple tautened to a tight peak between his thumb and forefinger. “And especially these.”
“Brandt—” Her voice was a breathy moan.
“The real question is,” he said, “whether you’re willing to be my lady.”
She threw one limber thigh over his and dragged her fingernails lightly over his chest. “What does that entail?”
“A certain amount of compliance.”
Sorcha licked at her lips. “You mean submission?”
“More like surrender.” Brandt shifted to crawl over his wife’s body. Lifting his weight upon his elbows, he hovered over her, his hips poised over hers. He circled lightly, eliciting a delicious sound from her lips as his unyielding hardness met her pliant softness. “Of the most pleasurable kind.”
His wife grinned and wrapped her long, strong legs around him before thrusting her hips upward and over to flip him on his back. “I’ll surrender to anything as long as you’re here by my side.” Her wicked laughter filled the room—and his heart. “Or beneath me as the case may be.”
They’d been her words the first time they’d made love, but now they were his.
“I am yours.”