Chapter Seven
The sky was a bruised purple when Brandt finally gave up his night’s watch. Not against Malvern’s men, but on the off chance Sorcha’s brother would come into the derelict cottage seeking revenge for his sister’s honor. Brandt had spent the hours reclined on the floor, his back against the crumbling wall of horsehair plaster and stone, his eyes fixed on Sorcha’s sleeping figure.
She’d curled up before the hearth, his cloak thrown over her like a blanket, one arm propped under her head acting as a pillow. Every now and again, his eyelids would droop. The dreams that set in first, the kind that always felt more like hallucinations before deeper sleep could claim him, had shown a young, faceless boy with his arm on a chopping block, Malvern’s twisted face maniacally laughing above him. He’d heard Sorcha’s screams and seen her fighting off an attacker, one that transformed into the face of a massive, snarling wolf.
Brandt had forced himself awake countless times, getting up to stretch his legs, stoke the fire, and sober his exhausted mind. Soon he would be back in Essex where he belonged, and all the madness of the last two days would be in the past. Well and truly in the past, if he had his say.
He had overheard Duncan explaining to the men that Finlay and Evan had set a false trail south, toward Maclaren, hoping to draw Malvern and his men in that direction. The ploy would not last for long, though, and Ronan had instructed his men to rise at first light in order to move north. The men had nodded, and their wordless, unflinching loyalty to their future laird had been yet one more thing about Sorcha’s eldest brother that Brandt had admired. In other circumstances, Ronan was a man Brandt could have easily called friend.
He was nothing like Finlay or Evan, who not only wore their pride, but flaunted it like a pair of peacocks. Ronan had the muted dignity his brothers lacked. Though Brandt knew that was a factor of age—the two men were barely one or two years older than Sorcha, whom he would put at no more than twenty. Whereas Ronan was a seasoned man. He knew his power and led with confidence, not bluster or emotion.
It also helped that Ronan had admitted to his plan to fake Sorcha’s death in order to save her from marrying Malvern. As Brandt stood up and felt the blood begin to course back into his legs, he thought of how unfortunate it had been for Ronan to keep his plan a secret from Sorcha. Had she known to what lengths her brother would go in order to protect her, she would not have been tempted to take matters into her own hands as she’d done at the common lands festival.
He would not have kissed her.
He would not have struck a deal to marry her.
Malvern would not be on the rampage now for Brandt’s blood and the wife from whom he’d been cheated.
In short, Ronan’s plan had been shot to hell. It wasn’t any one person’s fault, but a collection of errors. They mattered little now, though. Brandt crouched before the hearth and glanced at Sorcha. Her pink lips were parted enough to emit her soft, rhythmic breathing. Her lashes, like the black wings of a raven, touched down on ivory cheeks, flushed from the fire he’d kept going all night. He took the opportunity to view her scars up close. The three stripes weren’t thick or raised. Her brow and cheek had been neatly scored by the she-wolf’s paw. It could have been far worse—the animal could have taken her eye or gouged out chunks of flesh.
“So fierce,” he murmured. “Such singular beauty.”
And Sorcha was beautiful, scars and all. Without them, she would not be her. They were part of her, like her tart humor and her brazen courage. She reminded him of a wild creature in a jungle somewhere…all sleek limbs and savage beauty. He could truly get close only when she was sleeping. Despite the doused flames in the hearth, Brandt’s body grew warm as he stayed, crouched beside his wife. Without the shadows of worry in her eyes and the mask of fearlessness she wore during the day, she appeared so innocent.
Because she is.
He hadn’t taken that from her, even though her brothers—and Malvern—believed the contrary. Even though the touch of her body, pressed against the length of his the afternoon before had woken him to just how warm and pleasurable she would be. More than pleasurable. She’d make love as she fought—with lust and passion.
Brandt expelled a ragged breath, allowing himself the dangerous thought. Because soon it would be good-bye. He would never see her again after today. A coil of her hair hung low, nearly covering her brow, and he gently pushed the strands back. She slept on, undisturbed by his touch. Good. She’d be rested for the day’s hard ride north.
He brushed his fingers over her forehead again, then drew the tip of his index finger down her silken cheek and along her jaw. She’d yet to part her lashes when he followed the urge to drag the pad of his thumb over the plump curve of her lower lip. Her breath gusted over his skin. Brandt recalled the taste of her lips at the common lands festival and the brazen response of her tongue, as if she had been pulling him into her, wanting to possess him.
Or, he thought with an unwelcome dose of reality, as if wanting to trap him.
And she had. Though, in all honesty, he hadn’t yet stopped to think about where he would have been right then had she not kissed him. Well on his way to Essex, he supposed. But thinking about anything other than claiming his due and departing would be unwise, especially if his mind kept circling back to his wife’s exceptional lips or her long-limbed figure.
He jerked his hand back and stood quickly. He needed air. Cold air. And a place to empty his full bladder and restrain ravenous parts of his body that kept forming other ideas. Dawn was still a half hour or more away when he went outside, closing the door to the cottage quietly behind him.
Why he felt a prick of conscience as he walked farther from the cottage, into the deep blue remnants of night, he didn’t wish to think about. Sorcha had agreed to his terms. She didn’t expect him to stay, and he’d never promised any such thing.
As he relieved himself far from the cottage, he focused on what needed to be done before he took his leave. He’d need to refill his waterskins and find something to eat before beginning the long journey back with Ares and Lockie.
Brandt had just buttoned the fall of his trousers and turned to retrace his steps to the cottage when a boulder slammed into him. He landed, hard, on the grass, his brain catching up from the shock to relate that it wasn’t a boulder at all. It was a man, and as a fist buried in Brandt’s stomach, his instincts took over. It didn’t matter that it was still dark. He intercepted his attacker’s next fist and, swiftly calculating his height, jabbed out with his own. He heard the crunch of bone, and when Brandt ducked, anticipating his attacker’s revenge jab, he angled his next blow for the kidney.
He heard the man grunt in pain, but the brute didn’t go down—not until Brandt kicked his kneecaps. In the darkness, he could not discern the size of his attacker, though he was marginally faster, and as thoughts of who it could be—one of Malvern’s men?—surged through his brain, he absorbed another fist to the chin and doled out two rapid jabs to the throat and temple.
“Who are you?” he shouted before his feet went out from underneath him. Again, he landed like a sack of bricks on the grass, and this time, a heavy arm pressed down across his chest. He grappled for the hilt of the knife he kept tucked in his boot.
“Who do you think, ye sack of pig shite?”
Damn. Ronan.
A spitting mad Ronan. Brandt rolled to his side and stumbled to his feet. He should have expected the attack. Brandt could see the dark stamp of Ronan’s outline now that he wasn’t frantically defending his life. He didn’t want to hurt the man, but he wouldn’t take a beating willingly, either. He felt brief satisfaction that Ronan was also breathing with difficulty.
“Is this how Scots settle their differences?” he asked. “Ambushing a man in the dark while taking a piss. Are you satisfied?”
“No’ by a longshot.” Ronan grunted. “What else did ye promise her, Sassenach? Sweet nothings while ye seduced an innocent, gentle-bred lass?”
“She told you, it was her choice,” Brandt answered, his jaw smarting from where Ronan’s knuckles had nearly taken off his head. “I offered nothing that wasn’t accepted.”
Silence reigned in the dark clearing; the only sound disturbing the peace was their discordant breaths. “And so that’s it, ye’ll just take yer prize and leave without nary a care for her at all?”
Brandt wasn’t going to answer the question, but the accusatory tone in the man’s words struck him. He didn’t much care for it. “I do care. Your sister is brave and fearless and deserves better than either Malvern or I can give her.”
“What if she’s with child?”
Brandt didn’t expect the notion to spear him with such force, though of course there was no possibility that she could be. Then again, Ronan didn’t know that. “She’s not.”
“And her heart?”
“It was never part of the bargain,” he said quietly. “I am not your enemy, Ronan. We both want the same thing—her safety from the marquess.”
“No, ye just want her horse.”
“I’m not that callous, but yes,” he admitted. “That, too.”
The silence stretched interminably between them, until Ronan shifted in the darkness. Brandt braced himself uneasily for a renewed attack, but it never came. Ronan cleared his throat, sighing heavily several times, and when he spoke, there was no anger in his voice.
“Next time, be more vigilant,” he said. “Malvern has a habit of sending scouts forward. He doesnae care about how many men he loses, only that he wins. Before he inherited his father’s title, he was like that on the battlefield in France, too. Putting his own men at risk to safeguard his worthless hide, ye ken. He’s naught but a coward, and a ruthless one.” Ronan spit out a mouthful of blood. “Christ, ye’ve got a decent throw. I think ye loosed a tooth.”
Brandt didn’t admit that one of his ribs felt painfully tender as they began walking back toward the cottage. A thin line of orange and purple now trimmed the horizon of trees.
“Thank ye for what ye did for Sorcha,” Ronan said after they’d gone a few strides in silence, each of them nursing their aches.
The guilt sluicing through his veins was not unfamiliar. “Of course.”
Ronan grunted fiercely. “Malvern’s men will be on yer trail. Ye’re welcome to travel with us until the crossroads south of Sinclair lands. ’Twill be safer than on yer own. About a day’s ride west, then ye can journey on south from there.”
“Thank you.”
“I am in yer debt.”
Brandt shook his head, uncertain if he wanted any lingering connections to the Maclarens. “The price for my help has already been agreed, as you know.”
Grimly, Ronan met his eyes. “My debt, Pierce, no’ my sister’s. I will no’ forget that ye saved her from that monster.”
…
Sorcha glanced over her shoulder at the man following on horseback. Riding atop his scarred stallion, Brandt was deep in conversation with her brother. She squashed the burst of pleasure that flared through her at the sight of him. It was no use letting herself feel anything. He’d be gone in a day.
She was surprised that he hadn’t departed south at dawn, but supposed it made sense for him to travel with the protection of Maclaren soldiers, especially in unfriendly territory. And she couldn’t deny it had been an unexpected gift to be able to ride Lockie once more. Tomorrow, she’d have to turn him over into Brandt’s hands and truly say good-bye. He’d take care of the stallion, at least. For all his hard edges, she knew Brandt would be gentle with any horse.
A vague memory of fingers caressing her face crossed her mind, and a man’s voice telling her she was beautiful. Sorcha shook herself roughly. Dreams were impetuous, unruly things—giving voice to one’s deepest, most hidden desires. She was not beautiful in the least, and it would do her no good hoping to be so, even while she slept. And even if it had been him, she’d already spent half the night convincing herself that Brandt’s departure would be for the best.
That morning, when they’d readied the horses, she couldn’t help noticing the bruising Brandt had on his cheek or the fact that he’d clutched at his ribs a few times while saddling Ares. She’d also noticed that Ronan cradled a sore, equally bruised jaw. She frowned. They’d come to blows in the middle of the night, but neither of them was amenable to talking about it. At least not to her.
She urged Lockie into a faster run, pulling abreast of Duncan, who led the line of rapidly moving horses. She arched an eyebrow and hooked a thumb to the two men at the rear. “Ronan didn’t have that mark on his chin yesterday. Neither did Brandt.”
“’Twas a misunderstanding. They couldnae see each other in the dark, ye ken.”
Sorcha frowned. “What were they doing out there in the middle of the night? Brawling?”
“Ask Ronan,” Duncan replied gruffly. “He’ll tell ye if ye ask nicely.”
“And where are we heading?” she added. “Brodie’s to the northeast.”
Duncan shot her an aggrieved look.
Sorcha scowled. They’d been riding hard for a few hours through lush valleys speckled with fragrant heather, staying close to the tree line in case they needed to take cover. But there’d been no sign of pursuit or more than passing interest from any of the farming villages they’d come upon. “We just went through Dunbar lands to the west. Is he expecting trouble from the Sinclairs?”
“Lassie, ask yer brother.” Duncan spurred his mount ahead, indicating that the conversation was over.
Sorcha slowed her pace, resuming her position at the middle of the small company. Ronan would tell her when he was ready, though she suspected that he was concerned about the Sinclairs. There was no love lost between the Maclarens and the Sinclairs, ever since Ronan had refused to marry the daughter of the laird for the sake of an alliance five years before. It wasn’t that the girl wasn’t comely. She was, but Lady Mairi had only feathers instead of brains in her head. Rumors of her ignorance reached far and wide. Her brother valued alliances, though clearly, he valued intelligence more.
They rode hard through the afternoon, after stopping to water the horses and eat a light meal of bread and cheese. They would hunt when they stopped for the night. Growing up in the Highlands, Sorcha was more than accustomed to hard riding. She kept glancing back at Brandt, but he seemed to be as comfortable in the saddle as he was on the ground. His beastly mount, too, showed no signs of tiring. Both horse and rider seemed as comfortable as hardened Scottish warriors.
Though she’d felt the weight of his gaze upon her from time to time, Sorcha preferred to keep her distance. It did not make sense to endear herself to the man, not when they intended to part in a few hours. It was the safest, smartest course of action, if only because of her own ungoverned reactions whenever he was near.
After a while, Ronan called out to his men, pulling his horse into a shaded glade at the foothills of a thickly forested mountain. “We rest here.”
Sorcha reined in her mount beside his. A small stream ran through the trees at its base, and the thirsty horses took to the water eagerly.
“You should have married Mairi,” she told her brother with a sour glance. “Then we could have had food, beds, and protection on the way to Brodie. And it would have been half the distance paying respects to the Sinclair instead of going around through the hill pass.”
Ronan started to scowl, then schooled his features into a calmer mask. “’Twas a long time ago, and that’s no’ the reason we’re no’ going that way.”
“Then what is it?”
He shot her a resigned look as if knowing she wouldn’t let it go. “There’s been some looting in the village. The Sinclairs feuding with the Buchanans.”
Highland Scots were always feuding with other clans. It was the way of things.
She wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t the Sinclair’s son married to a Buchanan?”
“That’s part of it,” he said, unrolling a pallet from his saddle and handing it to her. “She’s had a bairn, and the laird wants to introduce his grandson to the rest of the Buchanans.”
She watched as Brandt settled Ares and gathered a bow from Duncan while a few of the men made camp and built a small fire. His stare touched on her, and then he nodded to Ronan before disappearing into the woods with two other men armed with bows and arrows.
“Ye like him, admit it,” Ronan said, following her gaze with a thoughtful look.
“What happened last night?” she asked, bluntly ignoring the comment that seared a hole in her chest. “Did you pick a fight with him?”
“Nae, ’twas a misunderstanding. And yer lover has a powerful fist.”
Sorcha went red and froze at her brother’s teasing words. “He’s not my anything. That should be clear, since he is leaving, with my horse I might add.” She turned on her heel and grabbed the bow and quiver of arrows that was hooked on her pommel.
“We’ve enough hunters, Sorcha,” Ronan goaded her with a knowing smile. “Unless ye’re going into the woods for some other reason.”
“Go to the devil, Ronan.”
To prove her point that she was not following Brandt, she entered the woods at the opposite end of the copse. She could hear Ronan’s laughter behind her and swore under her breath.
Sorcha stomped through the thick undergrowth, making no attempt to be silent so as not to scare away the game. She was too unnerved by the ragged direction of her thoughts. Brandt wasn’t her lover, unless one counted a deflowered arm as such. But Ronan was right. She did like Brandt. She liked his sly humor and the way he looked at her. And she liked his touch. Too much.
It irritated her how much she wanted him to kiss her again. If she was being truthful, she craved even more than that. She craved his hands upon her in a way that was not ladylike in the least.
“Blast it,” she muttered and nocked one of her arrows. She’d be lucky if she hadn’t already frightened away all the game in the vicinity.
Sorcha continued on, this time creeping through the woods, following the bubbling brook that fattened to a wide pool and then narrowed again. The thick cloak of the forest swallowed the sounds around her, until she sensed rather than heard movement to her left. A small doe drank at the riverbank. Though she was not the only one who had set sights upon it. She watched quietly as Brandt took aim from across the river, his strong arm pulling back on the string. The fletching of the arrow caught against his cheekbone, and Sorcha inhaled with him, exhaling as he released his shot. The twanging sound reverberated through her body as if she were tethered to him.
The arrow caught the doe in the hind leg, and Sorcha was quick to release her own arrow before the deer took flight. Her aim was true. She and Brandt reached the fallen animal at the same time. Her breath caught in her throat as they stooped together.
“Good shot,” Brandt said.
“Yours brought it down.” She felt like blushing and kicking herself in the same breath. She had shot dozens of deer, but the approving look in Brandt’s eyes made it seem as if this was her first. All she wanted to do was bask in the warmth of his praise like an utter imbecile. She clenched her jaw instead. “Ronan will be pleased that the men will have fresh meat for sup.”
Deftly, she gutted and cleaned the animal, burying the inedible entrails so as not to attract predators. Then she and Brandt carried the small doe back to the camp. The men were indeed pleased, as the other two had returned with only a rabbit and a rangy-looking fowl that would not have been enough to fill the bellies of a dozen robust Scotsmen. They set in, skinning the deer and then spitting it to roast above the fire.
It wouldn’t be long before the meal was ready, so Sorcha gathered a cloth and scooped some soap from her saddlebag with the intent of making use of the pool she’d spotted before. Her skin felt gritty, and she wanted to wash the layers of dust from her body. Unlike while she was hunting, she knew Ronan would not let her bathe alone, not in open territory. As she searched through the men, Brandt met her eyes, but she looked away.
“Duncan,” she said as she reached him. “I need you to accompany me to the river for a moment to stand watch.”
Duncan’s lips parted to reply, but then shut again as his eyes settled on something just beyond her.
She hadn’t heard Brandt approach. “I will go.”
“I wish for Duncan to go,” she said.
“He is not your husband.”
Duncan snorted a laugh before walking away. She shot Brandt a glare, her voice a cutting whisper. “Neither are you.”
Irritated, Sorcha did not wait for him to follow. She glanced over her shoulder a few times as she stalked into the woods toward the pool. Brandt followed at a distance. When she finally reached the water, she turned to see he’d stopped some ways back. He stood, rooted to the spot, staring at her.
Men. They were so obtuse. Without bothering to shout at him to turn around, as Duncan would have already done, unbidden, she pulled her dress over her head and waded into the water in her shift, gasping at its biting chill on her bare legs. She soaked her cloth and wiped the grime from her face and arms before moving to her legs and torso. The brisk scrubbing and cold water were exactly what she’d needed.
Sorcha longed to go for a swim, but it would not be wise to tarry with Ronan’s men so close. She knew most of them and trusted them. However, she was not naive to their unscrupulous urges. She’d seen many a drunken Maclaren grasping the arses of the giggling serving girls at the keep, and she knew exactly what bedding entailed thanks to the loose lips of her maid, Kira, at Maclaren.
The air suddenly turned heavy with tension, and Sorcha knew Brandt had approached the pool. She felt his gaze settle on her back. Awareness, and not the cold, made chill bumps rise all over her body. She was grateful for her shift, though it clung damply to her skin. Horrified, she realized how revealing the drenched fabric would be. Would it show the hideous map of scars that traversed her body underneath? Would he gape in disgust?
She peered over her shoulder, but his gaze was politely averted.
“What did you mean when you said I wasn’t your husband?” he asked as she hurriedly climbed the bank and shook out her clothing. She would have preferred something clean, but it could not be helped. There would be more grueling riding the next day. Keeping an eye on him, she stripped off the sodden shift and dragged her dress over her head too quickly, managing to get tangled in the yards of fabric. Thank God, she’d forgone stays. They were a nuisance on the road.
He stepped closer to her. “Sorcha?”
“I meant nothing,” she said in a low voice as she lined up the openings and tugged her skirts into place. “You’re leaving, so what does it matter?”
“We both knew I would. You’re safe now. With Ronan.”
She fastened the front-facing hooks just as he turned to look at her. “So why are you still here pretending?”
“It’s not all a pretense.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” His gaze swept her, and the desire burning in his eyes made her weak. Made her bold. She stepped forward until her breasts almost grazed his chest.
“Sorcha,” he began as if to stall her approach, but she silenced him with her fingers, holding them against his lips. Perhaps it was the fact that he was leaving, but she couldn’t help herself. She needed more to remember him by. She craved his touch, his kiss, one more time.
Boldly, she explored the contours of his mouth with her fingertips. Brandt’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak, most likely to protest. Before he could utter a word, she rose to her toes and pressed her lips to his. His entire body went ramrod still, but she did not let that stop her. Bravely, foolishly, desperately, she traced his mouth with hers…delighting in the smooth feel and the heady scent of him. When she darted out her tongue to taste him more fully, with a defeated sound, he gathered her into his arms.
The tentative kiss exploded as Brandt parted her lips with his, his fingers sinking into her hair to cup her nape. Sorcha couldn’t string two thoughts together when his tongue found hers, licking the insides of her lips and exploring all she offered. Greedily, he devoured her, and Sorcha gave no quarter…biting and sucking and stroking.
She was lost in a furor of lust, her entire body made of heat and flame, stoked by his mouth and his hands. Her limbs were useless, but she was braced so tightly to him that she knew she wouldn’t fall. The kiss gentled as he brushed her bruised lips with soothing grazes, sending feathery ripples of sensation down through to the tips of her breasts and between her thighs.
Sorcha sighed as Brandt’s lips traced a hot, wet path down her jaw to her throat. He bit gently at her flesh, and heaven above, she almost swooned at the erotic pressure of his teeth. She clutched at him, pressing her full length against his, and feeling his arousal grind against her hips in the most thrilling way…the most scandalous way. Moaning, she closed her eyes and was startled when he detached his mouth from her skin and set her firmly away from him. His eyes, splashed with green and gold, were the vibrant color of the forest around them, his lips delicious and swollen.
“Enough, Sorcha, I cannot do this.”
It was as if he’d dunked her in the icy river water.
She blinked and sucked in a harsh breath. Hurt pushed through the layers of passion still clouding her senses. His gaze was unreadable, and Sorcha couldn’t stop herself. “Why do you not want me? Is it because of the scarring?”
The pathetic words echoed between them, making her cringe and wish she could take them back. Brandt opened his mouth and closed it, his face growing pinched. Mortified, she spun on her heel and ran back toward the camp. She didn’t look over her shoulder this time to see if he followed.
She couldn’t imagine meeting his eyes ever again.