My Scot, My Surrender by Amalie Howard & Angie Morgan

Author:Amalie Howard & Angie Morgan [Howard, Amalie & Morgan, Angie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Entangled, Amara, Lords of Essex, Scotland, Highlander, privilege, festival, arranged marriage, scot, scots, Scottish, Historical, Historical Romance, Romance, highland
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC
Published: 2018-01-29T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

To Sorcha’s surprise, there was a knock on the door and men waiting at Morag’s side with a wooden tub. She had just splashed her face with the cool, refreshing water in the basin, and, though she’d been grateful for the chance to wash away the half-day’s worth of travel dust, she longed for a bath. No sooner had she thought it than the knock had come. The servants emptied pails of steaming water into the tub until it was full. Some of them stared openly at her, and Sorcha resisted the urge to duck her head.

“Will ye need help, lass?” Morag asked. Sorcha shook her head, and the old woman curtsied, shutting the door behind her.

Stripping bare with a delicious sigh, she sank into the warm water, scented with rose petals and lavender. God, she missed baths. She loved riding and hunting, but being on the road took its toll. It made her long for the simple luxuries of home. After scrubbing her entire body from top to toe, she wrapped herself in a long length of toweling and sat before the fire to dry and comb her hair. She heard the chamber door open and close, but it was only Morag with a gown in hand. Still, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Yers was filthy, so I brought ye another one.” Morag studied the pale blue muslin she held with a critical eye. “Ye’re a tall lass, but it should fit.”

“Thank you,” Sorcha said with a grateful smile as the maid curtsied and left.

She’d brought no other suitable gowns with her, and all of the clothing in her pack needed washing or mending. She hadn’t wanted to go to dinner in the laird’s hall looking like a pauper with borrowed threads from charity, but she didn’t have any other choice. At least now she would not bring shame to Maclaren. Or her husband.

Not that he would care if she appeared clothed in rags.

Sorcha blinked. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of Brandt since they departed for Montgomery. After what had happened between them at the river, she’d wanted to kick herself in the teeth. Repeatedly.

The bluntness of his response had burned through to her bared heart like hot embers upon an open wound. Even now, the memory scalded. What had she expected? That he would fall to his knees and confess his devotion? In truth, a small part of her had hoped he would. But his cruel words had shattered her girlish fantasies.

He did not want marriage. Nor did he want her.

Oh, he wanted her body. She’d felt his arousal on the way to the keep. But Brandt appeared to view any intimacy between them as weakness. Or idiocy. It seemed he was far more adept than she was at keeping his desires separate from everything else. Perhaps all men were built that way, able to take pleasure and only pleasure when it was given, without the inconvenient entanglement of feelings.

Well, no matter. Soon, they would be at Brodie, and she could put Brandt Pierce behind her for good, as he clearly wanted.

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