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Broch cleared his throat, securing Sorcha’s attention. “I overheard Cameron admit to Alex last night at supper that ye were indeed a formidable archer.”
Sorcha blinked in pleasant surprise. “I’m astounded that the man praised me since he bested me when we competed.”
“I was astounded, as well,” Broch admitted. “Cameron is nae one to easily give praise. He has almost impossible expectations for himself as a warrior, as well as for those of us who are under his command.”
Sorcha guided her horse up the hill they were ascending. “Do ye believe him unreasonable?” she inquired, wanting to hear what Broch thought of Cameron. Her gut told her a great deal could be learned about the man from those who served him. If he was a good man and leader, surely they would see that.
Broch shook his head, which filled Sorcha with relief. “Nay, he is nae unreasonable. Simply demanding. But he would nae ever ask anything of us that he would nae ask of himself.” A smile split Broch’s thoughtful expression. “The problem as I see it is that he asks too much of himself.”
“Such as?” she asked slowly.
“Such as forgoing the comfort of settling with one woman,” Broch replied, his probing stare landing on her.
She was glad that she had to focus on where to guide the horse over some rocks, for she did not wish Broch to see the dismay she felt in her heart on her face. She focused her attention on the reins as she spoke. “Ye believe he dunnae ever wish to marry?”
“Aye,” Broch immediately replied. “He’s long said he dunnae wish for one lass, especially a confusing one.”
“Shut yer mouth, Broch MacLeod,” Bridgette snapped as she drew beside Sorcha on the widening trail. Marion brought her horse up beside Broch and gave him a narrow-eyed look.
“Dunnae fash yerself, Sorcha,” Bridgette said soothingly. “Broch’s still smarting over Lillianna. He wanted the lass, and she wanted Cameron.”
Sorcha tensed, sure Broch would be angry that Bridgette revealed such intimate details of his life, but instead, the man laughed. “I’m nae denying my manly pride was wounded when the lass gave her, er, attention to Cameron, but I was nae overly dismayed. The lass is scheming, and I doubt her schemes include marrying a man who dunnae even ken who his real father is over a man who is the son of a laird.”
“Oh, Broch,” Marion said in a sympathetic tone. “If a woman is worthy of you, she will not care that you don’t know who your real father is. Besides that, I think it would hurt Neil greatly to hear that you did not consider him your father.”
The secrets being revealed fascinated Sorcha, so she kept quiet, simply listening as her horse now clopped along at a steady pace.
Broch looked to Sorcha. “I think of Neil as a father. He kens this. He took me in when his sister came to Dunvegan with a bairn and refused to say who the father was. He raised me as his own after my mother died when I was still in swaddling cloth.” Broch turned his attention back to Marion. “And I ken that Lillianna was nae meant for me, but that dunnae mean it did nae nick my pride.”
Bridgette made a derisive noise from deep in her throat. “Lillianna is nae a lady. I’d nae give her another thought.”
Sorcha felt Broch’s gaze settle on her. “I dunnae anymore,” he replied in a slow, deep tone. “Another lass occupies all my thoughts now.”
Heat seared Sorcha’s cheeks, and her mind raced with how to respond. Thankfully, she was spared the awkwardness of giving a response that would be a gentle dissuasion, as Marion spoke.
“That’s enough talk of your lustful thoughts,” Marion chided. “I’m quite certain Sorcha must think us uncouth.”
Sorcha opened her mouth to assure Marion she only had the best thoughts of her, but Marion shot her a warning look. She was trying to turn the conversation, and if Sorcha spoke now, she might bring the talk back to Broch and his feelings for her.
“I’m quite proper, Sorcha, I assure you,” Marion said. “I’m half-English.”
“Ye used to be,” Bridgette corrected. “Ye’re full Scot now.”
Marion grinned. “That’s true. I am. But I was raised to be a lady. I didn’t become the mischievous woman you see before you until I befriended Bridgette.”
“Ha!” Bridgette snorted. “I befriended ye, and I happen to remember a certain story where a proper English lass feigned her own death to avoid marriage. That dunnae sound like a woman who lacked mischief to me.”
Sorcha laughed, but then her laughter froze in her throat as a memory split through her mind.
“Ye’re going to tumble into the creek, Sorcha,” a dark-haired girl chided.
Sorcha saw herself in a reflection in the water. She was a willowy child, maybe eight summers. She was barefoot, and her arms were thrown out to her sides as she balanced on the edge of some stones and peered into the water. She giggled, turned, and stuck her tongue out at the dark-haired girl, who was not very much older than herself.
“Ye dunnae ever wish me to have any fun,” Sorcha complained.
The girl cocked an eyebrow. “I wish ye to stay out of trouble, so that I may, as well. When ye get into mischief, Father always blames me.”
Deep regret blanketed Sorcha. “I’m sorry. I will try—”
