A Laird to Hold

by Angeline Fortin

  Scarlett jumped, a quiver ricocheted through her chest. A gunshot sounded from inside the room. Where Jameson was supposedly alone. Fear spiked like shards of ice through her veins and adrenaline followed like a jolt of electricity. What if someone had gotten there prior to her arrival?

  What if…?

  Before she knew it, she’d opened the door.

  Bong.

  Like watching a film in slow motion, Scarlett saw Donell bow over, clutching his stomach. Fall to his knees. To his side. He hit the floor with a muffled thud. Those blue eyes always so full of life and mischief peered up at her, dull and gray.

  “There ye are, lass. I’ve been expecting ye.”

  “Donell!” Without thought, she took a step forward.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, too, Ms. Thomas.”

  Jameson stood across the room, the muzzle of the gun all she could see above his hand. Death awaited her down that tiny black hole.

  Dong.

  In seconds, she’d be the one to fall to the floor. Feel her life seep away. Her last words to Laird would be ones said in anger. She’d never have the chance to say goodbye to him. Tell him she’d loved him. She’d never get the chance to be a mother to her girls. To be the kind of mom she’d always wished she’d had.

  Regrets were all that would accompany her to the afterlife. If there was one.

  Jameson’s finger tightened on the trigger and Scarlett braced herself. In a flash of white, the death scene awaiting her disappeared.

  Laird

  “Nay!” Laird yelled over the tolling of the clock as it called out the hour. Scarlett disappeared into nothingness with the final peal and fear clenched his heart. No, not again! Seconds behind her but too late to stop it, he ran to the door and spotted Donell on the floor. “Ye wretch, what hae ye done wi’ her?”

  “Laird! Watch out!”

  The breath whistled out of him and Laird crashed to the floor with Connor atop him. Shots rang out. A bullet splintered the door frame where he’d just been.

  Connor had saved his life. Not at all how Laird had planned this moment, but he wouldn’t waste the gift.

  He leapt to his feet. Another bullet sending up a spray of carpet fiber where he’d been a moment before. Laird drew Scarlett’s pistol from his waistband and fired back. The shot went astray, striking the ceiling.

  Bloody hell, he hadn’t expected the kickback. He fired again. Jameson dove behind the bed and shot over the top of it without looking to see what he might hit.

  Which was nothing more than the wall.

  Laird meant to keep it that way. There was too much to lose. He would send the dog to hell then find out where Scarlett had gone. A glance at Donell bleeding profusely told him he’d best be quick about it.

  Jameson’s head popped up over the top of the bed. Laird pulled the trigger again. This time it was followed by a cry of pain that fed Laird’s bloodlust.

  “Donell!” Emmy cried out, rushing to the old man’s side despite her promise to stay back. The physician in her wouldn’t allow it.

  “Emmy, nay!” Connor roared as Jameson rose to his knees and turned his gun on her. In a split second, Connor’s blade caught the light like a bolt of lightning as he lurched forward and arced the long length of the Claymore toward Jameson just as he pulled the trigger.

  Jameson’s shot went awry and hit the floor as he bellowed in pain, clutching his abdomen. A narrow slit split his shirt and a thin line of blood beaded there. Not a deathblow. Laird fired his pistol at Jameson again, hitting the wall behind him when Jameson staggered to the side between the bed and the wall. Gunfire reverberated again and white fluff and frayed fabric shot up from the bed like a geyser in front of Laird. The bullet hit the ceiling.

  Then Connor was there between them, driving the sword down, and Jameson screamed in pain.

  “Connor, step back!” Laird demanded, aiming for another shot. Alas, he dared not fire lest he risk striking Connor.

  The blasted space was too narrow for him to jump into the fray either. Too small for Connor to withdraw the sword for a second blow. He tossed it aside, reached down and lifted Jameson bodily out of the tight space. Connor threw him through the air.

  Panting, Connor watched Jameson land in a crumpled heap a few feet from where Donell lay bleeding.

  Then he looked down at his own chest and Laird’s gaze followed. A crimson rose blossomed halfway down his chest. Furled and spread like a plague.

  “Nay!” Laird shouted in denial.

  Emmy echoed his protest. Her cry of horror bouncing off the walls. “Connor!”

  Connor fell to one knee, clutching his chest. When had he been hit? Jameson’s shots had hit the wall, the floor, and the ceiling. Three shots…

  Except for the first three when Connor had tackled Laird out of harm’s way at the door. Saved Laird when he’d been distracted by Scarlett’s disappearance. One in the door frame. Another in the carpet.

  And the other…

  This could not be. It would not be.

  Wounded and still he fought like a warrior. Regret, grief, and pride mingled in Laird’s heart.

  Emmy raced to her husband’s side. Connor looked up at Laird, his dark eyes awash with agony. “Kill the bastard, Laird.”

  Aye, Laird would not let Connor’s heroic actions go unrewarded. Such a sacrifice could not be in vain. Fury washed away the regret and pounded through Laird’s veins. Teeth clenched so hard his jaw might break, Laird’s vision clouded with a red haze.

  Jameson groaned and clawed his way across the floor for the gun he’d dropped. He stumbled to his feet, bleeding heavily from his head where Laird’s bullet had hit him. And from his side where Connor had pierced him with his second blow.

  Connor.

  Rage so hot a moment before settled into his veins like a hard freeze. With slow deliberation, Laird aimed his gun and pulled the trigger. It hit the wall above Jameson. Jameson returned fire. The bullet grazed Laird’s neck but he didn’t flinch. He returned the volley. Jameson screamed in pain as it hit him high on the shoulder. Another hit him high in the arm and Jameson’s weapon fell to the ground.

  Laird growled in frustration. He wasn’t doing damage enough to assuage his wrath. The shots all hit higher than he intended. Bugger it, but he had no experience with the blasted weapon. And didn’t have time to learn. Connor’s sword was nowhere to be seen, mayhap under the bed. He would not feel the satisfaction of running Jameson through with his blade.

  So be it. There’d be more satisfaction in ripping Jameson from limb to limb in any case.

  Tossing the gun to the side, Laird crossed the room at a run. Put all his momentum behind his fist. He connected with Jameson’s chin and it snapped upward. Gratification stoked his vengeance. His fists flew. Each punch kept Jameson pinned up against the wall with nowhere to run. Again and again, he hammered Jameson’s face and jaw until the man was a gory pulp.

  Jameson wilted downward, a plea for mercy on his bloodied lips. However, there could be no mercy for the man who’d shown none. Laird lifted him again with an uppercut to his gut. Another. And another. He pummeled the man with his fists but felt no conciliation in his heart.

  “Please,” Jameson rasped out. “Stop. I beg you.”

  “Beg me to stop?” he sneered and pulled Rhys’s dagger from his belt. Holding it to Jameson’s neck, Laird’s lip curled in disgust. “That will do nothing to end yer misery, mon. For all ye’ve done this day…for Halliday, for Hugh, and for Connor, begging me to end yer life quickly is all that will spare ye further pain.”

  “Then do it.” Blood dribbled from Jameson’s lips. “Kill me.”

  With a growl, Laird twisted the point of the dagger into the man’s neck. The wee prick drawing but a drop of blood and a pitiful wail.

  “Laird!” Emmy’s urgent scream penetrated his rage. He glanced over his shoulder and his anger slipped a notch.

  Och, Scarlett had been right. For all the rage in his heart, he was no killer of the defenseless. Suc
h spinelessness was for men like Jameson. Laird was a seeker of justice, not vengeance. He would let the authorities finish with Jameson.

  Laird slipped the dagger back into his belt and drew back his fist one more time, sending it into Jameson’s nose with a crack. With a sputter and a groan, Jameson lost consciousness.

  Laird let him slump to the floor and rushed to assist Emmy. She’d ripped open Connor’s shirt, pressed a wad of white sheeting to the wound low on his ribcage. Already most of the compress was soaked with his blood despite the force of pressure weighed upon it.

  “Call for help,” her plea was urgent.

  “Who?”

  “999!” she yelled. “Call it. Now.”

  He pulled the phone from his pocket, fumbled with the device to enter the numbers.

  Connor’s breaths gurgled with each intake. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth with each exhale. Laird passed the information of their whereabouts on to the operator but knew the effort would be futile. He’d seen many a man die this way after taking a blade to the chest on the field of battle. As advanced as healthcare in this time might be, some wounds could not be healed.

  Emmy must have realized the same. Grievous sobs wracked her shoulders as she bowed over her husband.

  “My love,” Connor whispered weakly, his bloody hand trembled to reach for her. “Eternity will hae to wait, aye?”

  She caught his hand, lifted it to her cheek. “No. Connor, please. Don’t go. Please, fight. For me.”

  The tearful entreaty drew an wretched sob from Emmy and brought a tight ache to Laird’s chest. He pressed a fist to it as if it could block away the grief. His eyes burned with unshed tears. It could not be.

  “Laird.”

  Laird turned to find Donell’s eyes upon him. The old man was alive. In need of aid. Laird took a step in his direction, but Donell held up a hand. “Nay, beware lad.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Laird saw Jameson reaching across the floor for his gun. Before he could take another step, pain more agonizing than he’d thought possible bombarded him. Ravaged his chest. Seized his lungs.

  Laird looked down at the ruby stain.

  Nay, the bastard could not win.

  Pulling Rhys’s dagger from his belt once more, Laird hurled it toward Jameson. Watched it sink into his throat. Blood gushed around the hilt.

  He’d accomplished what he’d come to do. Jameson was dead. Their mission done. The future secured. He’d succeeded.

  Yet he’d failed. Failed in his promise to keep them all safe. Now Connor lay dying.

  Soon he would follow. Laird’s life was already leeching away. His hands cold, muscles weakening.

  Never would he see Scarlett again. Hold his true love in his arms knowing his life was complete. He would die without knowing Scarlett’s fate, what would become of her and his daughters. He mourned for them, his beloveds.

  Darkness washed over him but just before oblivion took hold, Laird thought he heard Scarlett scream his name.

  Scarlett

  A split second after Scarlett fell beneath the curtain of white, it cleared. She was still at the open motel room door. However, the scene currently before her was nothing like the one she’d left. Bodies lay everywhere. Emmy huddled on the far side of the bed. Donell, Jameson. Blood all over. Laird standing over them.

  How had that happened?

  Then Laird sank to his knees, keeled over holding his chest.

  “Laird!” With a horrified cry, she sprinted to his side.

  She took his hand, holding it tight. There was so much blood. Everywhere. “What have you done?” she screamed at Donell.

  “Lass, ye’re alive,” Laird croaked. His hand tightened around hers. “Thank God. I dinnae ken where Donell had sent ye. I was afraid…” A groan of pain choked whatever he meant to say and Scarlett checked him over, unsure what to do. So much blood. Panic reverberated through her. “Mo chroí…I’m sorry.”

  “No, no, no, no. Laird…please, just hold on!”

  What should she do?

  “Emmy,” she cried. “Emmy, help me!”

  A sob as heartbroken as any she’d ever heard was her only answer. No other sound but Emmy’s weeping. Each sniffle followed by a low keening, “No-o-o.”

  “Emmy?” Scarlett twisted around and saw Connor sprawled on the floor next to Emmy. His chest as bloody as Laird’s. His body just as still.

  Dread clawed at her throat. She turned back to Laird and patted his cheek. “Laird. Laird! Come on. Open your eyes.”

  His eyelids fluttered then stilled. “Mo chroí…”

  “No. Don’t do this. Come on,” she begged, her voice breaking until the last word was almost inaudible.

  With one last long, slow exhale, his breath escaped him.

  Scarlett stared dumbfounded at his chest. Waiting for it to rise again. To move.

  It didn’t.

  “Laird?” she whispered desperately. She clutched his lifeless hand, then harder. Folded his fingers around hers, urging them to curl of their own will.

  But they did not.

  “Don’t do this. Please. Laird?”

  His name caught in her throat. Denial churned in her belly. This was not supposed to happen. Laird was supposed to be sixty-six when he died. His tombstone at Dunskirk had marked the date. Thirty-three more years, she was due. Time enough to love for a lifetime. To hold him for a lifetime.

  To make it enough for her.

  But there would never be enough time with him, she realized. No matter what she’d told Donell. How naïve she’d been! Five years…ten…fifty. No amount of time would be long enough for all the love she had to give him.

  She needed an eternity. Now, she’d never have it. Never be able to pour out all the love she carried for him.

  Scarlett clasped his unresponsive hand again and pressed her lips to his fingers. Still warm with life, but fading. Desolation thrust the numbness inside her aside, letting the pain rush in.

  “No, Laird. No,” she whimpered pitifully. This couldn’t be real. “No. Please, please, please.”

  Tears started to flow and she buried her face against his shoulder with a desperate prayer on her lips. There was no steady heartbeat to comfort her. No strong arms to hold her.

  “Oh God, no.” A shudder racked her shoulders.

  He was gone.

  Crushing misery gripped Scarlett’s heart like a vise until anguish erupted from the break. Agony spread through her chest, hot as fire to steal her breath. A forlorn sob built up inside of her and surfaced with raw emotion. Another slashed her soul.

  No. No.

  “Lai-ai-aird!” The lingering lament hung in the air.

  “Lass…Lass.”

  Lifting her head, Scarlett almost expected to find Jameson pointing a gun at her again. For the second time in as many minutes, Scarlett waited for death to take her. This time she wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be a blessing.

  “Lass…” Donell’s rasp reached her at last. “Help me. Reach it.”

  He was trying to dig into his pocket but was too weak. Numb, Scarlett did help him, retrieving a smooth, white oval object. No bigger than a flattened egg.

  “Gi’ it to me, lass.” She put it in his hand. He ran his thumb over it and a series of blue lights appeared. “Step back.”

  She dropped back on her heels. A heartbeat later, he vanished.

  She didn’t care where he’d gone this time.

  Couldn’t.

  It didn’t matter anymore.

  Scarlett collapsed across Laird’s motionless body. Her heaving sobs…

  And Emmy’s, the only reality left to her.

  Scarlett

  Scarlett stared at the door, dazed and confused. Her head swam dizzily and she pressed her fingertips to her temple, unsure what was going on. The peal of the Canongate Toll Booth Clock rang out in the distance to mark the hour.

  Bong. Dong. Bong. Dong.

  Four strikes? Why didn’t that seem accurate?

  “Scarlett!”<
br />
  At the sound of that dear, deep voice, something inside of her snapped. Ecstatic relief she couldn’t identify a reason for. She spun around and saw Laird, Connor and Emmy sprinting toward her. Alive. Well.

  Why were they…?

  Why wouldn’t they be?

  A vague image of bodies and blood came to her mind. Sickening in its detail. Laird still, motionless.

  No.

  Dead.

  Scarlett didn’t know what had happened, but joy flooded her. She flung herself in Laird’s arms, clung to his wide shoulders, massive and so very vital beneath her hands. Alive.

  Alive.

  He crushed her to him and lifted her off the ground.

  “You’re all right,” she murmured against his neck. It didn’t make any sense. What had happened? “How? How are you here? I saw you in there. I saw you…”

  Laird pulled back, eased her down until her feet were once more on the floor. Bewilderment churned in his gray eyes, but just as quickly comprehension filled them.

  “Ye disappeared before my eyes. I thought ye gone forever. Then…nay, it cannae be.”

  He turned to Emmy and Connor who were both looking rather bemused. “Ye died,” he said to Connor.

  “A dream? Just a dream?” Emmy suggested, but her grip on her husband’s arm intensified visibly.

  “The same one?” Scarlett pointed out, then stiffened. “Donell!”

  She whipped around and opened the motel room door expecting to see the old wizard dead on the floor. The room was empty. No sign of Donell, Jameson, or the devastation that had taken place.

  Or had it?

  Scarlett rubbed her temple again, trying to remember what had happened. Jameson had been about to kill her. Then Donell had sent her…to the future. Five minutes? Ten minutes ahead? An hour? She didn’t know.

  In that time the others had come. Fought with Jameson. Killed him. And been killed in the process.

  It had to have been a dream. They were all here. Alive.

  Scarlett turned back into Laird’s arms and held him tight.

  His heart beat against her ear. His chest rose and fell with each breath. She saw herself draped over his lifeless body, reliving the vicious pain of knowing he was dead. Whatever had happened, she was eternally grateful it wasn’t real. She didn’t ever want to experience such agony again.