Taken: A Laird for All Time Novel (Volume 2)

by Angeline Fortin

  “And yer people attacked my hold,” he shot back with a blood chilling growl.

  “My people?”

  “Aye, Lindsay, yer people.”

  “Lindsay? My name isn’t Lindsay,” she scoffed. “As if you didn’t know.”

  “Are ye the Crawford’s get then? Why would he bring ye here dressed thusly?”

  Scarlett closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. They were getting nowhere fast with this shooting questions back and forth at each other. And his brogue so much thicker than any other she had heard in Scotland, Scarlett could barely understand him to boot.

  The brute flexed his arm and Scarlett fought to keep his elbow locked, adding the slightest pressure to his thumb. It pleased her immensely to see him wince. “Listen. Obviously there has been a mistake. I’m not whoever it is you think I am. So how about I let you go and you walk away. That way I can go back to my hotel, have a nice long bath, a whole bottle of wine and just forget this day ever happened. What do you say?”

  “Aboot what?”

  “Do ye need help, brother?”

  Scarlett looked up at the same time as her attacker and groaned. To her dismay, there was not one man coming to his aid, but a half dozen more dressed much as her hostage. In fact, all of them were wearing the same kilt of faded red plaid with thin yellow and black lines. If that wasn’t disconcerting enough, unbelievably they were all armed with long claymores.

  “Holy shit.” Icy dread gripped her heart as she watched drops of what could only be blood dribble off the tip of one of the swords and spread like a web through the stone of the castle floor. “What the hell is going on here? Who are you people?”

  The man at the head of the newcomers took a few steps forward, studying her and Scarlett looked him over as well. Even without him claiming her hostage his brother, she could see the facial resemblance though his expression wasn’t quite as murderous. Nor was he as bulked up… which wasn’t to say that he wasn’t muscular. It would be like comparing a quarterback to a linebacker (if one were into sports analogies). The power was still there. This one also had dark auburn hair instead of mahogany. It was longer, past his shoulders, and combed back from his arresting face.

  There was also something about him. Perhaps it was the way he held himself, that self-confident gaze or how his lips curved just so, that was immediately engaging. Certainly he wasn’t the humble sort but neither did he radiate cockiness in the off-putting manner some of her former co-stars had. Grayson, for example. Still, this one could have been a movie star in a heartbeat, with fangirls worshiping at his feet.

  Having never known a ginger who was dangerous, she felt her wariness ebb.

  Meeting his eyes boldly, Scarlett watched the corner of his mouth kick up attractively before his gaze shifted down with some interest to the arm bar she maintained on her attacker. “Is she hurting ye, brother?”

  “Nay, Rhys. I’m merely resting.”

  His ‘G’ slid into a low hiss when Scarlett bent his thumb downward more forcibly. The other man – Rhys, was it? – smiled broadly as he looked down at her with wicked humor dancing in his silvery eyes. “I like her.”

  Scarlett raised a superior brow and the man’s mischievous grin stretched even wider.

  “I think I’d like to take ye home wi’ me.”

  “Thank you, no. I’m fine right here,” she shot back and was treated to his delighted laughter as well.

  “Rhys, would ye just take her?” her attacker growled out, slapping his free palm against the floor impatiently.

  “Perhaps ye should just ask her to release ye.” She had to have been mistaken, but Scarlett swore she could see approval in this Rhys’ eyes. “She cannae be much of a threat to us. Clearly she’s run from her sickbed.”

  Scarlett looked down at her maxi dress wondering how such a message could be ‘clear’ when they were the ones dressed so oddly. Like rejects from the local renaissance fair or war re-enactors gone wild.

  “Sickbed?” she repeated incredulously. “Do I look sick to you?”

  “Are ye no’? Ye must hae been maddened by fever if ye thought to defeat the mighty Laird o’ Achenmeade in hand-to-hand combat,” Rhys jested with another laugh and a few of the other men swallowed chuckles before the huge barbarian on his knees scowled fiercely, immediately silencing them all.

  “Yes, heaven forbid a little girl like me should be able to defend herself against a man intent on harming her,” Scarlett retorted, bending the mighty Laird’s wrist again until he hissed in pain.

  “Bloody hell, Rhys,” he swore. “Will ye just take her all ready?”

  Rhys met her eyes and shrugged. “Wi’ my apologies, lady.”

  Then his hands were on her shoulders and Scarlett was back to square one. She released the Laird guy who rose shaking out his hand and brought her arms up, arcing them over her new opponent’s arms and cutting downward to break his hold.

  Odds overwhelmingly against her, Scarlett didn’t even try to fight this time but turned and ran. Not a step had she gone before a thickly muscled arm snaked about her waist, lifting her off her feet. Giving her no chance to fight back this time, Laird tossed her over his shoulder as if she didn’t weigh an ounce and pinned her there with one arm. Though Scarlett struggled for all she was worth, kicking and hitting, he held her tight, smacking her bottom hard for good measure. Scarlett stilled at the stinging pain. Her self-defense teacher had never addressed how to get out of that particular hold.

  “Have a care, brother,” the more humorous of the pair said. “She’s so frail ye might snap her bones.”

  “I’m more like to snap her neck,” the words vibrated through the thick chest pressed against her thighs. “What else am I to do wi’ her?”

  Rhys shrugged carelessly. His eyes were still sparkling while Scarlett’s were shooting sparks. “She maun hae come wi’ the reivers to raid yer keep but why? As sickened as she has clearly been and in her small clothes? I suppose we might ask the Lindsay men who she is if any yet live.”

  “Aye and we may get a fair ransom for her as well.”

  Scarlett stilled as that one word stood out from their thick, garbled speech. Ransom! It rang through her head like a peal. She was being kidnapped. So much for him not knowing whom she was.

  “Tyrone! Tyrone, help me!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, the plea ending in an undignified squawk as the Laird brought down his meaty hand firmly down on her buttocks once more. With only the thin cotton of her maxi skirt and panties to pillow the blow, her bottom warmed grievously. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” she screamed, beating his back with her fists once more. Not that he seemed to notice, the frickin’ brick wall!

  With her bouncing against his shoulder, his long jarring steps carried them across the tower and down the stairs. As they were passing through the hall within the curtain wall, Scarlett felt her tote slip over her back and up to the base of her neck. Twisting about, she expected it would fall even farther so that she might be able to reach it.

  Let’s see what these bastards had to say when she was pointing a gun at them.

  But, no. Her bag stayed put. Disappointed, she looked around, hoping to catch sight of any of the castle staff or other guests who might come to her aid. Even Donell, though older, might carry her call for help to the others. But there was no one about other than more kilted marauders. No sound beyond the occasional ring of clashing swords.

  “Report,” her captor barked out as they emerged from the castle and another armed man rushed toward them without sparing her a single glance. None of the men did. It was as if they didn’t even notice her hanging over his shoulder.

  Or was it just that common a sight?

  “The castle is retaken, m’lord,” the newcomer said quickly. “Nae more than a dozen inside and out. None killed. Dougal and Malcolm are rounding up the strays.”

  Dozen? Scarlett stilled once more at their words. That made no sense. There were at least that many staff members working the castle and more than a hund
red spectators and guests present for the exhibit as well. Still, there wasn’t a familiar face to be seen.

  What was going on here? What had happened to everyone? The crowd? The cameras?

  Who were these people?

  “At least there is that to stop the feuding. Lock the prisoners in the dungeon and assign a guard to them til Lindsay ransoms them back.” Laird turned on his heel then paused a few steps away. “Padraig, bring one of them to me first.”

  Like a good little soldier, the lackey ran off. Little? Ha, he was as big as the rest of them. It was indeed like coming face to face with a football team. Scarlett, who hadn’t been labeled petite since she was ten, was unexpectedly cowed by their collective size.

  Not that she planned to show it.

  When the Laird dragged her back over his shoulder and dropped her at his feet, she met him glare for glare. The bastard only lifted a single brow, amusement reflected in his eyes if not on his lips.

  Oh, if only looks could…

  The gun!

  Scarlett tore open her bag and dug inside the cluttered tote but was once again thwarted when he clamped both of her wrists in one hand. Though she struggled to free herself, his grip was as effective as a pair of handcuffs. A moment later a rough texture abraded her tender wrist and she stilled in surprise.

  He was actually tying her up. Binding her hands in front of her, not with handcuffs or even the taught smoothness of a zip-tie but with roughly braided, hemp rope. “Rope? Who uses rope anymore?”

  The brute lifted a brow and jerked the knot tighter.

  “Hey! Watch it. That hurts.”

  “Ye nearly broke my bluidy thumb, lass,” he whispered as he bent over to bind her ankles. “And my nose.”

  “Only nearly? Guess I should have tried harder.” Scarlett lifted her knee sharply, feeling a strong sense of satisfaction when she caught him on the side of the head.

  “Och, ye bluidy hellion!” He rubbed his ear and glared up at her with deadly menace. “I dinnae like to strike a lady but ye best stand still before I cuff ye to be sure!”

  Yes, she supposed she should have been glad that he didn’t retaliate with violence as Grayson had. Surely a blow from that brawny fist would kill her but somehow she instinctively knew he wasn’t going to hit her. Not now, not when he’d had more than a few chances to do so upstairs.

  And in truth, his scathing command chaffed almost as much as the rope around her ankles. She’d spent her whole life being told what do. She had only just started to retake control of her life and now this. Well, she wasn’t about to stand for it without being as difficult as possible. If kicking and screaming her way through this whole nightmare would annoy him, it would be worth any effort. “Ouch! Not so tight. Geez, what are you? An amateur? You want a good ransom, the merchandise needs to be returned unharmed.”

  “If ye had bothered to dress yerself ere walking the halls, ye might hae had a thick hose betwixt yer flesh and the rope.”

  “I am dressed,” Scarlett snapped irritably.

  He looked down at her dress skeptically and again Scarlett wondered at it. Even without her denim jacket on top of it, there was nothing wrong with what she was wearing but he was looking at her like she was making a dozen fashion faux pas. He certainly didn’t look like he could have been a fashion editor for anything more haute couture than the Highlands edition of Field and Stream or Kilts Weekly.

  “You’re a fine one to talk about fashion with you and your men dressed all matchy-matchy like some Highland marching band. I can’t wait to see you pull out the bagpipes.”

  “Cease yer senseless havering, lass.”

  “Look, last chance, Laird or whatever your name is,” Scarlett warned darkly. “Let me go now or I will make sure you get the book thrown at you hard.”

  “Mayhap yer more ill than I thought,” he said, frowning in confusion and scratching at his whiskered jaw as he studied her. “Why would anyone throw something so dear as books at me?”

  Surely that absurd, cantankerous man was going to drive her bat-shit crazy! Scarlett gnashed her teeth. “The authorities. Do you understand that word or do I need to spell it out for you? You will be arrested for this, you know.”

  Her kidnapper only rolled his eyes dismissively. “My cousin is the Earl of Bothwell, lass, mine uncle the Warden of Middle March. My own father, the Lord High Chamberlain. I assure ye, lass, I willnae find myself in shackles o’er something so minor as this.”

  Since when was kidnapping ‘minor’? “You think a little name dropping is going to scare me?” Scarlett asked boldly. “I can name drop, too. I’ll go straight to the top even. I know the Queen!”

  Well, met, more than knew but the insouciance of the man was beginning to terrify her more than the situation. He didn’t seem to care that what he was doing was a crime. The worst kinds of psychopaths were the ones who thought themselves above the law or a law onto themselves. Unfortunately, she knew all too well how dangerous the crazies could be.

  And her threat didn’t seem to give him pause at all, instead his steely gaze narrowed on her. “Which one?”

  Which one? Scarlett shook her head incomprehensively. How many queens did he think were on this freakin’ island? “The Queen of England, of course.”

  If possible, his look became even more glacial. “Are you a spy then?”

  “What? No!” Scarlett frowned, still shaking her head as if the motion might deny the absurdity of the entire conversation. “Why would you even ask that?”

  “No one in Scotland would admit to an association with the Queen given the discord between our countries.”

  That discombobulating statement was too mind-numbing for Scarlett to even begin to try to decipher. “Put it this way, if I were a spy would I be so dumb as to admit it?”

  He lifted a brow and shrugged as if he questioned her ability to even produce a logical thought. Fair enough. Scarlett felt the same of him. It was as if this Laird guy had been hiding under a rock and had no clue what was going on in the world or how it worked. “I would appreciate it if you would please just leave me alone.”

  “Unguarded?”

  “Have someone else guard me then,” she insisted, flicking her fingers toward Rhys. “Like that other guy. The nice one.”

  “Ye think he will be sweet-talked into letting ye go? He willnae.”

  “No, I just think he won’t drive me as crazy as you do.”

  4

  James Hepburn signaled to two of his men to stand guard over his captive, leaving them with stern warnings not to be swayed by her frail appearance.

  As he had been.

  Tall but thin as a rail, James would never have considered that such a waifish lass might ever have him at her mercy but surprisingly she had. Shaking out his hand once more at the memory of the horrendous pain she had produced with just a turn of his digits, James crossed the castle yard to where his half-brother was supervising the securing of the captured reivers who would become his prisoners that day.

  Sod it all. He hated to detain them so. Most of them were just family men looking to secure food and supplies for their families. Crofters with fields to be harvested. Letting them go, however, would be a mistake. A signal to the Lindsays and the Hepburn’s other rival clans that his lands and goods were theirs for the taking.

  That would be unacceptable. So ransomed they would be to their laird, assuming that the Lindsay would be willing to pay a fair price for them.

  As for the woman, James didn’t know what to make of her.

  “What vexes ye, Laird?” Rhys asked with a provoking grin as he neared. “The wee lassie giving ye more pain?”

  “Dinnae call me that.” James curled his lip not only at the name but at being baited to respond as he had been a thousand times before. “She pains me naught but for the throbbing of my skull when speaking wi’ her. She is an impossible harridan, refusing to answer my questions fairly. Evading the truth and talking nonsense. Now, she asks for ye to stand guard over her.”


  “Me?” his brother questioned with a wicked laugh. “Why me?”

  “Yer the nice one.”

  Rhys threw back his head, laughing heartily at James’ derisive response. “The nice one?”

  “Aye, well she dinnae ken ye well, does she?”

  “Nay, she dinnae.”

  James looked back over his shoulder at his captive who was testing the bounds of the ropes at her wrists. His clever men had tied them to a torch sconce on the tower wall, allowing her little room for movement. “What do ye think of her, brother?”

  Rhys turned to look as well, his expression filled with speculation. “Clearly she’s a lady. Despite her lack of proper speech, clothing… and hair.” James lifted a brow and nodded. Aye, there was that. “She’s soft as a pampered bairn’s bottom. I’d lay wager she’s nae before spent a day at labor or in the sun a’tall. She’s more clever than most ladies, as well, me thinks.”

  James nodded again. Aye, there was no doubt about that. Despite the madness of her words, he could fairly see the wheels spinning in the lass’s head with each word she spoke. Puzzling her way out of her predicament much as he was considering the mystery she presented.

  He knew not who she was or who her people were. She denied the Lindsay name. ‘Struth that was about all he had garnered from her odd speech. Nor could he determine her reason or purpose in walking about the castle unsuitably clothed as she was… or why she was at Dunskirk at all. A raid was no place for a woman.

  That she hadn’t yet been quelled by his stare or fainted at his feet under his admittedly rough treatment of her person troubled him.

  And she had put him on his knees as well!

  “She nigh tore the thumb from my hand,” he admitted, absently pressing his thumb downward as she had. How had she known how to cause such astonishing pain by holding him thusly? He, a seasoned warrior, had no idea how to induce such agony in such a simple fashion.

  “Bloodied yer nose as well,” his brother said with a grin and James swiped at his nose impatiently. Rhys went on. “She had skill enough to free herself from my hold, too. Where does a well-bred lass learn such a thing? For what purpose?”