Scarlett fought the compulsion to rush to Laird’s defense but bit her tongue. Laird was a big boy; he could take care of himself. And he did have an ally already. Patrick shook off his mother’s grasp and turned to the table, retrieving a large parchment.
“Aye, brother, there is more. Much more.” Holding out the parchment to Laird, Patrick nodded his encouragement for him to take it. “It seems we are to war.”
11
War.
Silence fell as all the men stared at him. Not in surprise so much as curiosity. Even so, there was a chill to the word that crossed centuries. Peeking around Laird’s arm, Scarlett read along as he scanned the document. The writing was spindly and cramped, running from one edge of the page to the other. She made out little – words like muster and progress, and the scrawling signature and wax seal at the bottom – before he lowered the paper and glanced solemnly around the room.
“Let me have it,” Lady Ishbel commanded briskly, holding out her hand expectantly.
Rhys spoke up then. “Pax, Mother. I would rather hear such news straight away than have it forestalled by needless argument.”
“Aye, Lady Mother,” Patrick chimed in. “None of the men hae yet to hear the details either. Let Laird speak.”
Relenting with a mulish frown, Lady Ishbel proceeded to forestall the news herself, in Scarlett’s opinion, by commanding others nearby, probably servants, to bring ale for the men. Everyone took seats around the table and waited until drinks were served before the hush was broken by Rhys asking, “What news?”
“As Patrick said, we are to war.”
“With whom?” Rhys asked, making Scarlett wonder how many possible choices there might be.
“The King has received notice from King Louis of France and Anne of Brittany that they have been under siege by Henry at Therouanne. Louis asks that we honor the Auld Alliance and aid him in their war against Henry by invading the north of England in their support.”
“Wisnae the Auld Alliance voided by the Treaty of Perpetual Peace?” one of Laird’s men, Eideard, asked. “James is married to Henry’s bluidy sister, after all.”
“No’ that Henry ever paid James the dowry as promised in the treaty,” Patrick said with a snort.
“Aye,” Laird agreed with a nod, tapping a finger against the page thoughtfully. “’Struth, Henry disnae seem to care which treaty we honor of late. The auld or the new. King James has written Henry again and again offering peace if England dinnae attack France, requesting again the dowry be paid if the treaty is to be honored. Last Henry replied that he would sooner consider reasserting his right of feudal overlord of Scotland.”
Rhys nodded. “Look what benefits the treaty wi’ France has brought us. Their envoy, La Motte, brought wine, munitions and his services as a military advisor.”
“But in turn we hae given them the loan of the Great Michael,” Patrick reminded him.
“The Great Michael?” Scarlett asked.
“Och, lass, ‘tis only the grandest warship in the land,” Murdo scoffed. “Do ye no’ ken nothing, lass?”
“Leave her be,” Cormac leapt to her defense, shoving the other man nearly off the bench.
“Why is she even here?” Lady Ishbel asked. “Call Graeme to take her away.”
“She stays,” Laird said flatly and Patrick laid a calming hand on his mother’s arm before turning to Laird once more.
“The problem lies in the fact that Henry has ne’er shown James the respect he thinks he deserves. The respect the auld King Henry did. Nor the love shown to him by Prince Arthur, who should hae been king. Henry’s been naught but insulting.”
“Och,” Rhys cut in. “The Sassenach killed James’ favorite ship captain, Sir Andrew Barton. That is why the King craves a reason to hae at him.”
Laird nodded. “Whatever the reason, it seems Henry’s hubris has finally given him one.”
Treaties and alliances. It was confusing. Still, like the names Scarlett had heard before, there was something familiar about all this though she couldn’t put her finger on it. King Henry. Which one? There were eight to choose from. James? Five or six of those, and Scarlett had never been very good with dates unless they dealt with literature.
War. Any war in any time was, regardless of the weapons used, a chilling thought but the idea of doing battle with swords like the ones they all bore in hand-to-hand combat seemed particularly barbaric to Scarlett.
What would happen to them all, she wondered, feeling a rush of concern for Laird, Rhys and the dozen men they had traveled with for the past two days. Her captors might be little more than strangers, but she didn’t wish any of them dead.
Remembering the blood dripping from their swords at Dunskirk, she imagined the battle would be a gory one.
What if it was their blood?
She didn’t want Laird dead… Scarlett shook her head, dismissing the thought before it took hold. It was only because her future was in his hands, she inwardly reasoned. He was her ticket home. If something happened to him, who knew what become of her?
Laird held the document out to Rhys and looked back at Patrick. “King James has ordered that the Highland clans assemble at Brough Muir near Edinburgh bearing arms and twenty days supplies no later than the seventeenth day of the month.”
“That’s tomorrow,” Rhys pointed out, skimming the parchment.
“Aye, the progress has already begun,” Patrick said. “King James sent his personal behest that we raise our forces to fight against the rabble the Queen Regent will surely gather from the north men.”
Laird traced his thumb thoughtfully over his lower lip. “Wi’ most of England’s standing army fighting in France wi’ Henry, experienced soldiers will be hard to come by. No doubt that fact only bolsters King James’ enthusiasm.”
Patrick nodded in agreement.
“It says here the King will join us at Crichton two days hence and we are to join his progress to the second muster point at Ellemford Haugh,” Rhys pointed out.
Laird looked to Patrick questioningly. “When did ye receive this message?”
“Only this morn,” his brother told him. “I’ve sent out messengers calling all men of able body to arms. Our clansmen will gather at Ellemford.”
“I’m preparing the castle to greet him,” Lady Ishbel directed this at Rhys. “A feast, of course. Music and dancing.”
“’Tis war, Lady Mother,” Rhys said with none of his usual humor. “No’ revelry.”
“He is our King,” she retorted. “And with him comes his court. We must make ready.”
Patrick only shrugged. Apparently there was no stopping Lady Ishbel. “And we must make ready as well. I’m glad ye’ve both returned. I am anxious for yer counsel.”
“Aye, ye will hae it,” Laird said grimly. “And God help us all.”
“My son has no need for your counsel,” Lady Ishbel hissed as the men pushed away from the table. “Who are you to think you could advise him? This is a matter for family and Patrick will look to his father when Sir William returns.”
“I will aid my brother by his request, my lady,” Laird said with strained respect. “We cannae wait so long to make preparation.”
“He doesn’t need you!” she insisted.
“Mayhap but I will make myself available to him, if he does.”
“Wow, pardon my French but what a bee-aatch,” Scarlett whispered under her breath as the short conference broke up and the men went their separate ways.
Amusement at her audacious words lightened his mood. Many a time James had longed to voice a similar sentiment aloud when Lady Ishbel so often labeled him bastard and other more graphic epithets that were mostly true but still offensive in his presence.
Aye, there had been a time when he might have liked to rebuke his stepmother in the some manner before he had realized that she would never treat him differently and that his efforts to win her approval were in vain. Over the years, it had become easier to avoid her entirely.
“Why would she assume suc
h a thing?” Scarlett asked step as he took her by the elbow and helped her to her feet. “That you raped me? That’s awful.”
“Is it? Ye thought I might last night.”
“While I think you were perfectly capable of plying me with alcohol and cajoling me into having your way, I don’t see you using the kind of violent force Ishbel was implying.”
“Lady Ishbel has a rather low opinion of me as do most who reside in this hall,” James said with a shrug, though he was warmed by the indirect praise. It had been some time since someone defended him. Longer still since someone hadn’t cared a fig for his birth or station. The lass truly seemed unbothered by it all. She was, as Rhys said, a most curious lass. James couldn’t help but soften toward her. “I would suggest keeping yer distance from her for the time being.”
“Good advice.”
“And ye should address her as ‘my lady’ or ‘Lady Ishbel’. Trust me, she can make yer life a living hell if you cross her.”
“Like being the by-product and constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity?”
James arched a startled brow but nodded brusquely. “Just so.”
He looked down at her, his eyes coaxed ever more downward as Rhys’ doublet gaped open providing him a distracting vista. The loose bodice of her white undergown allowed just enough shadow to hide her charms from his eyes. All thoughts of war and bloodshed fled with the reminder of her breast cupped so neatly in his palm when he had awoken that morning.
Forcing his gaze upward, he noted the fatigue etched around her eyes. She looked miserably tired, even more so than he.
“Come.” He turned away toward a spiral staircase tucked into the corner of the hall, thankful that she followed, albeit slowly. With arousal stirring once more beneath the folds of his kilt, James wasn’t certain he could bear cradling her warm body in his arms once more.
The day had been a long one. The lass stewed rigidly behind him as they rode while he tamped down the rush of lust the mere sight of her bare ankle had roused in him. Lust when she was standing in shite! He had been appalled and ill-humored with her as a result. Much as she was with him.
He tried to get some answers from her – who she was, why she had been at Dunskirk, who this Tyrone she screamed for was – but other than their brief, amusing conversation, she maintained her stony silence throughout the morning hours.
After a short break at noontime however, she had softened completely. Her soft breasts pressed against his back. Then she had drooped against him in her exhaustion.
It was only by skill and luck that James had caught her before she tipped off the rump of his horse and pulled her across his lap. She had settled against him with a contented sigh, wiggling her bottom to seek comfort in the same stirring manner that had got her tossed onto the horse’s rear so abruptly that morning.
With her curled in his arms and her bottom relentlessly rocking against his groin, James had spent a long afternoon with little else to think about other than stifling the arousal that beleaguered him.
Contrarily, rather than awaken her or give her over to Rhys, he’d carried her in his lap the remainder of the day. To his men, he would have said her continued slumber spared them all her harping tongue.
Inwardly, he could hardly admit the reality to himself.
Neither would he have bared the truth of the matter to save his soul that morning, but he had known very well who was in his arms when he had awoken. He’d done naught but dream of her all night. Dreamt of her body beneath his even though he had laughed off the idea the previous night. He knew from having held her all night and day that she was far more a fair handful than the bag of bones he had teased her being.
The discovery had been a surprising one. His burgeoning desire for her, even more so. Somehow the harridan had bewitched him.
Her shoes scuffed along each of the worn stone stair, marking her presence behind him as he climbed the winding path to the guest wing of the castle.
Though he contemplated briefly taking her to his own rooms – where he might keep an eye over his prisoner, of course – James took the Lindsay’s potential wrath into consideration should his clanswoman be harmed either in body or reputation before he might ransom her and opened the door to a chamber directly across from his own.
Twilight cast the room in shadows so James entered ahead of her, lighting a candle next to the bed. His eyes lingered on the down-turned coverlet as the candle spilt its glow upon the sheets. If nothing else might be said for Lady Ishbel, she was an excellent hostess. Beds were always ready for a weary guest to lay their head. Too ready for a man plagued by salacious thoughts.
“Where is this war supposed to take place?”
James turned to find that Scarlett had cast away her bag and was shrugging off Rhys’ doublet. The thin strap of her gown was caught by the heavy garment and slipped off her shoulder. His eyes followed it as it fell halfway down her arm, the flimsy bodice catching on the peak of her breast. She wore nothing beneath the gown, James knew. Her small, firm breast rounded enticingly, plump against the shadows of her ribs, contrasting against the fine line of her clearly delineated collarbone.
Hunger gnawed at him, driving away his exhaustion. His fingers itched to trace the bone with the pad of his thumb, his palm burned to feel the weight of her breast once more. Swallowing painfully, he waited as she righted the strap before forcing his gaze upward.
“The King’s initial plans are to invade through Newcastle,” he said. “Do ye plan to pass that information on to yer friend the Queen?”
The lass rolled her eyes at him while stretching tiredly. Her breasts strained against her bodice, drawing his eye once more. “No, just curious. Wondering if I’ve heard of it.”
“Hae ye?”
“Yes, it’s a beer. That’s about all I know.”
The candlelight cast her shorn hair in flames and licked at her slender, bared neck. Off the curve of her ear. It made him realize that for all the bared bosoms he had laid eyes upon in his life, he had rarely seen a woman’s naked ear. Fashion in headdress and hairstyles kept them modestly covered in public. There was something profoundly erotic about the curved shell, the tiny diamond dangling from her lobe.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. “I already told you I’m not a spy.”
A smart girl would have turned and run from Laird Hepburn the first chance she got. Everything about him spelled danger, but instinctively Scarlett knew that he wouldn’t hurt her. Not only because he hadn’t already but simply because it wouldn’t be his style to harm a woman. She’d assumed she was safe with him.
Perhaps she wasn’t entirely.
Because that wasn’t suspicion written in his eyes, Scarlett realized. No, she must be wrong. Certainly that wasn’t desire she was seeing?
Scarlett stilled as he reached out, tracing his finger along the shell of her ear and along the soft edge of her lobe. A shiver ran down her spine that certainly wasn’t fear. His gaze shifted downward then, answering her unspoken question and Scarlett felt her lips tingle in response.
Wide-eyed now, she stared at him, the crescent of dark lashes against his angular cheeks before his eyes opened to meet hers. His eyes were not the icy steel she was fast becoming accustomed to but churned like a stormy sky. Or like hot, fluid pewter.
Surely he wasn’t…?
But he was.
His head dipped, those heavenly lips brushing across hers ever so lightly. Awakening. Tempting. Scarlett knew she should have denied him. Turned away. Bit his lip even but that kiss, as light as it was, skittered through her leaving pure pleasure in its wake. With a gasp of surprise, her lips parted.
Though by no means an invitation, it was encouragement enough. Laird’s lips opened over hers, his tongue sweeping lightly and unhurriedly across hers. Whiskers prickled against her chin and she gave into temptation, raking her fingers along his jaw. Blood roared like a crashing wave in her ears and Scarlett’s head swam as if she were drowning in truth.
/> Pressing both hands to his chest, she tore her mouth from his and pushed him away. Chest heaving, Scarlett stared up at him in surprise, gasping for air and full of questions. Just as it had that morning, the force of her desire overwhelmed her. So quickly had she been aroused that just that single stroke between her thighs had nearly been enough to send her over the edge. Unfulfilled lust had left her irritable and ungracious all day. More irritable than her aching muscles and fatigue might have managed on their own.
All through the morning, she had replayed their brief encounter over and over. Each time hating that she had enjoyed those moments with Laird. And now she was feeling much the same again and after just one kiss! It just wasn’t right.
For a moment, she thought he might try to kiss her again but then he turned toward the door. He paused at the open portal, looking back. “What did ye mean when ye said it could have been worse?”
“Huh? What?” she asked, irritated to be fighting to regain her equilibrium when he looked so composed.
“Earlier, ye said yer name could hae been worse?”
“Oh, only that I might easily have been named Sparrow, Speck or Moon Inspektor. You think I’m kidding?” she added when Laird raised a doubtful brow. “Celebrities seem to think it’s their duty to outdo one another in eccentricity when naming their children.”
His eyes met hers thoughtfully for a long moment. Scarlett could see the questions in his eyes but didn’t encourage him further, not knowing how much she could, or should say.
At last he nodded. “I will hae clothing sent for ye. Rest well, lass. I will see ye in the morn.”
Scarlett nodded and bit her lip. She shouldn’t ask. “Laird?”
“Aye?” He paused, glancing over his shoulder but making no attempt to linger in her chamber.
“Why did you kiss me?”
He shrugged. “My apologies, lass. ‘Tis nothing more than a bad habit I hae when I hae a woman in her bedchamber. I meant nothing by it.”
“Of course not,” Scarlett whispered into the silence as he left, closing the door softly as he withdrew. Flopping on the bed, she grabbed a feather pillow and hugged it close to her chest.
Taken: A Laird for All Time Novel (Volume 2) Page 9
