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

by Angeline Fortin

  She resisted the urge to pound it against the bed post until it snowed down upon the room.

  Ugh. It hadn’t been that good of a kiss.

  12

  The taste of her sweet kiss clung to his lips throughout the night, and James passed the hours tossing and turning, hard and aching, knowing Scarlett was right across the hall from him. Wanting nothing more than to cross that hall and take the lass for his own. To feel that lithe body against his once more.

  He’d known the moment they were alone in the room that he should get out of there before something untoward happened. The luscious scent of her, sweet yet spicy, had wafted about him the whole of the day and he had been reluctant to leave her. Despite the effect she had on him.

  It was baffling to be so put off by a woman’s manner and still want her so. Why? James didn’t like her. She didn’t like him. But there was something about her that provoked him, something that challenged him. It was similar to the taste of a battle stirring, the anticipation of meeting one’s opponent face to face on the field of battle. But it wasn’t a sword of iron he wished to be armed with. Such unseemly thoughts had distracted him through matins and even lingered upon his return to the great hall.

  Bah. Responsibility and duty awaited him. A true battle where life and limb would be at stake. He didn’t have time for such nonsense when he should be focused on the matter at hand. Even if war were not looming, he would do best to avoid her, treat her like the genteel captive she was until he could ascertain her identity and discover her true purpose for being at Dunskirk.

  “Good morn, Laird,” Rhys called sunnily, joining James at the table in the great hall where James and Patrick had spent the morning pouring over the King’s declaration. Men and messengers had come and gone as the hours passed. There was much to consider and more to do before they left Crichton.

  “Don’t call me that,” James muttered by rote and glanced down at his brother’s rumpled kilt and linen, unchanged since their journey. “Yer in annoying good cheer this morn. I dinnae see ye at matins this morn nor were ye aboot when I broke my fast. Where did ye rest yer head last night that it kept ye from yer porridge and ale?”

  Rhys laughed, slapping James on the shoulder as he slouched down in one of the two massive chairs at the head of the table. “In a far more restful place than ye apparently. How is our captive this morning?”

  James scowled at the implication. “I wouldnae ken as I hae yet to see her since last night. Nor does she confide in me. She doesnae even like me, in truth.”

  “I wouldnae take it personally. No one likes ye, Laird.”

  That had James scowling even more for his brother’s words were not entirely untrue. He knew well enough that there were few in residence at Crichton who cared for his presence. If not for his father’s favor, he would not even be welcome there as Lady Ishbel openly scorned him when he was present as she had for the score and seven years of his life. Her unwavering malice was the reason he spent so little time at Crichton, even though his own tower was only partially habitable.

  Of late, he’d done little more than travel the countryside or stay at Court until Rhys had brought word of the Lindsay’s raid on Dunskirk. Such forays weren’t unusual between feuding clans on the border but James had welcomed the distraction from his tedium. Even if the result was an even larger – if not more sightly – one.

  “What are we to do wi’ the lass now, Laird?”

  James frowned. “What do ye mean?”

  “Mother dinnae ken who she is. I wouldnae thought it possible,” Rhys said. “I would hae sworn she kent every marriageable female in the whole bluidy country. We dinnae ken who she is a’tall, and ‘truth, wi’ a battle brewing in the days ahead, I dinnae believe ransoming her now to be an option.”

  The same concern had niggled at the back of his mind all morning.

  What was he to do with Scarlett now? When now so much more was on the line? Send her back to her people? He didn’t even know who they were.

  “What are ye suggesting? That we set her free?

  Rhys shook his head. “Nay, we dinnae yet ken if she spies for England. Recall her claim of friendship to the queen. Wi’ this change of events, any suspicion maun be taken seriously.”

  “If she is a spy, she’s done a piss poor job of it,” James said, recalling Scarlett’s words at Dunskirk. “Do ye think her so senseless that she would admit her association wi’ the Queen if she were? Ye said yerself, she is a clever one.”

  “So ye dinnae think her a spy?”

  “Nay, she asked me last night where we meant to invade England,” James told him. “As clever as she is, I believe she would be better a better spy than to ask straight out if she were planning to betray us.”

  Rhys laughed heartily at that. “True enough. She made nae effort to fit in, to talk or act as a lowlander. Also, what intelligence did she hope to find at Dunskirk or from us? There are far superior opportunities for a spy.”

  “It makes little sense.”

  “Little aboot her does.”

  James couldn’t disagree with that.

  “Unless she kent the King would be coming here,” Rhys said, thinking aloud. “Perhaps she has been sent to assassinate him.”

  A moment of silence, then Rhys laughed while a smile found its way to James’ lips. “Nay, she is no murderer.”

  “But she is hiding something. I cannae deny it. She willnae speak true but there is something…” James paused, shaking his head but the answer did not immediately come to him. “She is frightened. No’ of us. I dinnae ken exactly but it is there.”

  “What do ye propose to do wi’ her then?”

  James shrugged. “Soon the truth will out as it always does. We will keep her close at hand to deter her from trading in secrets if that is her intent.”

  “Close at hand, eh? How close exactly?”

  “As close as a prisoner maun be kept. Now cease yer badgering,” he snapped. “She cannae be our priority now, Rhys. The battle ahead maun hold our attention.”

  It was as much a reminder for himself as it was for his brother.

  War.

  Despite the long history of border clashes and clan feuds, a true war with England had not been fought in his lifetime. Aye, he would fight. How could he not? Still, he wondered if the petty squabbling of two overindulged men would be worth the sacrifices that would surely be made.

  “Patrick had a private message delivered last night from Linlithgow,” Rhys continued, referring to the King’s palace west of Edinburgh. Their father, Sir William Hepburn, was recently made Lord High Chamberlain to King James IV. As such, Sir William was more often at the side of the King than at that of his wife. James had often wondered if his father had sought the position in earnest, hoping for such a result or if it had been entirely incidental. He had his own opinions on the subject, no matter what reasoning his father might give. “Father wrote that our cousin was called before the King.”

  “Bothwell?” James asked, lifting a curious brow. Their first cousin, Adam Hepburn, was second Earl of Bothwell by title but just a lad younger than them both having only one and a score of years on him. Even with his youth, Adam had taken to living life quietly, having already married and born a son to inherit his title one day. He wasn’t one to go to Court often or willingly. “For what reason?”

  “Bothwell is being named Lord High Admiral of Scotland,” Rhys announced, lifting his brows with a nod when James stared at him incredulously.

  “Lord High Admiral? Does James think to have a lad lead his men into war?”

  “I cannae say. Bothwell is a lad, for certs, but he has earned his spurs as much as any of us.” Rhys pursed his lips. “Father expressed his displeasure that it was his nephew rather than one of his sons who received the honor.”

  James snorted. “Which of us did he think ranked high enough in the King’s regard to earn such a dubious title? Patrick has little interest in war and ye…”

  Rhys chuckled. “I am far more int
erested in other, more pleasurable pursuits. But ye, Laird, ye hae a tie to the throne.”

  “A rather dubious one. Nay, it wouldnae hae been I the King favored. Yer a more likely choice. Ye’ve a nose for courtly intrigue,” James added, spurring his brother into laughter once more.

  “If that is a kind way of telling me I am clever and cunning, I thank ye.”

  James conceded with a hint of a smile.

  “Ah,” Rhys said, his gaze shifting beyond James. “Our bonny captive approaches.”

  It wasn’t that he cared to see her in as much as it was to keep an eye on her, of course. James inwardly mocked himself over his edgy impatience. Still, his breathing thinned at the sound of footfall, and turning, he saw her there at last, stepping hesitantly off the bottom step. Her fine eyes were wide as she scanned the hall, her gaze touching and lingering on every object and tapestry as if she had never set foot inside a keep before…

  What the hell was she wearing?

  Everything hurt. Everything.

  Two days ago, Scarlett would have insisted that she was in good shape. She worked out regularly, watched her diet obsessively. But those long hours on horseback had done her in. Well, at least now she knew what to do to get a good core workout.

  Descending the stairs on shaky knees took such a herculean effort she was almost tempted to return to her room but Scarlett continued on. Her bed awaited her in her chamber. A bed filled with nightmares more intricately woven than the silk embroidery that decorated every edge of her linens. There was isolation there as well, encouraging gloomy thoughts and anxieties over her time travel predicament. Even the rain that was slapping at her windows couldn’t distract her from her utterly moribund dwellings. She would be glad when they left this place.

  Below, on the other hand, there was Laird. Captor and conundrum. It would be difficult to face him. Managing to do it without blushing would be even harder, but her unexpected attraction to him was a far more palatable worry than the other.

  How had it even happened? Disliking him one moment, in his arms the next. She couldn’t possibly have wanted her captor to kiss her. This wasn’t the early stages of Stockholm syndrome and stoic warriors without a sense of humor just weren’t her type. Moreover, there was no way she liked it more than he had!

  Perhaps that was the worst part, knowing he had only kissed her sorry bag of bones because she was there.

  Thoughts of seeing him made her even more conscious of the fact that she wasn’t wearing any underwear, but only a dress and chemise-type shirt had been left for her. Her lacy panties were now drying on the windowsill after a quick washing, but she was left feeling exposed, vulnerable. Naughty.

  None of those things sat comfortably upon her.

  Scarlett ran her hand over the stone blocks of the wall as she descended, pushing away the thought in favor of the awe the fortress inspired. Everything about this place was formidable. Even in the morning hours, her room was as forbidding and oppressive as it had seemed the night before even without the nerve-racking picture Laird had presented, hulking beside an equally imposing bed.

  Dark wood paneled walls and coffered ceilings, maudlin artwork, and heavy furniture and fabrics. Staying there was almost depressing, most likely subconsciously spurring her morose thoughts. Her own home had soaring ceilings and a curved stairwell as well, but it was well-lit, bright and airy. Here, it managed to make her conversely claustrophobic.

  It wasn’t just the castle itself. Dunskirk, though much smaller, never made her feel so confined. Perhaps it was just the underlying fact that she was a prisoner of Crichton as well as time itself, but the castle had a very primitive vibe.

  Of course, so did Laird, she thought, her thoughts drawn irresistibly back to him. She sensed his presence before she even saw him across the hall. He came to attention and watched her approach with hooded eyes. His height dwarfed her, and like the castle, was overwhelming. Unlike the castle, she didn’t feel at all repressed by him.

  On the contrary, she felt a strong urge to yield to him in the best possible interpretation of the word. For a modern feminist, it was a rather startling thought but in her defense, Scarlett didn’t think that many modern feminists had had the opportunity to come face to face with a rugged, kilted Scottish warrior before.

  It changed one’s perspective on the matter.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, finally noticing Laird’s frown as he studied her from head to toe. “Don’t I look okay?”

  His gorgeous lips parted then closed. “Ye look… fine.”

  13

  “You hesitated. Why did you hesitate?”

  “I dinnae…”

  “Yes, you did. Is it that bad?”

  The hurt was there in her eyes, just as it had been the other night when he had falsely called her a bag a bones, saying that no man could desire her. He did. In spades. “Ye look fine, lass. Truly.”

  “You, sir, are a terrible liar.”

  Scarlett sniffed and looked down at the dress that had been left on the foot of the bed once more. Initially she had thought Laird had chosen it for her but given the look on his face, she knew that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t the worse thing she had ever worn. The fabric was a little rough and scratchy against her sensitive skin but the bluish color was not horrible even if it hung on her slender frame like a sack and didn’t even reach her ankles.

  Did it even matter? There was no one waiting around with a camera to take her picture and splash it all over People magazine’s worst-dressed celebrities list. In fact, there wasn’t anyone around here to care much about what she wore or even said. It should have been liberating.

  However, she did care. Like it or not – bag of bones or not – she wanted Laird to think she looked pretty.

  “I think ye look lovely, Scarlett,” Rhys said.

  “Thank you, Rhys,” she said, turning her back on Laird. “You, by contrast, are a very good liar.”

  Rhys bowed outrageously and, Scarlett supposed, rather gallantly. As always there was mischief written in every line of his handsome face. “I am at yer service. Do me the honor of breaking bread wi’ me so that I might flatter ye more.”

  Now there was a diverting thought. The food, not the flattery. Having had nothing more than a piece of dried meat to gnaw on in the past couple of days, she felt like she could eat a horse. “I would love to.”

  Rhys offered her his arm and escorted her through the great hall, leaving Laird to follow along with only his great frown as company.

  Like the hall, the stone walls of the dining room not dominated by huge fireplaces were covered with large woven tapestries. Though the ones in the great hall bore scenes of battle and castles that lent themselves toward maintaining the overall severity of the castle, the tapestries in the dining area were softer landscapes and boldly patterned coats-of-arms. Large plates of gold and silver replaced the swords, axes and shields displayed in the hall.

  On one side of the room, narrow windows were sparsely placed while on the opposite side larger windows were open to the outdoors letting light fill the room. Through them, Scarlett could see another stone wall not far beyond and assumed that this was an interior wall facing the bailey.

  Something like straw was strewn across the floor, crunching beneath her sandals. Rushes, Scarlett thought they were called, thinking back on to her freshman history classes. Other than that, there wasn’t much about Crichton Castle that jogged any memory of those meager teachings on medieval history.

  Long wooden tables were set in a U-shape with the short end closest to the fireplace. Rhys lead her there, and finally giving Scarlett a dose of chivalry, pulled out a heavily carved wooden chair for her. “Can I pour ye something to drink, lady? Ale, wine? Whiskey?” His eyes twinkled and Scarlett cast him a sour look before giving in to a smile.

  “Are those my only choices?” she asked, half serious. She would have given her left arm for skim, double shot latte with no whip. “Definitely wine then.”

  With a laugh,
Rhys plucked a pitcher from the table, drawing her attention to the bounty displayed there. There were platters of sausages, pies, fish and meat, their rich aroma overriding everything else. Her stomach stirred once again in approval. “You eat all this for breakfast?”

  “We break our fast wi’ porridge and bread wi’ the dawn,” Laird informed her, displaying none of Rhys’ humor. “Ye only just made it down in time for dinner.”

  “Dinner? But it’s only 10:30.” She had checked the time before coming down.

  Both men looked at her curiously but neither one said a word. They were probably as tired as she was of asking for an explanation.

  “Well, I won’t complain,” she said, changing the subject. “I’m starving! But then I’m always starving, so I’m not surprised.”

  Her words clearly startled them both, since Rhys and Laird shared a questioning look. This time curiosity must have outweighed the burden of requesting clarification because Rhys asked, “Hae we misjudged yer circumstances, lady? Was it no’ illness after all that whittled ye away to a wisp?”

  “I did mention, several times in fact,” she pointed out, “that I hadn’t been sick. I’m this thin because I work hard to be.”

  “I dinnae understand,” Laird said with a frown. “Why would ye want to be so…?” He gestured up and down her length and Scarlett felt another sting of rejection pinch her. His dismissal was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Ugh, what did she care what that ass thought? One odd kiss couldn’t change the facts. To him she was nothing but a prisoner. To her, he was an escape route. Nothing more. She should try to remember that, but damn, it smarted to know that a man she found so irresistible thought her no more attractive than department store mannequin.

  “I think what my brother is trying to say it that any laird, like the Lindsay, for example, would take it as a sign of his wealth and affluence to see that all those under his care reflected his ability to keep them hearty and hale,” Rhys explained. “Certainly his lords and ladies, if no’ others in his clan, would be… er… robust enough to demonstrate his wealth. Ye ken?”