According to their own spies, Surrey was leaving Woller Haugh to take up a better position and a new challenge had been received that day urging King James to come forth and meet him there, hoping, no doubt, that James would leave his more strategic position. The King had responded to the challenge by saying ‘it beseems not an earl to handle a King after this fashion.’
King James would not be told what to do. There was some relief in that, at least. But it wouldn’t be enough. None of their efforts would if the words in the brochure were made true.
Ten thousand men. The number echoed through James’ mind. Friends, family. His father. His cousin. Uncles. Mayhap brothers and as Scarlett pointed out, himself. He was no coward but neither was he a fool.
If it were truth, indeed.
“Your Grace, we’ve gone o’er and o’er the intelligence that we hae at this point,” the Lindsay told him. “Many of our troops hae deserted, taking the booty thus far won and running back home. We are short of provisions as well. It is my advice and counsel, Your Grace, that we withdraw from this meeting and reassess our chances for victory.”
“Nay, I willnae hae it,” Sir William shot back, while others on the King’s council nodded their agreement. “Henry has forced our hand and we cannae back down.”
King James inclined his head. “I find I maun agree wi’ my council on this, Lindsay. We cannae let Henry’s insults stand. We hae the manpower and the position. We’ll ne’er hae another chance like this.”
“’Tis yer fault,” the elderly Earl of Angus, known as ‘Bell the Cat’ said, glowering at La Motte, the French emissary, who along with his cohorts had been training the Scottish troops in the use of the long pike over the last month. “Ye encouraged him in this folly to gain our fleet for yer own use.”
“I’ve done no such thing, monsieur,” La Motte replied tiredly. “The choices of your monarch are his own.”
King James sighed, waving his hand dismissively. “Angus, if yer afraid, go home.”
Angus bristled up like a cock and stood. “And so I shall. Yer an arrogant fool, Jamie Stewart.” Then he was gone, the door slamming behind him.
“Anyone else?” the King asked, glancing about the room with narrowed eyes.
“Your Grace,” James began hesitantly but continued more assertively as he levered himself from his chair. “Perhaps it might be to our best advantage to listen to the Lindsay’s opinion on the matter.”
Everyone in the room stopped and stared at him, including Sir William and the Lindsay himself. Even the King himself was nonplussed by the verbal support of a Lindsay by a Hepburn. “Ye agree wi’ the Lindsay, Hepburn?”
“James,” Sir William hissed under his breath. “Enough.”
But now that he’d begun, Laird couldn’t back down. Scarlett’s dire warnings rang in his ears. What if she were right? Shaking his head in his father’s general direction, he took a step toward his sovereign. “Aye, Your Grace. I believe the Lindsay’s arguments are valid. We may hae underestimated our foe and waited too long to press forward.”
“Is that so?”
James nodded.
“Then yer as much a fool as Lindsay if ye think I’ll gi’ up an inch of ground now,” King James said. “I’ve come this far. Ye think I’ll turn tail like a whipped pup? Nay, we press forward as planned and regardless of yer arguments we will win this battle for Scotland.”
“What was that all aboot?” Rhys asked, pouring them each a cup of the King’s finest whiskey after the council had vacated the room and Sir William had taken his fill of soundly berating his oldest son for ‘such foolish nonsense’. His lecture included a long rant over James’ attachment to ‘a worthless lass’ who brought him neither position nor plate, and an extended lecture on how he had failed the Hepburn name. “’Tis no’ like ye to support the Lindsay much less speak of surrendering before a fight.”
James shrugged, tilting up his goblet. In that moment more than any other, the burn of the whiskey down his throat was welcome. “I hae a bad feeling aboot this, that’s all. It cannae end well.”
“And Scarlett has nothing to do wi’ it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked warily, wondering if she had made such claims to Rhys during one of their many long conversations.
“Ye feel for her,” Rhys said quietly. “Deeply, if I’m no’ mistaken. I cannae blame ye for she is an intriguing lass. If I were interested, I daresay nothing would stop me from assuring a long future at her side.”
“I’m nae milk-livered coward, Rhys,” he ground out. “I will fight wi’ all I hae for my country.”
“Och, I dinnae imply any such thing but what is it then?”
James sighed heavily. “Scarlett claims to hae foreknowledge of the battle ahead. She says we will lose most egregiously.”
“And what makes her say such a thing?” Rhys shook his head. “Is there more to it than maidenly worry?”
Swirling his whiskey around his cup, James tipped it up and downed it all in one swallow needing fortification to say it aloud. “She claims to ken that we are destined to be sorely defeated by the Sassenach. No’ because she is a seer or because she’s had a premonition of failure but because she is from the future and to her, it is naught but history.”
“Hmm,” his brother murmured into his cup.
“Ye dinnae seem surprised.”
“I’m no’ really.” Rhys tossed back the remainder of his whiskey and poured himself another, larger portion. “If ye had listened to me before leaving the encampment at Wark, I would hae told ye that she made the same claim to me. That night we over imbibed on the wine. I thought her drunk, naturally, I was as well. But it makes sense, does it no’?”
“Sense? Och, surely ye cannae take stock in such absurdities?”
Rhys lifted a shoulder. “Why no’? It makes more sense than her no’ knowing anything aboot how we live every day.”
“I told her ye were a blasphemer,” James grumbled.
Laughter spilled from his brother. “If ye dinnae believe it, why do ye even speak of it a’tall? I’ll tell ye why. Because ye do believe her. Because it makes sense of so much. How is it that she can ken so much yet ken so little at the same time? Her manner of dress? Her speech? The way she fought ye? That book? Have ye e’er seen the like? I’m sure she offered something in the way of proof?”
James pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “She has a weapon. A handgun, she called it. It expels a shot similar to a hand cannon but it is only the size of the palm of my hand. It dinnae look dangerous a’tall but I saw first-hand the damage it can do.”
“And ye still dinnae believe her?”
“I dinnae want to,” James sighed, dropping down onto a low, cushioned seat. “If I believe her, it means that everything else she said might be true as well. If she spoke true, we are on the verge of losing most everyone we know. She says it will be a crushing defeat.”
“How crushing?”
James dug into his sporran and retrieved Scarlett’s brochure. Unfolding it, he handed it to his brother. “Read this.”
Curiously, Rhys took the page and pondered the tiny print. “I cannae. I assume ye managed a way through it?”
“I’ve taken two days to do so.” Two days where he’d denied, aye, denied the truth. Two long days since he’d seen Scarlett, uncertain what to say. What to admit. What to accept. “It says that the causalities among the Scots fighting in this battle numbered more than ten thousand, including at least one family member from every noble house in Scotland. Including King James. Here.” He flipped to one of the pages. “I’d wager ye can make this out well enough.”
“Other notable casualties include…” Rhys trailed off as he skimmed the list, taking note of the names of men he knew. And family, too many. “Adam Hepburn, 2nd Earl of Bothwell, Lord High Admiral of Scotland, Adam Hepburn of Craggis, George Hepburn, Bishop of Isles, Sir William Hepburn, Lord High…” His voice trailed off and he swallowed deeply. “
Father.”
James retrieved the pages, refolding them carefully. “And Angus and Glencairn as well. My old master, Ross, and even the Lindsay for all his gainsaying of the King’s plan. All dead, if this is true. If Scarlett is right. And who can ken those no’ listed?”
“What do ye propose we do then?” Rhys asked.
“What can I do? Ye heard the King, he is set on this madness. Aye, I suppose I can admit as much now. ‘Tis madness.” He scratched his whiskered jaw, hoping some heretofore-unseen option might raise its head.
“Show these pages to Jamie then,” Rhys suggested. “Let Scarlett speak wi’ him. Convince him of the truth herself. A woman can change the world if her head is on the right pillow.”
James’ fist clenched around the paper. “I’m going to forget ye said that.”
“Och, Laird, would ye no’ gi’ up a woman’s virtue to save yer King, yer father? Me as well, perhaps?”
“I cannae ask her to do that.”
“I can,” Rhys said. “And I will if ye dinnae.”
“Ye speak a word of this, I will kill ye myself.” James swallowed the last of his drink and slammed the goblet down on the table. “Ye cannae change history.”
“Ye can try.”
37
Thus far yoga, which had done much to calm her nerves in the past, wasn’t working. As she did each morning now, Scarlett stood before the open window flap in the tent bathed in a bright ray of light as the dawn arrived, poised in the Tree position. A slow inhale did nothing to relax her mind, nor did the exhale. Her clothing might be to blame. Without proper workout wear, she’d had to make do with her own cotton panties and a thin, short camisole of sorts that didn’t offer much in the way of elasticity.
But she didn’t have her own gear here, did she? Whose fault was that?
Donell’s? How had he done it? Why? What had he thought to accomplish in bringing her here?
The questions tumbled over themselves.
The encampment was practically deserted that morning. All of the troops had moved into position on the ridge above Flodden Field to await the English who were on their way for the battle.
Tomorrow.
Would she even see Laird before then? He hadn’t been back to their tent since he stormed out after her revelation more than two days before. She’d seen Rhys, talked over the upcoming predicament and Rhys’ idea that she speak directly with the king, to sacrifice herself on the altar of his bed, if necessary, to gain his ear. With little hope of getting through to Laird, she had done as Rhys asked and walked to Ford Castle hoping to speak to King James directly, but despite hours of waiting, hadn’t been able to get past the first tier of his security.
Upon her return to camp, a pale-faced Rhys had been almost glad for her failure, apologizing for coercing her into such a dissolute situation. Scarlett was inwardly relieved as well but frustrated nevertheless by her failure to gain the king’s ear.
And by Laird’s continued absence.
What if she didn’t get to see him again? What if he went off to battle and died before she could hold him once more? Panic bubbled within her at the thought.
Stop it, focus on the distance.
Relax.
Even from a distance, the mass of men assembled on that ridge with their cannon, waiting for death to come to them was surreal. More a step back in time than anything she had experienced so far. Witnessing first-hand those medieval concepts of how a war should be fought.
Where was Laird? She hadn’t had a single message from him. What did that mean? Did it mean anything at all?
No, don’t go there.
Scarlett closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose, focusing her energies on her body. She eased into Warrior II, feeling the stretch of her muscles. Both feet on the floor, one knee bent in a sideward lunge, she reached her arms out to the sides, holding on to her control, in this at least. Where she had some. Exhale. Good.
Inhale. Better.
Opening her eyes, she stretched slowly into a modified side angle, stretching one arm over her head as she leaned to the side.
Yes, much better.
Straightening her legs and arms once more, she slowly transitioned into the Triangle, bending to the side and touching her fingertips to her toe. Exhale. Much, much better.
Downward Facing Dog. Scarlett felt her blood rushing to her head, drowning out the last of her chaotic thoughts. Tranquility. Finally.
Laird.
Unfortunately, her peace of mind – so ruthlessly focused on to achieve – was short-lived as his named popped into her mind again. Had the truth gotten her anywhere at all? Had she changed anything? What madness had consumed her that she thought she had the power to change history? To fix one thing when she screwed up so much? History was too big for one person to affect.
In exchange she had only lost precious days with Laird.
One leg lifted skyward. Half Downward Dog.
Her mind galloped once more. But she wanted to change history. At least that one thing.
She didn’t want him to die.
A shudder ran through her but Scarlett pushed the thought away and lowered her leg until she was again in Downward Facing Dog position.
Laird.
What would happen to her when he was gone, as he surely would be? Would staying in the sixteenth century alone and homeless be her punishment for thinking that she had the power to make change? That just once she deserved something good – truly good for her – to happen in her life?
And what she had found in this time was good. She had found friendship. In Rhys and even Laird. Sisterhood that she’d always lacked in Aleizia and Aileen. People to care about. People to live for.
Laird.
She had always wanted to be desired for something more than her fame, even if it was only for her body.
Would that ye might be my wife in truth.
Was that what he wanted? Did he truly care? Would she ever know?
Ugh, even if there was something more to it, did she want it? If sex was all Laird wanted from her, she might be content with that and not wish for more if only she could manage to save his life. It wouldn’t do either of them any good to hope for more when she finally made her way back home.
When? It was starting to seem more like an ‘if’ to her.
With a groan, she straightened her body as she sank to the floor in a smooth motion and swooped forward into the Cobra position.
“What in hell are ye aboot, lass?”
It was as if he had known she was thinking about him and just magically appeared. Scarlett didn’t even bother to look at the door but only hung her head between her arms. Whatever peace she might have briefly found fled as her heart rate accelerated. At just the sound of his voice. Already she felt more alive, wired with anticipation.
Every fiber in her being begged her to race across the room and fling herself into his arms.
She might have if she knew where they stood.
“Don’t you ever knock?”
He’d never seen such a sight in all his days.
Contrary to her impudent accusation, he had called for admission before entering, uncertain of his welcome but wanting to see her. To make peace. When she hadn’t answered, he’d only meant to peek in quickly to see if she was still abed.
The sight of her posed like a statue awash in the morning sun had caught his attention and stolen his tongue. What a body she had! She was thin, aye, but her long limbs were sleekly muscled and firm. Her hips weren’t broad but her waist dipped in alluringly. Her breasts strained against the thin fabric of her shift. And the way she bent…! Such a graceful, lissome creature. He had been caught in silent admiration.
Until she had bent over, her bottom presented to him with no more to cover it than a babe’s swaddling. Less even. The thin fabric clung to her arse, stretching with her until he could see her flesh through it and all the secrets in the dark shadow of the valley between her thighs as well. Then she arched her body against the floor and a
ll his good sense had fled him.
He’d hardly recognized his own voice or recalled the words that escaped him.
Now she was watching him as she stood. She did not bless him with the greeting he had been hoping for, in fact, she did not greet him at all. Nor did she attempt to cover her near nudity as she drank deeply from a clear canteen of sorts. But her eyes never left his as she swallowed again and again, her throat flexing with the effort. At last she lowered the drink, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “Are you back for your armor?”
He should have waited for her to come to him. He should have turned away. Hell, he should have at least bathed first after working all night to fortify their defenses on the western flank but James did none of those things. Instead, his feet propelled him by their own will across the room.
He came at her without hesitation, his eyes – hot and hungry – locked with hers. Once he was within reach, his hands followed his eyes roamed hotly over her, from shoulder to hip and back up again. Scarlett trembled at his touch, relief and yearning battling for control. Laird framed her face in his hands, tilting her head back until she met his eyes. “Is that all ye hae to say, lass?”
“Well, it would be rude of me to point out how badly you stink, wouldn’t it?” Her voice was husky, breathless. Quivering with emotion that he would have to be a fool not to notice.
His thumb brushed over her bottom lip and she parted them involuntarily. “Did ye miss me, lass?”
Scarlett inhaled shakily. “Hey, who left wh–” She gasped as his lips covered hers, swallowing the rest of her words. His tongue plunged deeply, their tongues dueling and drawing a long, rumbling moan from deep within his chest. Then his body was wrapped around hers, pressing her against the center tent post. The heat of his broad chest radiated through her thin chemise. Another groan shook him, the vibration chafing against her tender breasts through the gauzy linen. They might well have been naked already.
Laird caught the front of the flimsy garment and ripped it away. The tightly leashed violence of his passion was exhilarating, sparking the same urgency within her. However much the intensity of their passion might scare her, it thrilled her just the same. Feelings she had been denying all week, flooded her. She arched against him with a silent cry as his lips closed over her nipple, suckling hard. She tugged on his hair but he only sucked harder, holding her tighter and tighter still. Her heart beat hard against her chest, clamoring to get out just as her breath was encaged within as well. Her head swam, her vision blurred.
Taken: A Laird for All Time Novel (Volume 2) Page 28
