Taken

by Angeline Fortin

  Scarlett fell in next to him, taking a moment to consider her response. “You might not understand this, but most days I don’t usually have even a moment to myself. I have people demanding my attention, my time. People always watching me. Sometimes, I can’t even have five minutes alone and most times, I can’t take a walk like this without someone following me.” An ironic smile slowly curled her lips. “I still can’t, it seems.”

  “I understand that all too well, lass.” Laird lifted his eyes to the northern horizon, looking surprisingly contemplative but Scarlett shook her head.

  “I seriously doubt it.”

  “We all hae eyes upon us, lass.”

  “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

  He let the matter drop without further argument and they walked a ways in silence. Laird pulled out a piece of dried meat and handed it to her. It was no Slim Jim but she was hungry enough not to care.

  “Yer given name is Scarlett?”

  Scarlett blinked in surprise at the question. It had been years since anyone had asked her that. Asked her name at all. Introductions were a thing of the past. Everywhere she went, people knew her name and because of it, acted as if they knew her as well.

  “If I say it is, will you bother to believe me?”

  “Mayhap. Tis an unusual name.”

  “Yes it is,” she agreed. “My mother named me after a character from her favorite book, but believe me, it could have been worse.”

  “I apologize for not asking it of ye earlier.”

  “Ha, like before you hand your hand between my legs, you mean?” Memories of the morning flashed through her mind and Scarlett fought the blush warming her cheeks. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you sleep with tons of women without knowing their names.

  “I dinnae do much sleeping with them.”

  Though she couldn’t see his face from her position, Scarlett could hear the smile in his words and felt her lips curl in response. “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “But I do typically gi’ fair time for the usual pleasantries.”

  “Her name, your name and a quick ‘how do you do’?”

  His shoulders shook in silent laughter and relaxed. Laird’s hand enveloped her shoulder with a light squeeze before he drew away.

  Silence fell again, not uncomfortably this time. Laird was definitely a man of few words. Yet, what he conveyed with a look, some small gesture or even shrug told her more about him than anything he had yet to say. There was a wealth of information in that single touch. It told her that, prisoner or not, there was some small part of him that liked her.

  She only wished there was something he could do to help her get home but she couldn’t tell him the truth. Not yet. He doubted her sanity enough already.

  But he thought she was a ‘bonny lass’. Did he find her as attractive as she reluctantly found him? Was he as disgruntled by the fact as she was? Really, this was hardly the time – literally – to be getting all bothered by some hot guy who looked magnificent in a kilt.

  Scarlett bit back a laugh. Actually, she doubted there was a better time when it came to finding such a man.

  Too bad he was such an ass.

  “Awake w’ ye, lass. We’re here.”

  Scarlett groaned at the roughly spoken command and snuggled deeper into the tight embrace that held her firmly against a solid male chest. After an agonizing morning perched on that blasted horse’s backside, she had no desire to stir from the first real comfort she’d had in days. Or was it weeks? Months even?

  With a sigh, she slipped her arms around his narrow waist and settled her cheek against his chest. Fatigue washed over her once more, slumber insistently calling for her return.

  “Awake!”

  “Laird?” She stretched against him, running her palms up his chest and was shaken hard in return.

  “Blast it, lass!”

  “Did I fall asleep?” Confusion swamped her at finding herself staring at Laird’s face above her when last Scarlett remembered she’d been fighting to keep herself from collapsing against his back.

  “Some hours past,” he confirmed in a low, rumbling burr that was quite unlike his usual brusque brogue. Blue skies had faded only to be replaced by vivid twilight. “Ye nearly fell from the horse in yer fatigue.”

  “Some hours?” Scarlett was even more bewildered to find him looking down at her with far more concern than she had yet seen from him. Considering the contentious day they had spent, it was the last expression she had expected to see on his handsome face.

  Surely she must be dreaming?

  “What? What is it?”

  His curious gaze shuttered as that familiar furrow reappeared between his eyes and he gestured ahead. “We approach Crichton.”

  Not far away, a castle soared skyward above a low rise. It was no Hogwarts with its arches and spires, nor like any of the other castles Scarlett had visited during her years in Scotland. In fact, there was nothing at all whimsical or decorative about the blockish fortress. Though large, Crichton appeared solidly medieval and had clearly been built for defense.

  Medieval? Scarlett wondered whether the term was even in use now. Or was it like Chinese food in China? Simply nonexistent?

  Scarlett shook away the nonsensical thought and studied the castle as they approached. Against the vibrant greens of the grassy plains and the brilliant orange, red and purple of the twilight sky, the Crichton seemed dreary and foreboding by contrast. Only a thundercloud looming above it could have made for a more daunting sight. Squared towers connected by recessed curtain walls were all flat and unadorned, rising with nary a window to break the façade. Even the parapets were devoid of any frivolity. The setting sun cascaded over the stone blocks of the outer walls, defining each one clearly.

  They penetrated the barrier of the stockade wall and passed beneath a spiked portcullis. Beyond was a low, tunnel-like path lit by torches that opened up in to the castle bailey. A shudder of apprehension chased over her flesh as Crichton loomed above her on all four sides, leaving a rash of goose bumps behind.

  The ground level on all four sides was comprised of nothing but bricked archways. Dozens of them with nothing but shadows beyond, she had no idea where they led. The walls above the arches, though broken by larger windows than those on the outer walls, were bricked with thick stones. Each block was about two-foot square and carved to temple outward like diamond facets, giving the impression that the wall was armed and sharp.

  It was certainly no fairy tale castle like Dunskirk, or at least the Dunskirk of her time and not just the lone tower of this one. A modernized castle on a tourist’s tour was nothing like this. And unlike the other castles she had visited and their sedate tours, this one bustled with activity. An unusual amount, Scarlett thought, since it was almost dark. All around were meanly dressed men and women worked over tables or large pots set over a fire. On closer examination she released some of them were doing laundry. How awful! She hated even throwing a load in her washer. Yet there they were, lifting heavy wads of dripping fabric from the pot with a large wooden lever.

  Others were butchering a variety of animals. Scarlett grimaced then gasped when one of the men at a table lifted a thick knife, cleaving the head off a chicken with one swift blow.

  The cleaver thunked into the worktable, shaking it and sending a resounding shudder through Scarlett’s gut. After a day with nothing more than a piece of dried meat to gnaw on, her empty stomach twisted and heaved in rebellion.

  It was a renaissance fair come alive before her, but far more real than any festival she had ever seen. Or perhaps given the historical accuracy, she might more accurately say that it was like a movie set of a historical drama employing a set director not given to creative interpretation.

  In any case, it was vividly authentic and far more fragrant as well. Not in the best way. As the stench of dung, blood and animal flesh assailed her, Scarlett covered her nose and mouth with one hand as they came to a halt.

  “Grieg!” Laird barked o
ut as they neared a group of men practicing with swords. A blond giant broke from the group and trotted over, nodding respectfully.

  “Laird. Sir Rhys.”

  “What is going on here?”

  “There’s been a messenger from the king,” Grieg told them.

  Laird and Rhys shared a look and dismounted hurriedly. When Laird turned to help her down, Scarlett couldn’t help but ask, “What’s wrong?”

  “The king’s messenger rarely brings a message of joy, lass,” he said grimly, setting her on her feet but Scarlett could not force her legs into any sort of stability beneath her. The sun had dawned that day about four a.m. if she remembered accurately for her own time reference and the sun usually set in August at about eight. That meant she had been on that horse for nearly thirteen hours with only one that one brief break. By her estimation, they had traveled less than three miles per hour. Simple math, but Scarlett’d had plenty of time to do it over and over in her head.

  Even if the King himself were waiting on them within the castle walls, Scarlett didn’t think she could have made it there.

  Comprehending her inability to move, Laird scooped her up in his arms, ignoring her sharp yawp of surprise as he strode toward one of the dark archways after Rhys. Scarlett held on to his shoulders as he bore her weight up a steep stone staircase without even the slightest hitch in his breath. The rest of their men hurried in behind them, anxious to hear what news the messenger had brought.

  “Maybe there’s a new prince or something?” Royal announcements of a new prince or princess were big news even in her time. That couldn’t have changed too much.

  “A new bairn was born of the Queen just four months past.”

  “Oh.” It might be bad news then. Scarlett knew that infant mortality rates were high in this day and age. Even kings and queens were not immune to such loss. It was a sobering thought.

  He dropped her to her feet as they entered a cavernous room above. Scarlett took a deep breath and immediately wished she hadn’t. The malodorous smell that assailed her was much worse than the barnyard below, summoning images of sweaty bodies and high school locker rooms with an undertone of stale beer. Overall it gave her the impression of a bar at closing time. The summer day had been a warm one but not hot enough to inspire such a scent on its own.

  Scarlett surreptitiously sniffed Laird. Though he smelled slightly sweaty, it was as warm, earthy and masculine a scent as the one that had greeted her upon wakening and not all together unpleasant. But without a breeze to stir the air, the inside of the castle was hotter and more humid than outside. She could only conclude that its inhabitants were sweltering beneath their layered garb.

  Those inhabitants were gathered around a table near a massive fireplace and Rhys headed that way, with his men and Laird falling in behind him. Everyone looked up and a stern looking woman of about sixty years broke away from the group and hurried toward Rhys with her arms outstretched. “Rhys!”

  “My Lady Mother.” Rhys took her hands, placing a kiss on each one.

  This was Rhys’ mother? Scarlett wouldn’t have been more astonished to find out she was the original role model for Sleeping Beauty’s Maleficent.

  An elaborate heart-shaped bonnet was set upon her graying head, arching upward over her hairline before pointing down to the center of her forehead. She was richly gowned as well with fur trim edging her collar and her flowing sleeves that draped to the floor.

  Bless her heart, Scarlett thought, she had to have been burning up under it all. Then woman’s perfume wafted from behind her, thick and musky. It was all Scarlett could do not to wrinkle her nose.

  “My son, thank God you’re returned safely.”

  “Naturally we are safely arrived,” Rhys assured her. “We are far too arrogant to die.”

  A sharp snort of amusement escaped Scarlett, drawing the woman’s attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw both Laird and Rhys wince. Apparently, this wasn’t kind of attention one wanted to have.

  The woman looked Scarlett over before her icy green eyes narrowed on Laird. A spasm crossed Laird’s face before he schooled his features into the arrogant calm she was used to. He bowed slightly. “Lady Ishbel.”

  Lady Ishbel did not return Laird’s polite greeting but merely swept a chilling scowl over him, extending it to Scarlett as well before greeting each of the other men by name and far more pleasantly. Though Scarlett was surprised by the woman’s singular rudeness, Laird seemed to take it all in stride as the woman turned back to Rhys with a questioning look.

  “What have we here, my son?”

  “A captive, my lady mother, taken during the Lindsay raid on Dunskirk,” Rhys said simply.

  “And you bring her into my home dressed like this? I would have thought you gentleman enough to give her time to dress before taking her.” Then her gaze shifted to Laird suspiciously. “Or am I to assume that her clothes were damaged in the ungentlemanly pursuit of other…” She paused, her nose wrinkling as if she caught the scent of something particularly nasty. “Plunder, shall we say?”

  Frowning in confusion, Scarlett looked to Laird for help and saw a sneer curl his lip, incongruously showing both irritation and amusement. “She is asking if yer clothes were torn beyond use when I raped ye, lass,” he said quietly, his words laced with bitterness.

  Eyes wide and warmth creeping up her cheeks, Scarlett leveled a hard stare on the woman. “He did no such thing! I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

  “Humph,” Lady Ishbel sniffed doubtfully.

  “I thought mayhap ye could identify her,” Rhys said smoothly, drawing his mother’s attention once more. “She denies any connection to the Lindsay but willnae say true who her people are.”

  “I told you…”

  “She is none of that boorish Lindsay’s get,” the woman said, talking past her as if Scarlett weren’t there either. Somehow that was more offensive than anything else that had happened to her so far, even being tied up.

  “Nor does she claim to be.”

  Lady Ishbel didn’t look at Laird at all when he spoke which seemed odd to Scarlett. It was as if the woman would tolerate his words and only barely. She would not deign to meet his eye. Obviously Laird was used to such discourtesy and Scarlett felt a sudden, startling stab of sympathy for her captor though it died in a flash when Lady Ishbel turned her frigid gaze on Scarlett.

  Scarlett met her stare for stare, refusing to back down. Still, the lady didn’t address her directly. “No doubt she is highborn, though she has clearly been ill.”

  Scarlett rolled her eyes. “I’m not…”

  “Aye,” Rhys answered, cutting her off again. “Though there was no lady’s clothing at Dunskirk, my lady. We can only assume that she was only left wi’ her bedclothes, given her illness, and needed nothing else.”

  “Strange that she would be there at all.”

  “Aye.”

  Well, there was no denying that, was there?

  “Laird tho…” Rhys paused, reconsidering his explanation. “We thought to seek a ransom for her return.”

  The woman cast another frigid glance at Laird.

  “I am Lady Ishbel Hay of Kinnoull, daughter of the Earl of Errol,” the lady said imperiously, speaking directly to Scarlett at last. “What is your name, child? Or will you refuse me that information as you did my son? Speak up now.”

  “I did not refuse to answer him, he merely chose not to believe,” Scarlett said matter-of-factly and the lady’s eyes widened. “My name is Scarlett Thomas. Pleased to meet you.”

  Now she knew where Rhys got that high arching brow though it didn’t suit Lady Ishbel nearly as well. “Perhaps I was wrong regarding your birth? You have quite rudely offered me neither a curtsey nor proper address.”

  “In my defense, I have been kidnapped and held against my will,” Scarlett said sweetly, resisting the urge to argue whose rudeness was worse. Obviously she had offended the woman from the start, though Scarlett wasn’t entirely certain how she had managed i
t since she hadn’t even been given a chance to speak. True, when she finally had been questioned directly, she might have been a wee bit pert in her response, as her mother would have said. However, Scarlett didn’t feel that she was any more discourteous than they had been in ignoring her and talking over her. “But if you think this is impolite, you should have seen me yesterday.” She bobbed a short approximation of a curtsey and added. “Ma’am.”

  The lady’s lips pursed and her green eyes narrowed to slits. “If I were you, I would remember my position lest I find myself chained in the dungeons. Do I make myself clear?”

  A chill ran down Scarlett’s spine. The woman wasn’t joking. “Crystal.”

  “Mother, enough now. We’ve more serious matters to discuss than the fate of one wee lass.” A tall but wiry man with Rhys’ auburn hair spoke authoritatively as he stepped away from the table. He grasped Rhys’ forearm before turning to Laird and offering the same. “Greetings, brother.”

  “Patrick.” Laird held his gaze then released him with a nod as Lady Ishbel moved between the two men and speared Laird with another of her glacial stares.

  “I am gladdened to see ye returned unharmed,” Patrick continued, glancing at Scarlett curiously. “All went well at Dunskirk?”

  Laird nodded. “What news here?”

  “Our laird and master, Sir William Hepburn, returns three days hence,” Patrick told him. “He will bear the King company to Crichton.”

  A murmur rose among Laird’s men, though the others in the room were silent and tense, having already heard this news.

  “Wow, the King is coming here?”

  Laird looked down at Scarlett. “That is no’ likely a good thing, lass.” He looked to his brother again. “Is there more, Patrick?”

  Lady Ishbel scowled at him. “’Tis not your place to ask questions,” she hissed. “’Tis a matter for family.” She clutched at her son’s arm, trying to turn him away.

  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.