Scarlett blinked once, then twice before it dawned on her. Looking about the room, Scarlett noticed the few women who were carrying more platters and pitchers to the hall. To a one, they were all plump with ample bosoms and a broad backside. So Rhys was saying…?
That was how they displayed their wealth? Hanging their money up on the wall for everyone to see? Putting more jewels on a golden goblet than was tasteful? Having a little extra padding on their women? So, if you were too thin, everyone would assume you either didn’t have the money to keep food on the table or you were too sick for a long while to eat? Well, that was interesting.
And it would certainly explain why men of their station were used to women who were more than a handful. Even if she was burned as a result. “I didn’t realize why y’all were finding me so unattractive. I think I understand better now.”
“’Struth, I think yer a bonny lass no matter what yer size,” Laird said gruffly, surprising her. And himself, if the look on his face was any indication.
“Uh, thanks.”
Jaw clenched, he turned away abruptly, leaving them at the head of the table to take a seat on one of the benches farther down the U. Scarlett watched him go, her heart beating just a touch faster than his swift strides.
He was still an ass, of course.
Maybe not a full-on asshole.
Still, an ass nonetheless.
“What’s gotten in to him, do ye suppose?” Rhys recalled her attention as he dropped down in a chair next to her, his eyes twinkling with suggestive humor.
“You mean that isn’t normal?” Scarlett countered. “I haven’t seen him as any other than the bully he is,” she added, lying blithely.
“Bully?” he repeated, taken aback. “He… uh, he hisnae mistreated ye, has he, lass? Despite his aura of savagery, Laird isnae normally one to do harm. He held ye throughout our entire journey yesterday like a bairn in his arms even after I offered to take ye. If I had thought he might…”
“Relax, Rhys,” she said, patting his arm. Laird had held her all day? Who was this man who could distrust so completely yet show such caring for her? “I’m fine. I’m not scared of him. I just don’t trust him. Or you, for that matter. No offense.”
“None taken.” The concern fled his eyes to be replaced by his usual good humor. “To be fair, we dinnae trust ye either. Be ye Lindsay or spy.”
“Or neither,” she pointed out.
“So the fact that we will be invading England through Berwick-On-Tweed rather than Newcastle would be of nae interest to ye?”
“I only asked because I was curious,” she told him. Searching her small inventory of historical facts, the name struck no chords however. “But no, it doesn’t tell me anything I didn’t already not know. I’d ask you to put aside your suspicions but I guess it would be hypocritical of me to get mad about you not trusting me. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to trust anyone in my entire life, wondering if they have a hidden agenda.”
“Is yer life so filled with intrigue?” he asked curiously, nodding absently to the flirtatious maid who was placing a wooden trencher on the table between them. With a pout, she turned away without ever gaining his notice. “Sounds like a life at court.”
“I wouldn’t know much about that but I’ll take your word for it.”
“Yer a curious lass, Scarlett Thomas. I maun say that I admire yer fortitude. Ye’ve been captured and made a prisoner, taken half way across Scotland and still ye retain yer sass.”
Her lips twisted wryly. “What did you expect me to do? Curl up in the corner and cry like a baby?”
“Most ladies would.”
“Yes, but I am not most ladies.”
“Nay, yer no’. I’m eager to learn more about what gives ye such brass,” Rhys said, biting back a grin as Scarlett’s stomach growled loudly. “But why no’ eat something first to help ye regain yer health?”
Why didn’t she? Scarlett looked at the abundance of food spread and waiting on the table before them. In this time and in this place, she didn’t need to worry any more about what she was eating than she did about what she wore. No one here would care if she gained a pound. From their comments and critical looks, they probably wouldn’t mind if she gained ten.
She could do something crazy because there was no one here to see her do it.
She could stuff herself without conjecture over her eating habits or kiss a man without rampant speculation regarding her love life.
Scarlett cast a look down the table to find Laird watching her solemnly and felt yet another uncharacteristic blush warming her cheeks. It was a good thing she didn’t react so openly in her time. The press would have had a field day!
But there was no press here. No paparazzi.
The sixteenth century was suddenly looking pretty darn good so why not make the most of it? Besides, for the first time eating organic would probably present no problems.
Then Rhys provided a temptation too great to deny. Taking a small loaf of bread from one of the platters, he split it in half and laid the two pieces on the plate they were apparently going to share. She hadn’t realized that when he said ‘break bread’ he literally meant it. The crust was thick and crumbly, Scarlett doubted that there would be any way to bite through it without breaking a tooth but the inside was grainy and fragrant.
Oh, so inviting.
Bread. Even if there had been utensils provided to start digging into the other dishes on the table, Scarlett didn’t think she could have denied its yeasty call. It beckoned to her. Tentatively, she dug out a piece of the soft inner loaf with her fingers.
“Is there something amiss, lass?” Rhys asked, his curiosity roused by her hesitance as she did little more than stare at the morsel. “I’ll admit it doesnae look like much but it is tasty and filling, I promise ye.”
“Oh, it’s not that.”
Down the table, James, too, watched as Scarlett lifted a hunk of the bread to her nose, inhaling deeply. Eyes closed, her face softened and her lips parted sensually as if she were as aroused by the scent as he was by the sight of her.
What roused her so? James glanced down at the chunk of bread in his hand, resisting the urge to sniff it as she did. It was naught but grain as always.
“What is it?” Rhys asked, voicing the question he was fighting himself not to.
“Carbs.”
“What?” Rhys asked, seemingly unaffected by her worshipful tone.
To James on the other hand, the near lust in that word conveyed itself straight down to his groin.
“I haven’t eaten carbs in years,” she sighed. Against his will, he hardened even more when she closed her eyes and licked her lips in anticipation. “I mean, it’s a little overly textured but it’s carbs.”
“Tis no’ carbs, lass,” Rhys said perplexedly. “Tis just bread.”
“Exactly.”
She opened her eyes to look reverently upon the morsel she held once more time before sliding it between her lips. Her fine amber eyes burned with the same fire he had seen within them last night. James was like to bound across that table and ravish her if she dared look at the bread like that again.
Her eyes fluttered closed again as she slowly chewed. “Mmm.”
That purr of appreciation, much as he had heard when but half-awake the previous morning, incited James even more and he bit back a responding groan. By God, but she roused him as he had never thought possible. Hardly a word, nary a touch and he was throbbing with desire.
It wasn’t like him to be so easily provoked. He felt like a beast.
A shuffling around the table told him he wasn’t the only one enraptured by her performance. James pinned the spectators one by one with a fierce scowl and a steely gaze until they looked away. Another tiny morsel made its way to her luscious lips in much the same manner and he lifted his tankard to his lips, determined to squelch the desire flaming inside him.
Bluidy vixen.
Over the rim, James found Rhys watching him. His brother’s gaz
e was lit by knowing humor. Slamming the tankard down on the table, James fell into his own meal determined to ignore them all.
14
The few men who had gathered at the table had long since finished their meal and departed but still James found himself lingering over his ale and sausage, while Scarlett continued to pick her way through that single heel of bread savoring each bite as if it were her last. ‘Twas no wonder she remained so gaunt.
He told himself he stayed to assure himself that she consumed a proper meal but James knew it was only to eavesdrop on the conversation at the head table. He’d asked many of the same questions the day before as Rhys put to her now, yet the lass had nary a kind word to say to him. He thought it only because she was his captive but she enjoyed Rhys’ company well enough, answering his inquires effusively. He’d learned more about in an hour of eavesdropping than he had in a day’s worth of close proximity.
Weren’t they both her captors?
But nay, Rhys was the bluidy nice one, he recalled sourly.
“I maun ask aboot something that has been bothering me,” Rhys was saying. “How did ye learn to fight as ye did? I ken ye took Laird utterly by surprise but still ye subdued him, a man twice yer size.”
“A girl has to be able to protect herself,” Scarlett shrugged, popping another piece of bread into her mouth.
“Will ye show me how ye did it?”
“So that you’d be able to counter my moves? No.” Her husky chuckle spread like flames across James’ skin.
“Ye hae nothing to fear from us, my lady.”
Scarlett glanced down the table at James, her whiskey gaze speculative, but even that somehow stirred him. “That remains to be seen.”
“Well then, where did ye learn it?” Rhys persisted.
“Self-defense classes,” she told him, turning away from James’ penetrating stare. “Surprisingly being a celebrity isn’t all fame and fortune.”
“Celebrity? Ye’ve used this word before. I cannae think it means to ye what it means to myself. In what way do ye mean for I doubt ye were named by celebration?”
“Celebrity,” she repeated distractedly, clearly more enamored with her carbs than his brother’s conversation. “You know, famous people? Does that make sense?”
“And ye were born of this celebrity?”
“Yes, both my parents are actors.”
“Actors?”
James stiffened in surprise, barely biting back his shocked repetition of Rhys’ protest. However, they both looked her up and down again as if searching for something they hadn’t seen before. Rhys lifted his gaze to James’ acknowledging that he knew James had been listening all along. He raised a questioning brow but James only shrugged. “Ye mean thespians? I had assumed ye a lady born.”
They both had.
“I told you that you mistook me for someone else.” She hesitated uncertainly.
Rhys looked at James again for direction but he only shook his head, lacking for an immediate response. “How did ye come to be at Dunskirk then, lass? Ye say ye are nae Lindsay nor spy, so why were ye there?”
“The simple answer is that I don’t know.”
“How can ye no’ ken such a thing?” Rhys pressed. “If ye were no’ ill, delirious… What other explanation is there?”
Scarlett only shook her head. Her lack of information was as maddening to James today as her silence had been the previous day, and given the manner in which she gnawed nervously at her lip, James got the impression she was giving an unusual amount of consideration to her answers. More consideration than was necessary when honesty might have served her best. “None that would make any more sense to you than it does to me.”
“And yer claim that ye ken the Queen of England?”
“I lied,” she said quickly. “I was just trying to get away.”
“And go where?” he persisted. “Where do ye want to go? ‘Tis my inclination, wi’ the battle looming ahead, to send ye back to yer people and forgo a ransom. Tell me true from whence ye came and I will see ye safely home.”
James started at the unexpected offer and Scarlett looked just as surprised. “You’re letting me go?”
“Ye wanted away before. Do ye nae longer?” Rhys asked. Aye, he was a sly one. “Ye made no attempts to escape before. Not one since our arrival here. I’m getting the sense that yer right where ye want to be. Why is that?”
Scarlett’s eyes were drawn down the table to Laird. Despite Rhys’ distracting conversation, she had been all too aware of his brooding presence throughout the entire meal. Aware that he was watching her every move. Listening to her every word.
What would become of her if they sent her away? Alone and hungry in the middle of sixteenth century Scotland? Her stomach growled in protest, reminding her that she still hadn’t filled it. Or perhaps protesting such a future as well.
It was becoming quite clear as her stay in the sixteenth century continued, that she needed these people to feed her, cloth her and keep her sane.
Part of that sanity was maintained by the belief that she would be going home soon. If she had any hope of making her way back to her own time – thus sparing her from insanity - Scarlett needed to be where Laird was. Somehow, his sword was the key to it all. He was the key and she needed to stay close.
While she had already determined there was a ‘too close’, by contrast, there was also a ‘too far away’.
“Nay, Rhys,” Laird protested before she could. “Before the lass leaves us, I will hae a satisfactory explanation for her presence at Dunskirk. If she cannae provide it ere our departure to Ellemford, she will join us on our progress and we will find her clansmen or return to Dunskirk when this is over.”
Scarlett closed her eyes, exhaling a long sigh of relief.
“Is this acceptable to ye, lass?” Rhys asked, his eyes once again twinkling as if he were somehow pleased by Laird’s command. “’Twill be a long journey, fraught wi’ danger… and horses.”
She grimaced but nodded. “I think I can survive it.”
Why was she beginning to think that she was now right where he wanted her to be?
“Now that that is settled we can make merry once more.” Rhys slouched back in his chair, propping his heels up on the table and crossing his feet at the ankles. “Come, Scarlett, tell me more aboot yerself. I confess, I find ye far more diverting than talk of bloodshed. Yer mother? A female on the stage? Tis unheard of at any theater I’ve attended. Even at court, all the players are men.”
Scarlett bit her lip, thinking quickly. “Where I’m from, many women act. It’s nothing unusual.”
“And your parents? Are their names as outlandish as yours?”
It was a not so subtle interrogation but friendlier than the rapid fire questions Laird had battered her with the previous day. Scarlett rolled her shoulders, forcing the tension away. She had gotten what she wanted, a place by Laird’s side and that sword. Would it hurt now to provide some truth to ease their suspicions? “Not really. My father’s name is Wesley Thomas and my mother is Olivia Harrington.” Rhys waved her on encouragingly. “Of course those are just their stage names. My mother was once simply Thelma Lou Ellis from Memphis, Tennessee and my father was actually born Vasili Trofim Korchinskaiia.”
“Ye’re Russian?”
Scarlett picked her way through the bread once more with a shrug. “What’s wrong with being Russian?” Other than Lenin, Stalin, Communism, Khrushchev, the Berlin Wall, Bay of Pigs and the Cold War and McCarthyism, the American government had never had reason to hate them. Scarlett grimaced. She supposed being Russian in 1950s United States was a lot like being Englishman in Scotland just now.
Suspicion and distrust were everywhere. Wars, Cold and old, seemed to have that in common as well. She’d probably have about as much luck gaining the trust of these men as Stalin would JFK.
“Why would they change their names and deny their people?” Rhys was asking.
“Actors do it all the time to be more marketable,
but as for my father, there was another reason entirely,” she explained as she continued her meal, thankfully moving on from the bread to the tatties and smoked salmon his brother nudged toward her. “His father had been an actor too but back in the fifties and sixties. Back then, even a hint of Russia clinging to you could get you black-listed so he used a stage name but never legally changed it. My father did that when he was in his twenties. Vasili Trofim in English is Wesley Thomas, you see.”
“I dinnae ken this ‘black-listed’.”
“Umm,” she paused, considering. “Blackballed? Boycotted? Ostracized?”
James shook his head in confusion as he listened to Scarlett prattle on. The woman did love to talk once she started. First she was Egyptian, now she was Russian? Och, it must be another lie, he thought, studying her again from head to toe. The Russians were a hardy stock, incapable, he would have thought, of producing a child so delicate of form and face as Scarlett. She was otherworldly, as though she might disappear into an evening mist.
It made a man long to grasp her, like capturing the gossamer wings of a butterfly before it was gone forever. She had a fragility that was innocently alluring. He felt compelled to protect her. Even when he thought her his enemy.
But at the same time…
James shifted uncomfortably on the bench, willing away the tautness that again pained his groin. For all her charms, he could not let his defenses waver.
She was still his prisoner. Still hiding much. Too much about her didn’t add up. He’d never known a moment sixty years past when being from Russia might get a man ostracized for being so. It made no sense, but then little of what she said did. She was indeed a mystery, one that was becoming more intriguing with each moment. How was it possible that she could not recall how she had arrived at Dunskirk? It wasn’t, and truth be known, there was really no chance her mother acted on the stage. Despite her tales, it simply wasn’t done.
Quite likely that everything she was saying was a lie.
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