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

by Angeline Fortin

  “Bah! My error was in assuming the same. She is no lady,” Lady Ishbel insisted, maliciously. “Do you think the servants would not comment on your presence in her chamber yester morn?”

  “Did they comment upon mine as well, Mother?” Rhys’s voice joined the pair. Unexpectedly, given the long silence that followed. He continued, “’Tis naught worth gossiping over this day nor any other. I would chastise yer servants for spreading such rumors and leave Laird be.”

  “Leave him be?” Lady Ishbel spat out, clearly unwilling to let the matter rest.

  “She is a lady true, madam,” Laird continued more calmly yet there was resolve in his tone, “and due all the courtesy of her station. She will hae it, am I understood?”

  “You dare to command me?”

  “I do and upon my honor, ye will regret crossing me in this.”

  There was a quiet moment. Scarlett could just imagine Lady Ishbel seeing that particular look in Laird’s eyes and cowing before it. Even the devil would hesitate before gainsaying him when he had that look.

  “I shall be glad to see you gone,” Lady Ishbel hissed. “By God’s grace, you will find a place in hell and never return.”

  Scarlett gasped at the woman’s viciousness and even Rhys protested. “Mother, enough! Laird has ne’er had more than a respectful word for ye. Would that ye could treat him in kind and let us all be at peace.”

  “I will never treat this bastard kindly. I want him out of my home!”

  “When I hae words wi’ mine father and mine uncle, I will depart Crichton and no’ before,” Laird said tightly.

  “Your uncle?” Lady Ishbel snarled. “You dare claim connection to the king? You vile bastard, you… Argh!” The epithets ended in the slam of a door and the lady’s screech of frustration, telling Scarlett more clearly than words that Laird and Rhys had left Lady Ishbel to spew her venom in solitude.

  Even with the woman’s spiteful glances upon their arrival and her insulting assumptions, Scarlett never imagined that Lady Ishbel felt such animosity toward her husband’s son. As if Laird were the one to blame.

  Turning away, she found her way to the open portcullis and out of the castle, heading toward the small village she had spotted upon her arrival to Crichton.

  It was just so wrong. Sympathy for Laird washed over her. Had he had to deal with such open malice his entire life? Still he treated Lady Ishbel with nothing but respect in public. Even in private, he had been civil. Until Lady Ishbel had cast aspersions on Scarlett, that is.

  Underneath that stoic, warrior-like exterior was a good man. A patient one. More patient than some deserved. She could do worse in a captor.

  You could do worse in a man, her inner devil teased.

  With a sigh, Scarlett shook the thought off and focused on the village ahead. It wasn’t large, just a few dozen small stone cottages roofed in sod. The short grass growing there undulated hypnotically in the light breeze, soothing her troubled thoughts. The smoke billowing from the chimneys smelled like burning dung. Peat, she supposed, but mingled in with it was the scent of savory food, meat that twisted Scarlett’s empty stomach with envy this time reminding her that she’d eaten little at dinner.

  She did not feel such a sentiment for the inhabitants of the village. Alas, no one wanted to go to the renaissance fair as a peasant. Men, women and children moved in and out of the buildings, laboring over their work or bearing large bundles on their backs. They were clothed in simple tunics and dresses made with rough fabrics in muted colors. Most wore long caps on their heads.

  For the first time, history intrigued her. Probably because it was living and breathing right in front of her. It was a captivating picture. She was seeing something historians from her time might envision and hypothesize about but would never see for themselves. Life how it really was. Castles could be preserved, but all of this was gone forever.

  Determined to get a closer look, Scarlett lengthened her stride but a strong hand caught her around the upper arm and yanked her to a halt. Scarlett cried out in surprise. Turning, she found Laird glaring down at her, and as her sharp spike of fear faded, she glared right back at him and slapped his hand away. “Sweet baby Jesus, Laird! You almost gave me a heart attack. You can’t just sneak up on people like that.”

  “I dinnae sneak up on ye. Ye simply dinnae hear me. What are ye aboot, lass?”

  “I was just going to the village.”

  He shook his head. “There is a pox in the village,” he explained quickly, as if he knew she meant to argue.

  “A pox? Which pox?”

  “Small,” he answered and Scarlett shuddered at the thought, looking back on the inhabitants of the village. Though she couldn’t see it from a distance, it seemed many of them were sick and perhaps dying from a disease that had been eradicated in her time. Scarlett looked up at Laird to find him still watching her inquisitively.

  “Will they die?”

  “No’ all of them.”

  Not all of them. As if were just a fact of life. Lord, what kind of world was she living in? Moments ago it had all seemed so innocent and untouched. She hadn’t even noticed the scars though they were right on the surface.

  Laird steered her away and Scarlett followed without a fight. It would do no good to try to explain to him about inoculations and immunities and not a bit of good to walk where she could bring no aid. However, she didn’t necessarily want to go back to the castle where there was nothing to do but think of him. Or people who somehow managed to turn her attention back to him just when she managed to cleave him from her thoughts.

  James could feel her grief as if it were his own when her usually bold voice withered to a child-like quiver of compassion. She was more softhearted than he had given her credit for.

  He had just returned to the lists when Scarlett hurried by. The impending war itself couldn’t have stopped him from following her. When he had realized where she was heading, he’d had to stop her.

  To warn her, he reasoned.

  To simply see her, he realized.

  Just a day had passed since he’d last seen her, yet somehow he missed her. A day passed since he held her in his arms, still he wanted nothing more than to hold her again. He was in no mood to return her to the castle where she might easily avoid him again. Instead, he turned and lead her toward the river that twisted around the castle. “Ye’ve been avoiding me, lass.”

  “No, I haven’t.” He lifted a brow. “Okay, maybe I have.”

  “Why?”

  Questions like that weren’t going to make being outside the castle any better than the inside. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Would ye talk aboot it wi’ Rhys?”

  Startled, Scarlett looked up. There was a tautness to his expression, a flare in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Ye talk wi’ him for hours at a time.” She hadn’t seen him all day but he must have been around if he had noticed that.

  “I like him. He’s easy to talk to.”

  “And I’m no’?”

  An incredulous laugh gurgled low in her throat but Scarlett swallowed it back. He wouldn’t like it if he thought she was laughing at him. “No, you’re definitely not. I can hardly think around you much less hold a normal conversation,” she admitted and realized it was true. For the most part, his presence either flustered or irritated her. Besides being a man of few words, Laird was too intense, too disturbing to allow for normal thought processes or casual dialogue.

  Moreover, the little time she spent in his company wasn’t being passed verbally.

  “Ye think too much.”

  “I thought you said I talk too much.”

  He didn’t smile but Scarlett could feel his mien lighten as they reached the shady bank of the Tyne River. Laird dropped down on the grassy riverbank and pulled the long length of plaid from over his shoulder, spreading it out on the ground next to him. Then he removed his sword and laid it down next to him as if it were a line of truce between them. A symbol of peace
. Scarlett sank down on the woolen cloth, appreciative of his courtesy.

  “Why does Lady Ishbel seem to hate you so much?” she asked tentatively, testing the waters of conversation.

  Lifting a brow, Laird only contributed a question of his own. “Ye overheard that, did ye?”

  Tepid at best. He certainly wasn’t helping! Pulling conversation from her stony Scot was like trying to take pie away from Dean Winchester.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I was just walking by and happened to pass beneath the window,” she explained. “Thank you for defending me as you did, by the way. Even though she was right. Not the harlot part, of course, but I am not a lady in the sense you intend it.”

  “Aye, ye are, regardless of yer occupation,” Laird covered her hand with his and squeezed before drawing away. “I hae been as guilty as she for no’ treating ye as such.”

  Scarlett didn’t know quite what to say to that. She supposed he was referring to their times together but couldn’t find it in herself to hold that against him.

  Silence fell over them like a shadow. Then he spoke quietly, “Lady Ishbel spews her hatred upon me because she cannae expel it on the one person she believes deserves her wrath the most.”

  “Your father?”

  Laird shook his head. “Nay, my mother.”

  Doubly a bastard. Vaguely she recalled Rhys saying something more about it but couldn’t remember it all now. “Who was she?”

  Laird picked up a handful of pebbles, tossing one after another into the creek’s swiftly moving waters. “’Tis no secret, really. My mother was the auld King’s bastard, Lady Mary Stewart.”

  Oh, that’s right.

  “She was born just nine months after the King’s marriage to Margaret of Denmark. ‘Twas rumored to be quite the scandal when the Queen might hae born the King his first child if he had only kept to their marriage bed.”

  “How did your father meet her?” Scarlett couldn’t resist asking. A part of her wanted to know more.

  “Father met Lady Mary long before his marriage to Lady Ishbel. Long before their betrothal even. I’ve heard from some at court that they were much in love and wished to wed. The King even supported the match but Father’s father, the auld Earl of Bothwell, forged a betrothal for him wi’ Lady Ishbel. Her dowry from her sire, the Earl of Errol, was quite large, ye see. For all that he loved and spoiled Lady Mary, the auld King wisnae willing to dower her so. So Father wed wi’ Lady Ishbel even knowing Lady Mary was already swelling wi’ his child.”

  With him. “How sad for her. Your mother, I mean.”

  His shoulder lifted in a dismissive shrug. “’Twould no’ hae mattered in any case. Lady Mary died no’ long after birthing me and the auld King shortly thereafter.”

  “Still, I feel for your mother, losing the man she loves,” she said then added, “I suppose I can sort of understand Lady Ishbel’s position, too, bless her heart. It couldn’t have been easy for her knowing her husband only wanted her for her money. That she was your father’s second choice.”

  “That’s no’ why she hates me, lass,” he said, looking down at her, his silvery eyes shimmering beneath his thick brows.

  “It’s not?”

  “Nay, Lady Ishbel hated my mother for giving my father his firstborn son,” he explained. “She hates me because I might hae been his heir. Mayhap because she suspects I should be.”

  Scarlett shook her head confusedly. “What do you mean? I thought illegitimate children couldn’t inherit titles.”

  “They cannae,” he said. “But my father once told a tale… Och, he was drunk. This I ken, but there are times when I wonder if it is true and Lady Ishbel knows.”

  “What?”

  “My father claimed to hae wed secretly wi’ Lady Mary ere I was born. ‘Ere he wed wi’ Lady Ishbel,” he explained. “If it were true, I would be his heir and all her children would be the bastards.”

  “Oh.” Scarlett’s eyes widened at his confession. Yes, she could definitely see why Lady Ishbel might hate him then. Why she would feel the need to constantly remind him of his place, just to assure herself that it was the truth even if it wasn’t. What a soap opera. “No wonder she doesn’t want you around now.”

  “No’ just now,” Laird corrected. “Upon her insistence, Father kept me at court as a bairn. It wasn’t until I fostered wi’ the Earl of Drummond as a lad that I met Patrick and Rhys. Lady Ishbel dinnae ken that Father fostered us all to him so that we might grow up together.”

  “You don’t resent them? Knowing that all they have might actually be yours?”

  “Nay. ‘Struth I dinnae envy them a’tall. They are good men all, my brothers, but subject to Lady Ishbel’s wishes where I am no’.”

  “They care for you very much, you know.” Laird’s brothers gave him all the respect Lady Ishbel did not. Rhys especially was very protective of him.

  Laird shrugged again. “Mayhap. I dinnae see Patrick often as his mother often calls him home and I am rarely here at Crichton. After Drummond, I was squire to the Auld King’s second son, the Duke of Ross, until he was made Archbishop of St. Andrews. Rhys went to court to serve as a squire for the King. I did battle in France whilst Rhys cut the King’s meat.”

  All because he wasn’t completely welcome at Crichton. What a sad childhood. Compassion for Laird flooded her. It sounded like a rather lonely life. Something Scarlett understood all too well.

  “Now ye ken all there is to know about me, lass,” he said. “I think the time has come to learn more aboot ye. Ye cannae avoid my questions forever. I hae nae forgotten where I found ye. Who are ye, lass? More importantly, I need to discover how ye came to be in my holding. Why were ye at Dunskirk?”

  A pinpoint of cold prickled against her arm and a shudder racked her body as her dread over those first few questions froze in her veins. “Dunskirk?”

  “My keep,” he said, tossing the last of his pebbles into the water and dusting off his hands. “Ye should kent the place well enough, lass. Since it is where we found ye. Why were ye there?”

  Another icy prick. Scarlett shivered as her vision darkened. Stretching her fingers outward, she slid them over the blade of his Claymore, finding the steel warm to the touch. What was going on here? “You own Dunskirk Castle?”

  “Castle? ‘Tis little more than a pele tower, but aye, ‘twas gifted to me by the auld king. I’ve told ye this before.”

  He hadn’t said it was Dunskirk he owned, had he? Now, his link to her future was stronger than just the sword beneath her fingertips. All the years she had spent there while filming! It had been as much a home to her as it was to him.

  Her bare skin tingled again. And again. Scarlett looked up at the dark clouds overhead. Not a metaphorical shadow then, but a real one. She hadn’t paid them much attention with the sky to the north so clear.

  More drops fell, splashing on her nose and chin.

  “Shouldn’t we get out of the rain?”

  Laird looked up at the sky and shook his head. “No’ for a mere sprinkle. Now, dinnae change the subject, lass. Answer me true.”

  The rain might have taken that as a challenge. Big, fat drops fell. Faster, harder. Within minutes, Scarlett would be drenched and cold if she continued to sit there. “Laird!”

  “It will pass quickly, lass. Dinnae fash yerself.”

  “I’m a sweet, southern belle, Laird,” she drawled tightly, fruitlessly covering her head with her arms. “Pure sugar melts easily, you know?”

  His shoulders heaved. Was he laughing at her? Probably. But without comment, he scooped her into his arms as she squawked in surprise and carried her to the cover of the beech trees, depositing her beneath their dense branches. She was still getting wet though and as if he knew another complaint was lurking, Laird dropped down beside her and flung the long length of his kilt around her. With a forearm, he tented the wool over her head and held her close.

  “Is that better?”

  His questions had been put aside for the moment. So there was that
to be thankful for but when Scarlett looked up at him looming over her, so close, she was incredibly aware of his powerful body. Warm, wet and masculine, his presence was surrounding her.

  No, that was definitely not better.

  Exhaling slowly, she tried in vain to forestall her racing pulse. She couldn’t even remember what they had been talking about. Or why she’d been avoiding him. All she could recall was the memory of his lips on her, his mouth on her body, his fingers playing her so skillfully. Wide-eyed, she looked up at him only to find him looking down at her.

  He had a smolder Flynn Rider would envy.

  The temperature rose. Hot. Steaming. Charged. Still goose bumps spread across her flesh. Scarlett bit her lip and his gaze fell.

  He was so close. His breaths no more even than hers.

  “Laird.”

  What was she doing? Again?

  Laird’s fingers tickled the shell of her ear, sending a shiver skittering through her. Scarlett inhaled raggedly. It was so warm beneath the plaid, his body next to hers so powerful, so electrifying. A shiver of anticipation raced through her as his calloused fingertips trailed down her neck.

  He tilted her face to his. So much for conversation.

  What is it about you that I simply can’t resist?

  19

  He kissed her.

  James wouldn’t have been able to stifle the urge to do so if his very life had depended on it. Deep down he knew he should leave her be, avoid her as she had been avoiding him. She was a lady at heart and due more respect, just as he had told Ishbel.

  But bluidy hell, her kiss was a seductive thing. Headier than the finest whiskey and far more intoxicating. The sweetness of her lips haunted him. Her unleashed passions tormented him since the previous morning. He wanted to be the one to incite her passions, to make her scream. Her fervent whimpers and rapturous moans echoed in his ears until possessing her was all he could think about.

  And Scarlett! She had done naught but go about her business. Och, she didn’t know the torture she had inflicted upon him. She laughed with his sister when he could do nothing but grimace. Talked endlessly with his brother while he gnashed his teeth in frustration.