Taken by Angeline Fortin (great books of all time TXT) 📗

“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