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

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 it 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.

“Aye, brother, there is more.  Much more.”  Holding out the parchment to Laird, Patrick nodded his encouragement for him to take it.  “It seems we are to war.”

11

 

War.

Silence fell as all the men stared at him.  Not in surprise so much as curiosity.  Even so, there was a chill to the word that crossed centuries.  Peeking around Laird’s arm, Scarlett read along as he scanned the document.  The writing was spindly and cramped, running from one edge of the page to the other.  She made out little – words like muster and progress, and the scrawling signature and wax seal at the bottom – before he lowered the paper and glanced solemnly around the room.

“Let me