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

cease yer badgering,” he snapped. “She cannae be our priority now, Rhys.  The battle ahead maun hold our attention.”

It was as much a reminder for himself as it was for his brother.

War.

Despite the long history of border clashes and clan feuds, a true war with England had not been fought in his lifetime.  Aye, he would fight.  How could he not?  Still, he wondered if the petty squabbling of two overindulged men would be worth the sacrifices that would surely be made.

“Patrick had a private message delivered last night from Linlithgow,” Rhys continued, referring to the King’s palace west of Edinburgh.  Their father, Sir William Hepburn, was recently made Lord High Chamberlain to King James IV.  As such, Sir William was more often at the side of the King than at that of his wife.   James had often wondered if his father had sought the position in earnest, hoping for such a result or if it had been entirely incidental.  He had his own opinions on the subject, no matter what reasoning his father might give.  “Father wrote that our cousin was called before the King.”

“Bothwell?” James asked, lifting a curious brow.  Their first cousin, Adam Hepburn, was second Earl of Bothwell by title but just a lad younger than them both having only one and a score of years on him.  Even with his youth, Adam had taken to living life quietly, having already married and born a son to inherit his title one day.  He wasn’t one to go to Court often or willingly.  “For what reason?”

“Bothwell is being named Lord High Admiral of Scotland,” Rhys announced, lifting his brows with a nod when James stared at him incredulously.

“Lord High Admiral?  Does James think to have a lad lead his men into war?”

“I cannae say.  Bothwell is a lad, for certs, but he has earned his spurs as much as any of us.”  Rhys pursed his lips.  “Father expressed his displeasure that it was his nephew rather than one of his sons who received the honor.”

James snorted.  “Which of us did he think ranked high enough in the King’s regard to earn such a dubious title?  Patrick has little interest in war and ye…”

Rhys chuckled.  “I am far more interested in other, more pleasurable pursuits.  But ye, Laird, ye hae a tie to the throne.”

“A rather dubious one.  Nay, it wouldnae hae been I the King favored.  Yer a more likely choice.  Ye’ve a nose for courtly intrigue,” James added, spurring his brother into laughter once more.

“If that is a kind way of telling me I am clever and cunning, I thank ye.”

James conceded with a hint of a smile.

“Ah,” Rhys said, his gaze shifting beyond James.  “Our bonny captive approaches.”

It wasn’t that he cared to see her in as much as it was to keep an eye on her, of course.  James inwardly mocked himself over his edgy impatience.  Still, his breathing thinned at the sound of footfall, and turning, he saw her there at last, stepping hesitantly off the bottom step.  Her fine eyes were wide as she scanned the hall, her gaze touching and lingering on every object and tapestry as if she had never set foot inside a keep before…

What the hell was she wearing?

Everything hurt.  Everything.

Two days ago, Scarlett would have insisted that she was in good shape.  She worked out regularly, watched her diet obsessively.  But those long hours on horseback had done her in.  Well, at least now she knew what to do to get a good core workout.

Descending the stairs on shaky knees took such a herculean effort she was almost tempted to return to her room but Scarlett continued on.  Her bed awaited her in her chamber.  A bed filled with nightmares more intricately woven than the silk embroidery that decorated every edge of her linens.  There was isolation there as well, encouraging gloomy thoughts and anxieties over her time travel predicament.  Even the rain that was slapping at her windows couldn’t distract her from her utterly moribund dwellings.  She would be glad when they left this place.

Below, on the other hand, there was Laird.  Captor and conundrum.  It would be difficult to face him.  Managing to do it without blushing would be even harder, but her unexpected attraction to him was a far more palatable worry than the other.

How had it even happened?  Disliking him one moment, in his arms the next.  She couldn’t possibly have wanted her captor to kiss her.  This wasn’t the early stages of Stockholm syndrome and stoic warriors without a sense of humor just weren’t her type.  Moreover, there was no way she liked it more than he had!

Perhaps that was the worst part, knowing he had only kissed her sorry bag of bones because she was there.

Thoughts of seeing him made her even more conscious of the fact that she wasn’t wearing any underwear, but only a dress and chemise-type shirt had been left for her.  Her lacy panties were now drying on the windowsill after a quick washing, but she was left feeling exposed, vulnerable.  Naughty.

None of those things sat comfortably upon her.

Scarlett ran her hand over the stone blocks of the wall as she descended, pushing away the thought in favor of the awe the fortress inspired.  Everything about this place was formidable.  Even in the morning hours, her room was as forbidding and oppressive as it had seemed the night before even without the nerve-racking picture Laird had presented, hulking beside an equally imposing bed.

Dark wood paneled walls and coffered ceilings, maudlin artwork, and heavy furniture and fabrics.  Staying there was almost depressing, most likely subconsciously spurring her morose thoughts.  Her own home had soaring ceilings and a curved stairwell as well, but it was well-lit, bright and airy.  Here, it managed to make her conversely claustrophobic.

It wasn’t just the castle itself.  Dunskirk, though much smaller, never made her feel so confined.  Perhaps it was just the underlying fact that she was a prisoner of Crichton as