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

Of course, so did Laird, she thought, her thoughts drawn irresistibly back to him.  She sensed his presence before she even saw him across the hall.  He came to attention and watched her approach with hooded eyes.  His height dwarfed her, and like the castle, was overwhelming.  Unlike the castle, she didn’t feel at all repressed by him.

On the contrary, she felt a strong urge to yield to him in the best possible interpretation of the word.  For a modern feminist, it was a rather startling thought but in her defense, Scarlett didn’t think that many modern feminists had had the opportunity to come face to face with a rugged, kilted Scottish warrior before.

It changed one’s perspective on the matter.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, finally noticing Laird’s frown as he studied her from head to toe.  “Don’t I look okay?”

His gorgeous lips parted then closed.  “Ye look… fine.”

13

“You hesitated.  Why did you hesitate?”

“I dinnae…”

“Yes, you did.  Is it that bad?”

The hurt was there in her eyes, just as it had been the other night when he had falsely called her a bag a bones, saying that no man could desire her.  He did.  In spades. “Ye look fine, lass.  Truly.”

“You, sir, are a terrible liar.”

Scarlett sniffed and looked down at the dress that had been left on the foot of the bed once more.  Initially she had thought Laird had chosen it for her but given the look on his face, she knew that wasn’t the case.  It wasn’t the worse thing she had ever worn.  The fabric was a little rough and scratchy against her sensitive skin but the bluish color was not horrible even if it hung on her slender frame like a sack and didn’t even reach her ankles.

Did it even matter?  There was no one waiting around with a camera to take her picture and splash it all over People magazine’s worst-dressed celebrities list.  In fact, there wasn’t anyone around here to care much about what she wore or even said.  It should have been liberating.

However, she did care.  Like it or not – bag of bones or not – she wanted Laird to think she looked pretty.

“I think ye look lovely, Scarlett,” Rhys said.

“Thank you, Rhys,” she said, turning her back on Laird.  “You, by contrast, are a very good liar.”

Rhys bowed outrageously and, Scarlett supposed, rather gallantly.  As always there was mischief written in every line of his handsome face.  “I am at yer service.  Do me the honor of breaking bread wi’ me so that I might flatter ye more.”

Now there was a diverting thought.  The food, not the flattery.  Having had nothing more than a piece of dried meat to gnaw on in the past couple of days, she felt like she could eat a horse. “I would love to.”

Rhys offered her his arm and escorted her through the great hall, leaving Laird to follow along with only his great frown as company.

Like the hall, the stone walls of the dining room not dominated by huge fireplaces were covered with large woven tapestries.  Though the ones in the great hall bore scenes of battle and castles that lent themselves toward maintaining the overall severity of the castle, the tapestries in the dining area were softer landscapes and boldly patterned coats-of-arms.  Large plates of gold and silver replaced the swords, axes and shields displayed in the hall.

On one side of the room, narrow windows were sparsely placed while on the opposite side larger windows were open to the outdoors letting light fill the room.  Through them, Scarlett could see another stone wall not far beyond and assumed that this was an interior wall facing the bailey.

Something like straw was strewn across the floor, crunching beneath her sandals.  Rushes, Scarlett thought they were called, thinking back on to her freshman history classes.  Other than that, there wasn’t much about Crichton Castle that jogged any memory of those meager teachings on medieval history.

Long wooden tables were set in a U-shape with the short end closest to the fireplace.  Rhys lead her there, and finally giving Scarlett a dose of chivalry, pulled out a heavily carved wooden chair for her.  “Can I pour ye something to drink, lady?  Ale, wine?  Whiskey?” His eyes twinkled and Scarlett cast him a sour look before giving in to a smile.

“Are those my only choices?” she asked, half serious.  She would have given her left arm for skim, double shot latte with no whip. “Definitely wine then.”

With a laugh, Rhys plucked a pitcher from the table, drawing her attention to the bounty displayed there.  There were platters of sausages, pies, fish and meat, their rich aroma overriding everything else.  Her stomach stirred once again in approval.  “You eat all this for breakfast?”

“We break our fast wi’ porridge and bread wi’ the dawn,” Laird informed her, displaying none of Rhys’ humor.  “Ye only just made it down in time for dinner.”

“Dinner?  But it’s only 10:30.”  She had checked the time before coming down.

Both men looked at her curiously but neither one said a word.  They were probably as tired as she was of asking for an explanation.

“Well, I won’t complain,” she said, changing the subject.  “I’m starving!  But then I’m always starving, so I’m not surprised.”

Her words clearly startled them both, since Rhys and Laird shared a questioning look.  This time curiosity must have outweighed the burden of requesting clarification because Rhys asked, “Hae we misjudged yer circumstances, lady?  Was it no’ illness after all that whittled ye away to a wisp?”

“I did mention, several times in fact,” she pointed out, “that I hadn’t been sick. I’m this thin because I work hard to be.”

“I dinnae understand,” Laird said with a frown.  “Why would ye want to be so…?”  He gestured up and down her length and Scarlett felt another sting of rejection pinch her.  His dismissal was unlike anything she had ever experienced.  Ugh, what did