A Laird to Hold by Angeline Fortin (best feel good books .txt) 📗

“Really? That’s too bad.”

Rhys watched as he gathered up his towel and vigorously dried his head and upper body. “Is it? Why?”

The fellow shrugged. “A chap too old-fashioned would most likely take umbrage in an invitation to join me for breakfast.”

Agog with astonishment, Rhys was sure he looked a fool. Gads, had Scarlett been correct? “Ye dinnae e’en ken my name, lad.”

“No I don’t, but that’s easy enough to fix. Name’s Jack. Jack Prescott.” He held out his hand and Rhys shook it as he stood.

“Si—” Rhys squashed the habitual rhythm of adding his title. No longer Sir Rhys of Crichton in this place. Just… “Rhys Hepburn.”

“A pleasure. Would you care to meet in the restaurant in, say, thirty minutes?”

“Make it twenty.”

Jack smiled all the way to his bonny hazel eyes. “Twenty it is then.”

They left the pool area together, parting ways in the lobby.

* * *

Neither of them noticed the older man in a suit and tie, seated in one of the chairs with a newspaper but not reading it. His gaze tracked them, then Rhys as he strode to the elevators. A scowl burrowed deep vertical lines between his brows.

The connections he’d hoped for hadn’t yet been made. To play his hand, he needed to know who all the players were. What roles they took in the grand scheme.

He was getting nowhere. Patience had never been his strong suit. The time approached to take action. If he were wrong in his assumptions, what was one more life sacrificed for the greater good?

For his revenge.

He started to rise but dropped down again when Hugh and Connor strode into the hotel. Lifting the newssheet high, he buried himself in it until they were gone.

 Laird

A few days later

“Are ye sure ye dinnae want to come wi’ us, Laird?”

His brother repeated the same question for the third time in the past ten minutes, but Laird shook his head yet again. He’d seen all the culture of the twenty-first century he cared to with just a single drive about town.

Ever.

No longer was it the Edinburgh he knew, despite the presence of some buildings leftover from his time. To his mind, it was little more than a madhouse. Constant noise, rushing about and boorish discourtesy the likes of which he’d never seen. Which said much about the people and little about the so-called “advances” of the time.

While he appreciated the readiness of a full-flavored ale or fine whiskey, and a hearty meal, the only thing Laird had truly enjoyed here was the room in the hotel Hugh introduced him to as the gym. It might not have provided the same sport as swordplay with his men-at arms, but taking his fists to a heavy punching bag was just as satisfactory. It allowed him to sweat away his excess energy after a day of relative inactivity, his aggression toward the fools of this time and his worries over the safety and future of his young family.

Hugh, too, admitted he’d found solace in boxing the sand-filled bag when he’d first arrived in this time. Together they’d partaken in the exercise. Laird found pleasure in getting to know his descendant. Bonding, Scarlett called it. They’d spent many a morning in the gym before Laird left for the hospital with Scarlett, or in the evenings after they returned.

Following a day of beeps, honks, and strident voices, he’d much rather do that or spend an evening wrapped around his wife than partaking in the social activities Rhys enjoyed.

And his brother knew Laird’s feelings well enough to realize the futility in requesting his presence. Rhys merely goaded him as was his wont.

“I’ll spend the day at the hospital as usual,” he finally answered.

Rhys rolled his eyes with such dramatic flair the young man lounging on the sofa of their hotel suite chuckled. “He clearly doesn’t want to come along, Rhys. Why make him?”

Jack Prescott had been introduced to them over dinner four days past. Laird found him to be pleasant enough, jocular. Full of probing questions but entertaining company, so Laird could see why his brother favored him. But for a man nearing thirty years, this Jack fellow had a lack of maturity expected of most men his age in Laird’s time. Not that Jack had displayed any irresponsibility or wasn’t a decent sort, but he lacked the gravitas the men from their time usually exhibited.

But then, Jack had probably never fought for his own survival on a battlefield. Seen the blood of his clansmen soak the ground beneath his feet. Perhaps that was what he and so many others Laird had met since coming here lacked. A sense of their own mortality. Such intimate knowledge with death aged a man. Gave him a greater appreciation of life.

“We’re going to tour Edinburgh Castle today,” Rhys told him. “Ye should come, brother. Get out into the city and stretch yer legs after so many days at the hospital. Surely Scarlett would agree. Think of how amusing it will be.”

Laird did laugh at the thought. “Why would I need a tour of the castle when I’d wager I kent it better than most these days? I could show them a thing or two.”

Including the many hidden passages and secret rooms within, he thought to himself.

“How would you know better?” Jack asked with interest. “Have you been there many times before, mate?”

“Och, lad.” Laird chuckled as he moved to the window and pointed up at the castle to the north. “My sire filled my mother’s belly wi’ me in that far tower there.”

Jack looked impressed. “Did they get caught? Arrested?”

They’d been caught all right, Laird thought. Too late to make his birth a