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

was only twenty-four?  She would have thought him closer to thirty, easily.  That meant Laird was probably not much older than that when she would have thought him in his early thirties with that bit of gray in his beard.  What did that make Lady Ishbel?  If she had married at about thirteen or fourteen like Aleizia, that would make her around forty rather than the sixty Scarlett had guessed.  That was a revelation.

“Hae ye been widowed then?”  Rhys’ squire, Willem, approached offering to refill their wine glasses and Scarlett shook her head before turning back to Rhys.

“No-o-o.”  Scarlett drew out her answer.  “I doubt I’ll ever marry.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, partially because of my parents.”  He truly did ask all the interesting, if occasionally tough questions. “They were a constant scandal.  It was almost embarrassing.  Each time they divorced and married and divorced and married again…”  Scarlett rolled her wrist to indicate the progression as she trailed off.

“Divorce?  That is scandalous.  How many times?”

“My dad has been married three times…  I don’t know why I tell you all of this.”

“I’m easy to talk to.  All the ladies say so.”

A grin tugged at the corner of her lips.  “I’m sure they do.”

“Please continue.” Rhys waved his fingers encouragingly.

“Okay.  Anyway Mom was planning on marrying her fifth future ex-husband when I… saw her last,” Scarlett finished jerkily, just realizing that she might never see her mother again.  She stared down into her wine as if it might hold some undiscovered wisdom before lifting it to her lips.  As odd as she was, she missed her parents.  Did they miss her though?  That was the question.

“Astonishing.  I’ve known a widow or two who married four times but always because their spouse died and they needed another protector,” he told her.  “And yet ye hae none?  Do ye no’ long for a home?  Bairns?”

“No.  Maybe.”  Scarlett scowled at the bone in her hand and tossed it away.  “It doesn’t matter what I want.  That’s the thing about being in a public position.  I’ve never been able to get past the fact that men probably wanted something more from me, than just me.  My cache.  My fame.  I am a product to them.  Not a person.  I doubt that makes much sense to you.”

“Ah, but it does,” Rhys drawled.  “I might be the mere second son of a second son but I hae discovered well enough that there are many things beyond my person that motivate some ladies to pursuit me.”

“Your charm and good looks aren’t reason enough?”

“No’ for many.  ‘Tis my purse that attracts them.  My family, my position.  Rarely my person.”

“It appears we have more in common than I thought.”

“’Twould seem so.  Yer lucky I suppose no’ to hae anyone forcing ye to wed.”

“Forcing you to wed?” Scarlett repeated in disbelief.  “I guess I’m not surprised that your mom mapped out your life from the cradle but is she really that big of a control freak?”

Rhys smiled at her curious choice of words.  “’Tis the way it works at our station in life but ye mistake the matter.  It is by my father’s behest, no’ my mother’s that I will soon wed.”

Understanding and sympathy washed over her.  “And how do you feel about being a husband one day?  Having a wife?”

“We all do what we must, don’t we?”  Rhys offered the surprisingly maudlin thought as he twirled his whiskey around his glass.  “I ken something of playing a role, lass.  I might make a fine thespian myself.”

“Is there no other option for you?”

He looked up at her softly spoken words. Surprise lighting his eyes.  “Yer a perceptive lass, Scarlett Thomas.  ‘Struth, I had desired to dedicate my life to the church.”

“You?  A priest?” Scarlett couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.  He did have the face of an angel, but a priest?  “I’m sorry but you don’t strike me as a man of the cloth.”

He would be fabulous in the confessional though, if he could pull revelations from his parishioners as easily as he did from her.

Rhys flicked a dismissive wrist.  “Och, it isnae all piety and celibacy, my dear.”

“Isn’t it?”

“An appointment in the church would no’ necessarily require either,” he said.  “My cousin, John, is the Bishop of Brechin.  He manages two mistresses and a half dozen bastards in his time away from the nave.”

Scarlett inwardly cringed, reaching out to cover his hand.  “How terrible.  And that’s the life you want for yourself?”

“It matters naught what I want.  ‘Tis my father’s will that matters.”  Rhys turned his hand beneath hers and laid his other hand atop hers, sandwiching it between them.  “Alas, I am no’ alone in ha’ing to obey an undesirable command.  Take Laird for example.”

Just his name had her heart leaping into her throat.  Rhys must have felt her tense because his fingers closed around hers. “The mighty Laird of Achenmeade?  Who would dare tell him what to do?”

“Och, lass.  Ye ken nothing of how our world works, do ye?”  There was something in his voice.  Sympathy, maybe?  Dread washed over her and Scarlett unconsciously braced herself before he even spoke.  “Even ha’ing a title and living of his own cannae save Laird from a fate similar to my own.”

“A fate…?” Scarlett gaped as she grasped his meaning and drew her hand away.

He was engaged?  Her contrary heart sprinted and Scarlett scolded herself internally.  What did it matter?  Just because he kissed her and more?  In her time – and not just in Hollywood – sex didn’t seem to mean that much at all anymore.  Whether one was married, engaged or not.

“Forgi’ me for speaking plainly, dearest Scar, but I hae to say something,” Rhys said, reclaiming her hand and squeezing it gently.  “I should hae sent ye away when I had the chance but I kept ye close to taunt Laird.  I dinnae expect ye to engage so deeply.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I ken what ye were aboot last night and I hadnae thought much of