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

played a lively tune not far away.  Attracted by the music, James let the subject drop and turned to lead Scarlett that way.  They stopped to watch as one of the kilted Highlanders laid his swords down on the ground and began to dance over them.  Scarlett’s red skirts swung from side to side like seductive flames as her hips swayed enticingly.  She smiled up at him.  Her amber eyes alight with joy.

“Yer smiles are so verra bonny,” he said softly.  “Ye gi’ them so freely.”

“And you hoard yours,” she said teasingly.  “I’m surprised as you are, though.  Would you believe that not so very long ago every smile I had was forced?”

“Nay.”

“Yes, it was exhausting.”

Another curious statement from his ever-enigmatic captive.

Or was it he who was now the one held in thrall?

Scarlett applauded the dancer when the tune was finished and the piper launched into mournful ballad.  A crusty old Scotsman seated by one of the tents joined his voice to the melody, slightly off-key but sweet all the same even though she couldn’t make out the words.

“How lovely,” she said softly, leaning into Laird as he slid an arm around her waist.  “What language is that?”

His brows rose.  “’Tis Gaelic, lass.  Do ye no’ even recognize our ancient language?  True our own King hardly knows a smattering himself but ‘tis the language of our people.”

Scarlett grimaced, biting back the urge to retort that she wasn’t one of his people.  Though their argument the previous night had been spurred by another example of her not any ‘familiarity’ with their ways and had resulted in an extremely satisfying night of rapture, she wasn’t eager to rouse his anger now.  Lord knew she had at least enough acting ability to fit in if only to maintain the status quo.

“You speak it, I take it?” she asked instead, recalling the foreign words he had spoken.  What did mo chroí mean, she wondered?  Mo ghrá?  It would be too embarrassing to ask.

“Aye.”

“Then maybe you can teach me one day.”

His eyes were full of questions and doubt again but he only said, “Mayhap.”

“And I can teach you how to play the lute,” she offered.

Astonishment and pleasure – probably because there was finally something she knew that was familiar to him – leapt into his eyes.  “Ye play?”

“Yes.”  Sort of.  She played the guitar, but six strings were six strings, right?  How hard could it be?  “My mother’s second husband was a musician.” – A guitar player in a Seattle grunge band in the nineties, but close enough – “He lasted the longest of them all and was actually inclined to give fatherhood a chance,” – at least for a little while – “He taught me when I was little.”

“Ye shall hae to play for me. Music is a pleasant way to pass an evening.”

“Oh, I think we could manage to pass an evening pretty well, don’t you?”

“Yer a saucy lass.”

“And you’re a roguish laird,” she shot back.  Laird relaxed and laughed, keeping his arm around her as they turned back toward her tent.  The music faded behind them as they wound their way through the encampment.  Here and there, men greeted Laird.  As Rhys had long said, he was well liked.

Rhys had said a lot of things.

“Rhys told me that your father wants you to get married.”

Laird was silence for a moment but then admitted, “Aye, he does.”

“Is that what you didn’t want to tell me about?  How your father holds your future in his hands?” she asked.  “It’s a pretty big piece of information to withhold.”

“Aye.”

It was a fairly unhelpful response but it was enough for Scarlett to understand that Laird was no happier with his father’s arrangements than Rhys was.

“Who does he want you to marry?  Some old, withered hag?”

A smile quirked the corner of his mouth and Laird must have been feeling chatty for a change.  “Nay, my cousin, Jean Scot of Buccleuch.  Young, comely and well-dowered wi’ lands attaching my own.”

Something irksomely bitter lumped in her throat but she swallowed it back.  Jealousy?  No, that would be ridiculous. “Your cousin?  How close of a cousin?  There are laws against that sort of thing, you know?”

That half-smile broadened to a full-on grin as he looked down at her.  It might have been the first time he had ever smiled at her so and the sight of those long dimples creasing his cheeks, of his humor-filled eyes shining like chrome with humor sent Scarlett’s heartbeat galloping yet again.  God but he was dazzling.

“No’ close enough to offend the church,” he said, his smile slipped away.  “But nigh close enough for me to feel nae more than sisterly affection.”

“Then why do it?”

“Hae ye much triumph in yer life of keeping yer father from interfering in yer life, lass?  If true, tell me the key to yer success so I might use it to unlock my own freedoms.”

Scarlett cringed inwardly at his challenge.  No, she had never had much success in telling her father ‘no’.  If she had, no one in the world would know her name.  She’d be just another southern girl in a southern town.  “What would happen if you didn’t marry her?  I mean, if he loves you, surely he wouldn’t force you into something you didn’t want to do?”

“Ah, mo chroí, do ye truly understand so little of our ways?” he asked, echoing Rhys’ sentiment from earlier.  “My father cares far more for position and connection than affection.  Were I to deny him in this, he would withhold his aid in refurbishing my keep.  I am no pauper, but the task requires ready funds.  I need his investment.”

“Why?  You could get a job, couldn’t you?”

“A job?” Laird repeated and shook his head.  “By God, lass, but ye’ve a strange manner of speech.  Where did ye learn such words that I can no’ e’en ken yer meaning?”

“Employment,” she clarified, not daring to explain.  “A trade.”

“A trade?  My father would be appalled.  Lady Ishbel e’en more so.”  A look of