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

wake but Scarlett wasn’t an actor for nothing and managed to keep her expression cool and confident as she glared down at him. “Enough of this now.  I want you to leave me alone.  Do you understand?”

The man lowered his head, shaking it slowly.  His shoulders jerked and she realized in a flash that he was laughing.  Laughing at her.  “You think this is funny?  Are you nuts?”

“Nuts?” he repeated curiously in that deep, thick brogue, lifting his head to look at her once more. “I’m going to forgi’ ye, lass, for clearly ye’ve been ill and are mayhap still a wee bit maddened wi’ fever.”

If he looked mildly baffled by her words, she was utterly perplexed by his.  “Ill?  Maddened?”  She wrinkled her nose at the suggestion.  She wasn’t the one who looked crazy.  He was the one wearing the kilt.  Not even a nicely pleated kilt but a mangy dirty one… and was that blood?  Then what he said sunk in and her calm slipped.  “Wait.  You’re going to forgive me?  Did you really just say that?  Forgive me for what?  You attacked me, remember?”

“And yer people attacked my hold,” he shot back with a blood chilling growl.

“My people?”

“Aye, Lindsay, yer people.”

“Lindsay?  My name isn’t Lindsay,” she scoffed.  “As if you didn’t know.”

“Are ye the Crawford’s get then?  Why would he bring ye here dressed thusly?”

Scarlett closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.  They were getting nowhere fast with this shooting questions back and forth at each other.  And his brogue so much thicker than any other she had heard in Scotland, Scarlett could barely understand him to boot.

The brute flexed his arm and Scarlett fought to keep his elbow locked, adding the slightest pressure to his thumb.  It pleased her immensely to see him wince.  “Listen.  Obviously there has been a mistake.  I’m not whoever it is you think I am.  So how about I let you go and you walk away.  That way I can go back to my hotel, have a nice long bath, a whole bottle of wine and just forget this day ever happened.  What do you say?”

“Aboot what?”

“Do ye need help, brother?”

Scarlett looked up at the same time as her attacker and groaned.  To her dismay, there was not one man coming to his aid, but a half dozen more dressed much as her hostage.  In fact, all of them were wearing the same kilt of faded red plaid with thin yellow and black lines.  If that wasn’t disconcerting enough, unbelievably they were all armed with long claymores.

“Holy shit.”  Icy dread gripped her heart as she watched drops of what could only be blood dribble off the tip of one of the swords and spread like a web through the stone of the castle floor.  “What the hell is going on here?  Who are you people?”

The man at the head of the newcomers took a few steps forward, studying her and Scarlett looked him over as well. Even without him claiming her hostage his brother, she could see the facial resemblance though his expression wasn’t quite as murderous.  Nor was he as bulked up… which wasn’t to say that he wasn’t muscular.  It would be like comparing a quarterback to a linebacker (if one were into sports analogies).  The power was still there.  This one also had dark auburn hair instead of mahogany.  It was longer, past his shoulders, and combed back from his arresting face.

There was also something about him.  Perhaps it was the way he held himself, that self-confident gaze or how his lips curved just so, that was immediately engaging.  Certainly he wasn’t the humble sort but neither did he radiate cockiness in the off-putting manner some of her former co-stars had. Grayson, for example. Still, this one could have been a movie star in a heartbeat, with fangirls worshiping at his feet.

Having never known a ginger who was dangerous, she felt her wariness ebb.

Meeting his eyes boldly, Scarlett watched the corner of his mouth kick up attractively before his gaze shifted down with some interest to the arm bar she maintained on her attacker.  “Is she hurting ye, brother?”

“Nay, Rhys.  I’m merely resting.”

His ‘G’ slid into a low hiss when Scarlett bent his thumb downward more forcibly.  The other man – Rhys, was it? – smiled broadly as he looked down at her with wicked humor dancing in his silvery eyes.  “I like her.”

Scarlett raised a superior brow and the man’s mischievous grin stretched even wider.

“I think I’d like to take ye home wi’ me.”

“Thank you, no.  I’m fine right here,” she shot back and was treated to his delighted laughter as well.

“Rhys, would ye just take her?” her attacker growled out, slapping his free palm against the floor impatiently.

“Perhaps ye should just ask her to release ye.”  She had to have been mistaken, but Scarlett swore she could see approval in this Rhys’ eyes.  “She cannae be much of a threat to us.  Clearly she’s run from her sickbed.”

Scarlett looked down at her maxi dress wondering how such a message could be ‘clear’ when they were the ones dressed so oddly.  Like rejects from the local renaissance fair or war re-enactors gone wild.

“Sickbed?” she repeated incredulously.  “Do I look sick to you?”

“Are ye no’?  Ye must hae been maddened by fever if ye thought to defeat the mighty Laird o’ Achenmeade in hand-to-hand combat,” Rhys jested with another laugh and a few of the other men swallowed chuckles before the huge barbarian on his knees scowled fiercely, immediately silencing them all.

“Yes, heaven forbid a little girl like me should be able to defend herself against a man intent on harming her,” Scarlett retorted, bending the mighty Laird’s wrist again until he hissed in pain.

“Bloody hell, Rhys,” he swore.  “Will ye just take her all ready?”

Rhys met her eyes and shrugged.  “Wi’ my apologies, lady.”

Then his hands were on her shoulders and Scarlett was back to square one.  She released the Laird guy who rose