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

shaking out his hand and brought her arms up, arcing them over her new opponent’s arms and cutting downward to break his hold.

Odds overwhelmingly against her, Scarlett didn’t even try to fight this time but turned and ran.  Not a step had she gone before a thickly muscled arm snaked about her waist, lifting her off her feet.  Giving her no chance to fight back this time, Laird tossed her over his shoulder as if she didn’t weigh an ounce and pinned her there with one arm.  Though Scarlett struggled for all she was worth, kicking and hitting, he held her tight, smacking her bottom hard for good measure.  Scarlett stilled at the stinging pain.  Her self-defense teacher had never addressed how to get out of that particular hold.

“Have a care, brother,” the more humorous of the pair said.  “She’s so frail ye might snap her bones.”

“I’m more like to snap her neck,” the words vibrated through the thick chest pressed against her thighs.  “What else am I to do wi’ her?”

Rhys shrugged carelessly.  His eyes were still sparkling while Scarlett’s were shooting sparks.  “She maun hae come wi’ the reivers to raid yer keep but why?  As sickened as she has clearly been and in her small clothes?  I suppose we might ask the Lindsay men who she is if any yet live.”

“Aye and we may get a fair ransom for her as well.”

Scarlett stilled as that one word stood out from their thick, garbled speech.  Ransom!  It rang through her head like a peal. She was being kidnapped.  So much for him not knowing whom she was.

“Tyrone!  Tyrone, help me!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, the plea ending in an undignified squawk as the Laird brought down his meaty hand firmly down on her buttocks once more.  With only the thin cotton of her maxi skirt and panties to pillow the blow, her bottom warmed grievously.  “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” she screamed, beating his back with her fists once more.  Not that he seemed to notice, the frickin’ brick wall!

With her bouncing against his shoulder, his long jarring steps carried them across the tower and down the stairs.  As they were passing through the hall within the curtain wall, Scarlett felt her tote slip over her back and up to the base of her neck.  Twisting about, she expected it would fall even farther so that she might be able to reach it.

Let’s see what these bastards had to say when she was pointing a gun at them.

But, no.  Her bag stayed put.  Disappointed, she looked around, hoping to catch sight of any of the castle staff or other guests who might come to her aid.  Even Donell, though older, might carry her call for help to the others.  But there was no one about other than more kilted marauders.  No sound beyond the occasional ring of clashing swords.

“Report,” her captor barked out as they emerged from the castle and another armed man rushed toward them without sparing her a single glance.  None of the men did. It was as if they didn’t even notice her hanging over his shoulder.

Or was it just that common a sight?

“The castle is retaken, m’lord,” the newcomer said quickly.  “Nae more than a dozen inside and out.  None killed.  Dougal and Malcolm are rounding up the strays.”

Dozen?  Scarlett stilled once more at their words.  That made no sense.  There were at least that many staff members working the castle and more than a hundred spectators and guests present for the exhibit as well.  Still, there wasn’t a familiar face to be seen.

What was going on here?  What had happened to everyone?  The crowd?  The cameras?

Who were these people?

“At least there is that to stop the feuding.  Lock the prisoners in the dungeon and assign a guard to them til Lindsay ransoms them back.”  Laird turned on his heel then paused a few steps away.  “Padraig, bring one of them to me first.”

Like a good little soldier, the lackey ran off.  Little?  Ha, he was as big as the rest of them.  It was indeed like coming face to face with a football team.  Scarlett, who hadn’t been labeled petite since she was ten, was unexpectedly cowed by their collective size.

Not that she planned to show it.

When the Laird dragged her back over his shoulder and dropped her at his feet, she met him glare for glare.  The bastard only lifted a single brow, amusement reflected in his eyes if not on his lips.

Oh, if only looks could…

The gun!

Scarlett tore open her bag and dug inside the cluttered tote but was once again thwarted when he clamped both of her wrists in one hand.  Though she struggled to free herself, his grip was as effective as a pair of handcuffs.  A moment later a rough texture abraded her tender wrist and she stilled in surprise.

He was actually tying her up.  Binding her hands in front of her, not with handcuffs or even the taught smoothness of a zip-tie but with roughly braided, hemp rope.  “Rope?  Who uses rope anymore?”

The brute lifted a brow and jerked the knot tighter.

“Hey!  Watch it.  That hurts.”

“Ye nearly broke my bluidy thumb, lass,” he whispered as he bent over to bind her ankles.  “And my nose.”

“Only nearly?  Guess I should have tried harder.”  Scarlett lifted her knee sharply, feeling a strong sense of satisfaction when she caught him on the side of the head.

“Och, ye bluidy hellion!” He rubbed his ear and glared up at her with deadly menace.  “I dinnae like to strike a lady but ye best stand still before I cuff ye to be sure!”

Yes, she supposed she should have been glad that he didn’t retaliate with violence as Grayson had.  Surely a blow from that brawny fist would kill her but somehow she instinctively knew he wasn’t going to hit her.  Not now, not when he’d had more than a few chances to do so upstairs.

And in truth, his