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

She loved him.

This Scottish warrior.  This domineering, stubborn, irascible, caring, honorable Laird who was so not her type.  She loved him.  Loved him all the more because of each of those things.

Amazing that a single moment in time could change her perception of reality.  But reality didn’t care if she loved him.  Laird was about to die.  Why would Donell bring her here then?  To make sure Scarlett knew what love truly felt like before stripping it cruelly away from her?

“Laird.”

The words would not come.  The feeling was too new, too difficult to assimilate.

“Farewell, mo chroí.”

With one last kiss, Laird gathered up his sword and left the tent.  Scarlett stared after him, her blood pounding in her ears.  Throbbing in her chest.  No, she couldn’t…

NO!

“Laird!” she cried, running after him and throwing herself into his arms when he turned to look back.  Wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, she buried her face in his shoulder, dampening his skin with her tears as they fell freely.  “I love you,” she choked out, her voice strained to break through the lump in her throat.  “I love you so much.  Please, come back to m-”

His mouth covered hers, swallowing the last of her plea and devouring her heart and soul as he held her so tightly against him that Scarlett could hardly breathe.  It didn’t matter; she’d give her last breath to make sure he knew how dearly she loved him.

Just in case.

Laird set her back on her feet just as the sun broke the horizon, spilling its rays upon his face.  His eyes glittered like polished silver as he framed her face in his hands and looked down at her.  The slash of dimples appeared above the shaggy line of his short beard as a smile of pleasure such as she had never seen on him graced his handsome face.  “I will be back to hear ye say that again, if for nae other reason.”  He kissed her lightly and drew back, still smiling.  “I love ye as well, my bonny lass.  ‘Twas the grandest day of my life, finding ye at Dunskirk.”

“Mine, too.  Be careful.”

“I will.”

Boom!

The first blast echoed over the camp in the late afternoon.  The hideous reverberation was followed in waves by another and then another.  Scarlett had seen enough historical battle scenes on film to recognize the firing of the cannon.  That would be the opening volley King James had promised would set the English on their heels but Scarlett knew better.  Scotland’s heavy artillery wasn’t going to scare anyone off.

Even from the distance, the shots sounded ponderous, as if the cannon was too fatigued already to spit out the cannonball without effort.  As if the cannon knew its efforts were in vain.

Soon enough a more rapid fire responded.  The English counter attack with its light artillery, aimed at taking out – not the Scottish forces waiting to fight – but the Scottish cannon that would impede their immediate advance.

Scarlett circled the clearing outside Aleizia’s tent restlessly, pleating the fabric of her skirts with nervous fingers.  “How can you all just sit here like this?”  The question was torn from her as she whirled back to the group of women gathered there, stitching away as if nothing were amiss.  “Your men are out there dying!  Your husbands.  Your sons!  How can you just sit here without doing something?”

“What is there for us to do?” Lady Glencairn asked.  “Should we take up arms with them?  Have them die even faster from the distraction of worrying over us rather than themselves?”

Scarlett gnashed her teeth in frustration.  It was the same point some soldiers made even in her time about having women on the battlefield.  Even a bigger point in a time when chivalry was still very much alive.  She turned to Aleizia.  “I thought you were a panicker.”

“I am,” Aleizia whispered, staring down at her sampler.  “I want my husband safe.  I want my babe to have a father.”

She pressed a hand to her abdomen and Scarlett felt her own stomach drop.  Aleizia was pregnant? Oh, God, she was a just a girl!  Too young to be a widow and a single mother.  But still, even if the worst were to happen, she would always have that piece of Patrick and Scarlett had to envy her that.

The thought sent a shudder down Scarlett’s spine.  Bearing a child in medieval times?  No, thank you.

But what if it was Laird’s baby?  Another sort of shudder ran through her.  One of longing and yearning.  It would be worth the risk.  “Forgive me, Aleizia,” she said.  “I know you’re worried.”

God, they were a brave bunch.  It was easy enough to love a man who sat at home by the hearth each night and another thing entirely to love a man who might never return.  It gave Scarlett a whole new respect for military wives in any time.

“It’s quite all right.  We all are.” Aleizia’s words were calm.  Sensible.  Scarlett felt anything but.

“I just wish there was something we could do.”

Pacing away from the group, Scarlett started in surprise when a strong hand caught her around the arm and pulled her behind the tent.  Donell!  His wrinkled face was folded into a severe frown.

She didn’t feel much like smiling either.

“Och, lassie, what are ye still doing here?”

“Still doing here?” she screeched through clenched teeth.  “You tell me.”

“I thought ye were clever enough to figure it out on yer own.”

“I thought I had.  I tried to stop it,” Scarlett protested.  “They wouldn’t listen.”

“Och, lass,” Donell spat in disgust.  “Did ye think ye could change the minds of a thousand bull-headed Scotsmen?  Ye daft lass, why did I choose ye?  Only a knotty-pated beldame would think she could singlehandedly stop a war.”  He clucked his tongue lightly.

Scarlett ignored his insults, determined to get to the heart of the matter.  “Why then?  What am I here for?”

“To save him, lass.  Not the whole bluidy country.  Him.”  Donell shook his head in disgust.