Taken by Angeline Fortin (ebook reader with android os TXT) 📕

Inconceivably, she had traveled through time without even a blue police box or a golden Time-Turner to aid her, and to her way of thinking, she hadn’t even gone anywhere good.  What was there for her in sixteenth century Scotland?  Though her studies for her degree had encompassed the works of the time, Old and Middle English literature weren’t her favored cup of tea.  Beowulf had never resonated with her, and while the romance of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and the Pearl Poet’s Sir Gawain and the Green Knight bore some pleasurable elements, both of those authors were long dead by this particular point in history.

What was there now but a yawning gap in notable literature?  Fifteen… Damn, she’d been so overcome by the first half of the year, she hadn’t heard the actual year.  Either way, the better part of the sixteenth century focused largely on moral and religious works.  Or the occasional play.  Poets like Spenser and Sidney or playwrights like Marlowe and Shakespeare weren’t even a thought yet.

So why here?  Why now?  Or did it have nothing to do with her personally at all?  What if it were all nothing more than a fluke?  An accident?  A wrong place, wrong time catastrophe?

Stuck in the rolling grass of the Cheviot Hills with a horde of Lowland reivers?

Scarlett studied Laird’s men as they gathered around the fire.  She had caught a few of their names along the way.  Odd names like Padraig, Cormac, Eideard and Murdo.  That last one had given her a momentary pause.  She thought the coarsely accented word had been ‘murder’ before she’d realized it was a name, not an intent.  Like their names, the men were, to the last, a rough lot.  Rough in speech – what she understood of it any way – and even more so in manners.

Rhys with his too-slick polish was the lone hint of sophistication.  As for Laird or whatever his name was, beyond offering her a drink, he hadn’t yet displayed enough manners good or bad to form an opinion.

In fact, she hadn’t been offered much at all, Scarlett realized as she took another sip of the whiskey.

No, she sat on the bare ground without a blanket to protect her from the growing chill of the night.   Where was the vaunted chivalry of the time?  The gentlemen who catered to a lady’s needs and wishes?  These men were largely ignoring her, joking rudely with one another.  Bragging about the women they’d had.  Still, guys just being guys.

Some things never changed, Scarlett hiccupped before tilting up the bag once more.  Nevertheless, there was something about all of this that was niggled on the horizon of her alcohol-hazed mind.  Something familiar.

Bothwell, Laird had said his cousin’s name was.  Why did she know that name?  Achenmeade, too.  It was there, just out of her grasp.

Scarlett shrugged and pushed the thought away as she took another swig of the whiskey.  It would come to her eventually.

She could only hope that a way out of this whole nightmare would also present itself.

WWBD, Scarlett thought tipsily.  What would Buffy do?  Somehow she doubted that the vampire slayer would have been any more successful than she in finding a quick fix to her unusual situation.

His captive sat on the ground, hunched over his skin of whiskey as if it were her lifeline, James noted as he returned to the campsite.  A long conversation with Rhys had revealed even more peculiarities about her.  She’d asked Rhys many a question, simple things that anyone should know.  The date.  What a laird was.  She insisted that she’d never rode a horse.  Even more strangely, she’d seem to care naught that Laird was a bastard born.

She was an oddity to be sure.  Still James felt a grudging respect for her.  Other than her initial panic when they’d left Dunskirk, the lass hadn’t quailed at all against her circumstances.  None of the weeping and wailing he might have expected from a lady.  Indeed, she looked him in the eye and spoke her mind.  And not always kindly.

She was a fighter.  In more ways than one.  He couldn’t help but admire that.  But for all her sharp words and waspish ways, there was sadness in her troubled eyes.  Of course, she had been kidnapped and taken against her will but James couldn’t help but think that there was some greater worry on her mind.

The firelight cast his shadow over her and she looked up, then proceeded to list to the side in reward for her efforts.  A short giggle punctuated by a snort escaped her as she set herself to rights.  James fought to bite back a reluctant smile.

It seemed she had chosen to drown her anxieties in drink.

“Yer utterly blootered, aren’t ye?”  James dropped down on the grass beside her and took the whiskey bag from her.  Weighing it in his palm, he lifted a questioning brow.  ‘Struth, she had actually drunk very little.

The lass straightened her posture and pronounced with something akin to pride, “Yes, I am.”  She then relaxed against his side, her voice softening like butter as the slight accent that had accompanied her speech all day extended into a long drawl.  “Ahh, y’all have no idea.  I’m a sweet tea kinda girl, honey.  I never drink.  Never.  ‘Specially not the hard stuff since I’m such a lightweight.”

“A light weight?”  Yet again she was talking nonsense and James didn’t think the spirits were entirely to blame.  There was something strange about the lass beyond her choice of words and her accent, though he’d be hard-pressed put to put a finger on what troubled him so.  “Yer making even less sense now.”

“Ha!  Like you’re Mr. Intelligible.  Mr. Comprehensiveable… Comprehens…  Ah, bless your heart, I can’t understand half of what y’all are talking about half the time either.”  Scarlett frowned at her own words as James did the same.  “Half of half.  Wow, I am really