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

Others were butchering a variety of animals.  Scarlett grimaced then gasped when one of the men at a table lifted a thick knife, cleaving the head off a chicken with one swift blow.

The cleaver thunked into the worktable, shaking it and sending a resounding shudder through Scarlett’s gut.  After a day with nothing more than a piece of dried meat to gnaw on, her empty stomach twisted and heaved in rebellion.

It was a renaissance fair come alive before her, but far more real than any festival she had ever seen.  Or perhaps given the historical accuracy, she might more accurately say that it was like a movie set of a historical drama employing a set director not given to creative interpretation.

In any case, it was vividly authentic and far more fragrant as well.  Not in the best way.  As the stench of dung, blood and animal flesh assailed her, Scarlett covered her nose and mouth with one hand as they came to a halt.

“Grieg!” Laird barked out as they neared a group of men practicing with swords.  A blond giant broke from the group and trotted over, nodding respectfully.

“Laird.  Sir Rhys.”

“What is going on here?”

“There’s been a messenger from the king,” Grieg told them.

Laird and Rhys shared a look and dismounted hurriedly.  When Laird turned to help her down, Scarlett couldn’t help but ask, “What’s wrong?”

“The king’s messenger rarely brings a message of joy, lass,” he said grimly, setting her on her feet but Scarlett could not force her legs into any sort of stability beneath her.  The sun had dawned that day about four a.m. if she remembered accurately for her own time reference and the sun usually set in August at about eight. That meant she had been on that horse for nearly thirteen hours with only one that one brief break.  By her estimation, they had traveled less than three miles per hour.  Simple math, but Scarlett’d had plenty of time to do it over and over in her head.

Even if the King himself were waiting on them within the castle walls, Scarlett didn’t think she could have made it there.

Comprehending her inability to move, Laird scooped her up in his arms, ignoring her sharp yawp of surprise as he strode toward one of the dark archways after Rhys.  Scarlett held on to his shoulders as he bore her weight up a steep stone staircase without even the slightest hitch in his breath.  The rest of their men hurried in behind them, anxious to hear what news the messenger had brought.

“Maybe there’s a new prince or something?”  Royal announcements of a new prince or princess were big news even in her time.  That couldn’t have changed too much.

“A new bairn was born of the Queen just four months past.”

“Oh.”  It might be bad news then.  Scarlett knew that infant mortality rates were high in this day and age.  Even kings and queens were not immune to such loss.  It was a sobering thought.

He dropped her to her feet as they entered a cavernous room above.  Scarlett took a deep breath and immediately wished she hadn’t.  The malodorous smell that assailed her was much worse than the barnyard below, summoning images of sweaty bodies and high school locker rooms with an undertone of stale beer.  Overall it gave her the impression of a bar at closing time.  The summer day had been a warm one but not hot enough to inspire such a scent on its own.

Scarlett surreptitiously sniffed Laird.  Though he smelled slightly sweaty, it was as warm, earthy and masculine a scent as the one that had greeted her upon wakening and not all together unpleasant.  But without a breeze to stir the air, the inside of the castle was hotter and more humid than outside.  She could only conclude that its inhabitants were sweltering beneath their layered garb.

Those inhabitants were gathered around a table near a massive fireplace and Rhys headed that way, with his men and Laird falling in behind him.  Everyone looked up and a stern looking woman of about sixty years broke away from the group and hurried toward Rhys with her arms outstretched.  “Rhys!”

“My Lady Mother.”  Rhys took her hands, placing a kiss on each one.

This was Rhys’ mother?  Scarlett wouldn’t have been more astonished to find out she was the original role model for Sleeping Beauty’s Maleficent.

An elaborate heart-shaped bonnet was set upon her graying head, arching upward over her hairline before pointing down to the center of her forehead.  She was richly gowned as well with fur trim edging her collar and her flowing sleeves that draped to the floor.

Bless her heart, Scarlett thought, she had to have been burning up under it all.  Then woman’s perfume wafted from behind her, thick and musky.  It was all Scarlett could do not to wrinkle her nose.

“My son, thank God you’re returned safely.”

“Naturally we are safely arrived,” Rhys assured her.  “We are far too arrogant to die.”

A sharp snort of amusement escaped Scarlett, drawing the woman’s attention.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw both Laird and Rhys wince.  Apparently, this wasn’t kind of attention one wanted to have.

The woman looked Scarlett over before her icy green eyes narrowed on Laird.  A spasm crossed Laird’s face before he schooled his features into the arrogant calm she was used to.  He bowed slightly.  “Lady Ishbel.”

Lady Ishbel did not return Laird’s polite greeting but merely swept a chilling scowl over him, extending it to Scarlett as well before greeting each of the other men by name and far more pleasantly.  Though Scarlett was surprised by the woman’s singular rudeness, Laird seemed to take it all in stride as the woman turned back to Rhys with a questioning look.

“What have we here, my son?”

“A captive, my lady mother, taken during the Lindsay raid on Dunskirk,” Rhys said simply.

“And you bring her into my home dressed like this?   I would have thought you gentleman enough