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

“He doesn’t need you!” she insisted.

“Mayhap but I will make myself available to him, if he does.”

“Wow, pardon my French but what a bee-aatch,” Scarlett whispered under her breath as the short conference broke up and the men went their separate ways.

Amusement at her audacious words lightened his mood.  Many a time James had longed to voice a similar sentiment aloud when Lady Ishbel so often labeled him bastard and other more graphic epithets that were mostly true but still offensive in his presence.

Aye, there had been a time when he might have liked to rebuke his stepmother in the some manner before he had realized that she would never treat him differently and that his efforts to win her approval were in vain.  Over the years, it had become easier to avoid her entirely.

“Why would she assume such a thing?” Scarlett asked step as he took her by the elbow and helped her to her feet.  “That you raped me?  That’s awful.”

“Is it?  Ye thought I might last night.”

“While I think you were perfectly capable of plying me with alcohol and cajoling me into having your way, I don’t see you using the kind of violent force Ishbel was implying.”

“Lady Ishbel has a rather low opinion of me as do most who reside in this hall,” James said with a shrug, though he was warmed by the indirect praise.  It had been some time since someone defended him.  Longer still since someone hadn’t cared a fig for his birth or station.  The lass truly seemed unbothered by it all.  She was, as Rhys said, a most curious lass. James couldn’t help but soften toward her.  “I would suggest keeping yer distance from her for the time being.”

“Good advice.”

“And ye should address her as ‘my lady’ or ‘Lady Ishbel’.  Trust me, she can make yer life a living hell if you cross her.”

“Like being the by-product and constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity?”

James arched a startled brow but nodded brusquely.  “Just so.”

He looked down at her, his eyes coaxed ever more downward as Rhys’ doublet gaped open providing him a distracting vista.  The loose bodice of her white undergown allowed just enough shadow to hide her charms from his eyes.  All thoughts of war and bloodshed fled with the reminder of her breast cupped so neatly in his palm when he had awoken that morning.

Forcing his gaze upward, he noted the fatigue etched around her eyes.  She looked miserably tired, even more so than he.

“Come.”  He turned away toward a spiral staircase tucked into the corner of the hall, thankful that she followed, albeit slowly.  With arousal stirring once more beneath the folds of his kilt, James wasn’t certain he could bear cradling her warm body in his arms once more.

The day had been a long one.  The lass stewed rigidly behind him as they rode while he tamped down the rush of lust the mere sight of her bare ankle had roused in him.  Lust when she was standing in shite!  He had been appalled and ill-humored with her as a result.   Much as she was with him.

He tried to get some answers from her – who she was, why she had been at Dunskirk, who this Tyrone she screamed for was – but other than their brief, amusing conversation, she maintained her stony silence throughout the morning hours.

After a short break at noontime however, she had softened completely.  Her soft breasts pressed against his back.  Then she had drooped against him in her exhaustion.

It was only by skill and luck that James had caught her before she tipped off the rump of his horse and pulled her across his lap.  She had settled against him with a contented sigh, wiggling her bottom to seek comfort in the same stirring manner that had got her tossed onto the horse’s rear so abruptly that morning.

With her curled in his arms and her bottom relentlessly rocking against his groin, James had spent a long afternoon with little else to think about other than stifling the arousal that beleaguered him.

Contrarily, rather than awaken her or give her over to Rhys, he’d carried her in his lap the remainder of the day.  To his men, he would have said her continued slumber spared them all her harping tongue.

Inwardly, he could hardly admit the reality to himself.

Neither would he have bared the truth of the matter to save his soul that morning, but he had known very well who was in his arms when he had awoken.  He’d done naught but dream of her all night.  Dreamt of her body beneath his even though he had laughed off the idea the previous night.  He knew from having held her all night and day that she was far more a fair handful than the bag of bones he had teased her being.

The discovery had been a surprising one.  His burgeoning desire for her, even more so.  Somehow the harridan had bewitched him.

Her shoes scuffed along each of the worn stone stair, marking her presence behind him as he climbed the winding path to the guest wing of the castle.

Though he contemplated briefly taking her to his own rooms – where he might keep an eye over his prisoner, of course – James took the Lindsay’s potential wrath into consideration should his clanswoman be harmed either in body or reputation before he might ransom her and opened the door to a chamber directly across from his own.

Twilight cast the room in shadows so James entered ahead of her, lighting a candle next to the bed.  His eyes lingered on the down-turned coverlet as the candle spilt its glow upon the sheets.  If nothing else might be said for Lady Ishbel, she was an excellent hostess.  Beds were always ready for a weary guest to lay their head.  Too ready for a man plagued by salacious thoughts.

“Where is this war supposed to take place?”

James