A Laird to Hold Angeline Fortin (most important books of all time .TXT) 📖

“Are you all right? Did something happen?”

Emmy came in behind him with a laugh and patted her husband on the butt affectionately. “Nothing a little Dramamine couldn’t fix. Turns out my speedster here is a lover of back roads and freeways, but not so comfortable with the constant stop and go of a more urban environment.”

Connor looked affronted, drawing himself up to his full height. He was wonderfully handsome, not so gorgeous as Laird, but Scarlett imagined he looked splendid against the rugged backdrop of the castle he’d told her about. Like Laird, he wouldn’t like being seen as weak. Or less than the alpha sort of male he was in his own time period.

“But I did a fine job of driving when Hugh let me. I ne’er dreamed of traveling at such speeds. A true thrill, I cannae tell ye how I’ve longed to—”

“Who is this Hugh ye speak of?” Laird cut in. “No’ one of those paparazzi Scarlett warned ye to avoid, I hope?”

“No, not a paparazzi. A passerby who was kind enough to give us a ride down to Dunskirk and back again. Really quite kind of him.” Emmy paused, biting her lip. “He asked to meet you.”

“I don’t want to see anyone,” Scarlett reminded. Besides, she’d had enough of ‘visitors’ after her mother’s surprise visit. “You know that.”

“Not you. Laird.” Emmy turned to him with a shrug of apology. “I know such a claim seems strange, but he says he knows you.”

Laird’s brows bunched together. “Impossible. ‘Tis obvious I ken nae one in this place. Send him away.”

“I told him ye’d say that,” Connor assured him. “As Emmy said, ‘tis an odd circumstance, but he insisted he knows ye but wouldnae explain how. He said if ye had any reservations aboot receiving him, to gi’ ye this.”

All eyes in the room darted to the gold chain he held out, the burnished medallion on the end gleaming as it danced and swayed hypnotically in the light. But Scarlett’s immediately went from there to Laird, who stood clutching his chest.

Emmy’s eyes widened in alarm. “God, are you okay?”

Laird

Laird clutched the pendant he wore beneath his shirt, staring at the one dangling before him as if someone had carved out a piece of his soul and brandished the trophy. Leaving him naked and vulnerable with its removal. Secure in the knowledge his own piece was safely in place, Laird snatched the undulating necklace from Connor’s hand. After a thorough inspection of the pendant, he closed his eyes.

“How is this possible?”

“Let me see,” Rhys demanded and looked the disk over, though Laird held tight to the chain. “Where would someone get this? Ye ne’er remove it.”

“Let’s ask him, shall we?”

“Laird,” Scarlett warned. “He could be a charlatan, someone who saw you on TV. You shouldn’t just let him in.”

Of all the things Laird imagined if he were to see the future world his wife had been born in, discovering his medallion anywhere but around his own neck had been the last of them. Mayhap the greatest blow as yet among the maelstrom of painful revelations. If the pendant were a fake, it was a clever one. The embossed image on the front, a rampant lion with the Latin phrase Nobilis est ira leonis around the perimeter, was identical to his own. The weight in his hand, the feel…it was the same if somewhat worn. Aye, he was cautious about allowing new people into this room and their lives. Especially after meeting his mother-in-law. But he could not simply turn away from learning where the last five hundred years had taken his one true legacy.

“They’re decent people, Scarlett. They mean no harm,” Emmy assured them, sealing his decision.

“Send him in.”

Rampant curiosity couldn’t entirely quash wariness and good sense, so Laird was on guard when Connor opened the door to admit not just a man but a tall, willowy redhead as well. The woman smiled, bonny and friendly. The man, however, wasn’t as confident of a welcome reception.

Wise of him, because however interested Laird was in the person who possessed his keepsake, the welfare of his family came first. One wrong move and Laird would have his sword drawn and at the man’s throat before he could blink.

Laird strode the space between them with slow steps, taking the measure of the man. Tall as he, the stranger was. Near as braw, but not quite. Dark hair cut short. Unarmed, his hands were open at his sides where Laird could see them. Clearly no numptie then. Laird came to a stop before the man, aware Rhys stood at guard at his back. The stranger’s vivid blue eyes, however, never veered in Rhys’s direction, remaining on Laird.

“Who are ye?”

“My name is Hugh Urquhart,” the visitor answered, his eyes studying Laird with unwavering interest. As if he were searching for something in turn. “This is my wife, Claire. Or Sorcha, if ye will.”

Laird spared her a nod but not the more courtly bow he would normally have given a lady. This was no ballroom, unless he wanted to compare his ill ease to the backbiting throngs of King James’s court. Keeping his eyes on this Urquhart, anticipating any attack, he held up the pendant. “Where did ye get this medallion?”

When the stranger reached for the necklace, Laird drew it back. There would be no returning it until he had answers.

“I am happy to explain,” Hugh replied, “but might I hae yer name first? I’ve already met Connor and Emmy. My wife is familiar with Miss Thomas.”

“She is nae Miss Thomas to ye, but my wife,” Laird told them, earning a little gasp from Sorcha. He shot her a dark look meant to threaten and subdue and the woman shrank back into