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

Sixteenth century Scotland had never been as appealing as it was after eighteen days of being hounded by the press. Her mindset at this moment was remarkably similar to the funk she’d been in before Donell had sent her back there the very first time. Searching for an escape from all the B.S.

“Why did ye no’ bring Hermione wi’ us to see it as well?” Laird asked as they stood and made their way up the inclined aisle toward the door.

“She’s only three. The ogre would frighten her.” Scarlett tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and grinned up at him. “Besides, it wouldn’t be a romantic date night if we had a toddler along, would it?”

“Date night?”

“A night out as a couple. Just you and me. Dinner…of sorts, and a movie.” Her free hand slipped down and caressed his hard butt. “You know, date night?”

Laird paused and smiled down at her. “Aye, I ken romance.”

He bent his head and kissed her. The soft brush of his lips against hers had Scarlett wishing she was a few more weeks beyond childbirth, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t satisfy each other in different ways. They’d gotten pretty damn good at it after Hermione was born.

She whispered the suggestion against his lips, the proposition barely spoken before his mouth was devouring hers with untapped hunger. His tongue swept between her lips to parry with hers. His arms banded tight around her, lifting her off the ground. Then he swung her about, dipping her low over his arm.

Scarlett’s lusty sigh turned to a yelp when a loud crack split the silence, echoing through the theater.

“Laird!”

Yanking his shoulders, she dropped to the floor, forcing him to join her just as another shot rang out. The wall behind them splintered.

“Someone is shooting at us!” she rasped out.

Laird nodded, he’d heard the ominous sound before when she’d shot a bullet through the roof of his tent so long ago. Again when she’d saved his life on the battlefield at Flodden. He’d sworn it was a sound he’d never forget.

Now, his silver eyes were deadly serious and diligent as he pressed her down to the floor and shielded her with his massive body. Scarlett could hardly care about the germs and residual soda and popcorn embedded in the grotesquely colorful carpet when their lives were in danger.

“Stay behind me,” he whispered, then took her hand as they crept up the aisle.

Laird paused at each row to peer between them, before tugging her across each gap. A few rows up, he paused to listen. Scarlett couldn’t tell if he heard anything but she didn’t.

Not a step. Not a shuffle.

Scarlett scrambled for a solution. Janice had been the only one working the theater tonight to ensure her privacy. If the manager hadn’t come running when the shots rang out, it either meant she wouldn’t or couldn’t. Scarlett shuddered at the thought of the kindly woman being hurt.

She could call 911. Scarlett reached for her phone in her purse and dialed the number before she realized the American emergency number wouldn’t work. Damn, what was the number in Scotland? She’d filmed in the country for years for crying out loud, surely she should know it. Nothing. Shit, either she’d never known or was too terrified to remember.

Laird tugged on her arm and inched them up another row, crouching low behind the seats.

“Is he gone?” she whispered, but Laird shushed her and shook his head.

He pointed up the aisle, indicating they hadn’t reached the threat as yet.

Desperate, Scarlett dialed Tyrone’s number, cursing more graphically when it went straight to voicemail.

“What I wouldnae gi’ for my sword.”

“A sword? Ha, I’d rather have a—oh, shit!”

Maybe? Scarlett ripped open her voluminous purse and dug through the strata. Past her wallet and sunglasses. Past the keys and tubes of lipstick. Compacted receipts, a notebook. Pens.

Ugh! Too many years had passed for her to remember clearly. She’d been on the battlefield of Flodden. Saving Laird with a single shot to a man in a red uniform. Again and again she’d fired as they ran. What had she done with it?

Thrown it?

No, her fingers curled around the barrel of the Smith & Wesson Bodyguard .380 Tyrone had given to her so long ago. The pistol she’d taken with her to the past.

And thankfully, she’d brought the pistol home with her again.

A bullet whizzed overhead and they dove forward to the next row.

Frantically, she checked the magazine. Two bullets. That was it. Not even one in the chamber. Grimly, Scarlett jacked one into the chamber and looked up at Laird looming over her.

“No’ much better than a sword at this point then?”

He kept his body positioned between her and some madman apparently determined to take a life or two. Laird meant to be the one who took the bullet if it came at them.

To give his life for hers.

She couldn’t have that happen.

“Not much. But it will have to do.”

Laird grimaced, his intent expression telling her he was working through their options. They didn’t have many that wouldn’t expose them.

“Can ye run, lass?”

Scarlett wrinkled her nose. “Maybe.”

Another bullet zipped by over the tops of the seats. Whoever was out there was trying to flush them out.

“Definitely not fast enough,” she added.

“Get ready to make that wee thing explode then,” he ordered and caught her around the waist.

In a flash, he was on his feet and racing up the aisle with her in his arms. Gunfire sounded again and again. Scarlett shot over his shoulder at the figure crouched behind the seats in the opposite row. Shot again, and then they were through the doors.

Laird obviously didn’t plan on stopping at the