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

It was hers, as well.

Easier said than done, though.

Whatever she’d told Tyrone about the direction of her moral compass, no deviation she’d ever made from true north had been so perilous.

Beyond this door lay a psychopath who’d shown no remorse in murdering innocent people. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her either.

Unlike this morning, she planned to shoot back.

Scarlett dug into her purse for her gun. Nothing. Confusion froze her in place for a moment. Opening the bag wide, she dug through the contents, certain she’d missed it in her search.

But no. It wasn’t there.

Now what? Return to the hospital with her head hung low? Wait to be chastis—

Scarlett jumped, a quiver ricocheted through her chest. A gunshot sounded from inside the room. Where Jameson was supposedly alone. Fear spiked like shards of ice through her veins and adrenaline followed like a jolt of electricity. What if someone had gotten there prior to her arrival?

What if…?

Before she knew it, she’d opened the door.

Bong.

Like watching a film in slow motion, Scarlett saw Donell bow over, clutching his stomach. Fall to his knees. To his side. He hit the floor with a muffled thud. Those blue eyes always so full of life and mischief peered up at her, dull and gray.

“There ye are, lass. I’ve been expecting ye.”

“Donell!” Without thought, she took a step forward.

“I’ve been waiting for you, too, Ms. Thomas.”

Jameson stood across the room, the muzzle of the gun all she could see above his hand. Death awaited her down that tiny black hole.

Dong.

In seconds, she’d be the one to fall to the floor. Feel her life seep away. Her last words to Laird would be ones said in anger. She’d never have the chance to say goodbye to him. Tell him she’d loved him. She’d never get the chance to be a mother to her girls. To be the kind of mom she’d always wished she’d had.

Regrets were all that would accompany her to the afterlife. If there was one.

Jameson’s finger tightened on the trigger and Scarlett braced herself. In a flash of white, the death scene awaiting her disappeared.

Laird

“Nay!” Laird yelled over the tolling of the clock as it called out the hour. Scarlett disappeared into nothingness with the final peal and fear clenched his heart. No, not again! Seconds behind her but too late to stop it, he ran to the door and spotted Donell on the floor. “Ye wretch, what hae ye done wi’ her?”

“Laird! Watch out!”

The breath whistled out of him and Laird crashed to the floor with Connor atop him. Shots rang out. A bullet splintered the door frame where he’d just been.

Connor had saved his life. Not at all how Laird had planned this moment, but he wouldn’t waste the gift.

He leapt to his feet. Another bullet sending up a spray of carpet fiber where he’d been a moment before. Laird drew Scarlett’s pistol from his waistband and fired back. The shot went astray, striking the ceiling.

Bloody hell, he hadn’t expected the kickback. He fired again. Jameson dove behind the bed and shot over the top of it without looking to see what he might hit.

Which was nothing more than the wall.

Laird meant to keep it that way. There was too much to lose. He would send the dog to hell then find out where Scarlett had gone. A glance at Donell bleeding profusely told him he’d best be quick about it.

Jameson’s head popped up over the top of the bed. Laird pulled the trigger again. This time it was followed by a cry of pain that fed Laird’s bloodlust.

“Donell!” Emmy cried out, rushing to the old man’s side despite her promise to stay back. The physician in her wouldn’t allow it.

“Emmy, nay!” Connor roared as Jameson rose to his knees and turned his gun on her. In a split second, Connor’s blade caught the light like a bolt of lightning as he lurched forward and arced the long length of the Claymore toward Jameson just as he pulled the trigger.

Jameson’s shot went awry and hit the floor as he bellowed in pain, clutching his abdomen. A narrow slit split his shirt and a thin line of blood beaded there. Not a deathblow. Laird fired his pistol at Jameson again, hitting the wall behind him when Jameson staggered to the side between the bed and the wall. Gunfire reverberated again and white fluff and frayed fabric shot up from the bed like a geyser in front of Laird. The bullet hit the ceiling.

Then Connor was there between them, driving the sword down, and Jameson screamed in pain.

“Connor, step back!” Laird demanded, aiming for another shot. Alas, he dared not fire lest he risk striking Connor.

The blasted space was too narrow for him to jump into the fray either. Too small for Connor to withdraw the sword for a second blow. He tossed it aside, reached down and lifted Jameson bodily out of the tight space. Connor threw him through the air.

Panting, Connor watched Jameson land in a crumpled heap a few feet from where Donell lay bleeding.

Then he looked down at his own chest and Laird’s gaze followed. A crimson rose blossomed halfway down his chest. Furled and spread like a plague.

“Nay!” Laird shouted in denial.

Emmy echoed his protest. Her cry of horror bouncing off the walls. “Connor!”

Connor fell to one knee, clutching his chest. When had he been hit? Jameson’s shots had hit the wall, the floor, and the ceiling. Three shots…

Except for the first three when Connor had tackled Laird out of harm’s way at the door. Saved Laird when he’d been distracted by Scarlett’s disappearance.