Taken Angeline Fortin (best novels of all time TXT) 📖

“What was that all aboot?” Rhys asked, pouring them each a cup of the King’s finest whiskey after the council had vacated the room and Sir William had taken his fill of soundly berating his oldest son for ‘such foolish nonsense’.  His lecture included a long rant over James’ attachment to ‘a worthless lass’ who brought him neither position nor plate, and an extended lecture on how he had failed the Hepburn name.  “’Tis no’ like ye to support the Lindsay much less speak of surrendering before a fight.”

James shrugged, tilting up his goblet.  In that moment more than any other, the burn of the whiskey down his throat was welcome.  “I hae a bad feeling aboot this, that’s all.   It cannae end well.”

“And Scarlett has nothing to do wi’ it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked warily, wondering if she had made such claims to Rhys during one of their many long conversations.

“Ye feel for her,” Rhys said quietly.  “Deeply, if I’m no’ mistaken.  I cannae blame ye for she is an intriguing lass.  If I were interested, I daresay nothing would stop me from assuring a long future at her side.”

“I’m nae milk-livered coward, Rhys,” he ground out.  “I will fight wi’ all I hae for my country.”

“Och, I dinnae imply any such thing but what is it then?”

James sighed heavily.  “Scarlett claims to hae foreknowledge of the battle ahead.  She says we will lose most egregiously.”

“And what makes her say such a thing?” Rhys shook his head.  “Is there more to it than maidenly worry?”

Swirling his whiskey around his cup, James tipped it up and downed it all in one swallow needing fortification to say it aloud.  “She claims to ken that we are destined to be sorely defeated by the Sassenach.  No’ because she is a seer or because she’s had a premonition of failure but because she is from the future and to her, it is naught but history.”

“Hmm,” his brother murmured into his cup.

“Ye dinnae seem surprised.”

“I’m no’ really.”  Rhys tossed back the remainder of his whiskey and poured himself another, larger portion.  “If ye had listened to me before leaving the encampment at Wark, I would hae told ye that she made the same claim to me.  That night we over imbibed on the wine.  I thought her drunk, naturally, I was as well.  But it makes sense, does it no’?”

“Sense?  Och, surely ye cannae take stock in such absurdities?”

Rhys lifted a shoulder.  “Why no’?  It makes more sense than her no’ knowing anything aboot how we live every day.”

“I told her ye were a blasphemer,” James grumbled.

Laughter spilled from his brother.  “If ye dinnae believe it, why do ye even speak of it a’tall?  I’ll tell ye why.  Because ye do believe her.  Because it makes sense of so much.  How is it that she can ken so much yet ken so little at the same time?  Her manner of dress?  Her speech?  The way she fought ye?  That book?  Have ye e’er seen the like?  I’m sure she offered something in the way of proof?”

James pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “She has a weapon.  A handgun, she called it.  It expels a shot similar to a hand cannon but it is only the size of the palm of my hand.  It dinnae look dangerous a’tall but I saw first-hand the damage it can do.”

“And ye still dinnae believe her?”

“I dinnae want to,” James sighed, dropping down onto a low, cushioned seat.  “If I believe her, it means that everything else she said might be true as well.  If she spoke true, we are on the verge of losing most everyone we know. She says it will be a crushing defeat.”

“How crushing?”

James dug into his sporran and retrieved Scarlett’s brochure.  Unfolding it, he handed it to his brother.  “Read this.”

Curiously, Rhys took the page and pondered the tiny print.  “I cannae.  I assume ye managed a way through it?”

“I’ve taken two days to do so.” Two days where he’d denied, aye, denied the truth.  Two long days since he’d seen Scarlett, uncertain what to say.  What to admit.  What to accept.  “It says that the causalities among the Scots fighting in this battle numbered more than ten thousand, including at least one family member from every noble house in Scotland.  Including King James.  Here.”  He flipped to one of the pages.  “I’d wager ye can make this out well enough.”

“Other notable casualties include…”  Rhys trailed off as he skimmed the list, taking note of the names of men he knew.  And family, too many.  “Adam Hepburn, 2nd Earl of Bothwell, Lord High Admiral of Scotland, Adam Hepburn of Craggis, George Hepburn, Bishop of Isles, Sir William Hepburn, Lord High…” His voice trailed off and he swallowed deeply.  “Father.”

James retrieved the pages, refolding them carefully.  “And Angus and Glencairn as well.  My old master, Ross, and even the Lindsay for all his gainsaying of the King’s plan.  All dead, if this is true.  If Scarlett is right.  And who can ken those no’ listed?”

“What do ye propose we do then?” Rhys asked.

“What can I do?  Ye heard the King, he is set on this madness.  Aye, I suppose I can admit as much now.  ‘Tis madness.” He scratched his whiskered jaw, hoping some heretofore-unseen option might raise its head.

“Show these pages to Jamie then,” Rhys suggested.  “Let Scarlett speak wi’ him.  Convince him of the truth herself.  A woman can change the world if her head is on the right pillow.”

James’ fist clenched around the paper.  “I’m going to forget ye said that.”

“Och, Laird, would ye no’ gi’ up a woman’s virtue to save yer King, yer father?  Me as well, perhaps?”

“I cannae ask her to do that.”

“I can,” Rhys said.  “And I will if ye dinnae.”

“Ye speak a word of this, I will kill ye myself.”  James swallowed the last of