The Laird's Angel: a medieval fake engagement romance (The Highland Angels Book 2) Read online

  The smaller man opened his mouth to respond, but the newcomer—a blond man, dressed in simple leather trewes and a green tunic—grabbed him by the scruff and shook him. “I kenned I couldnae trust ye two.”

  “Aww, leave off, milord,” the man—Rhys?—whined. “We were following him, as ye asked.”

  “And ye thought to make a profit while ye’re at it?” the newcomer growled. “I told ye, we are done with the Red Hand. If ye follow me still, ye take my orders.”

  The barrel-chested man was bobbing his head and his shoulders—giving the appearance much like a chicken—as he made apologetic grunts. The blond man, who was obviously their leader, pushed Rhys toward him.

  “Get back to yer posts. I want information, no’ purses.”

  “Aye, milord,” the smaller man whined, as he bobbed his head along with his partner. “We’ll watch the gates.”

  Rhys scowled at Lachlan as he and Hodan squeezed past him on their way out of the alley. Turning his shoulders so he could watch them go, Lachlan slid his sword back home, careful not to release his grip until he knew the danger had truly passed.

  When the pair disappeared into the crowd, and he was satisfied they wouldn’t attack his back, at least without raising too much suspicion, Lachlan turned back to the stranger in the alley.

  “My thanks.”

  The man met his eyes, and even in the dim light, Lachlan saw something flash in them, although he couldn’t tell their color.

  Alarm, mayhap?

  The cutpurses’ leader sucked in a breath as his nostrils flared, then turned, giving Lachlan his shoulder, his attention focused on the wall beside him, as if he couldn’t stand to look at Lachlan.

  “Ye’re a Fraser,” the man bit out.

  That much was obvious from the plaid Lachlan wore.

  “Aye, and who is the Red Hand?” It was likely rude to push for answers when the man had just saved his purse and Simone’s ribbon, but Lachlan wasn’t exactly in a polite frame of mind. “And why are ye watching the palace?”

  When the man swallowed, Lachlan could see the muscles flexing in his jaw, and the pause before he spoke seemed to Lachlan to mean he wasn’t sure how to answer.

  Or was trying to keep his lies straight.

  Finally, without looking at him, the blond stranger spoke tightly. “I am looking for…a woman. In the palace.”

  Lachlan’s gaze traveled over the man’s simple garb. He was clearly no nobleman, and the woman he was looking for could not be a lady.

  “Well, I have come from the palace, as yer men told ye. I might be able to help ye, as ye’ve helped me.”

  The man closed his eyes briefly, then let out a slow breath. As he turned, Lachlan saw movement behind him, in the shadows against one of the buildings. Something rose from the stack of crates and refuse, but before he could see it clearly, the blond man faced him once more, his shoulders held back and his gaze direct.

  It was Lachlan’s turn to frown.

  God’s Blood, but the man seemed…familiar, somehow.

  “Her name is Courtney,” the man said. “I’ve tracked her thus far, but her trail ends at the palace—”

  His words were cut off by the blade which materialized at the blond man’s throat.

  Behind him, a shape rose up, and a voice—a female voice—hissed, “Ye’ll never get yer filthy claws into her again, ye Red Hand scum!”

  The blond stranger had frozen, eyes wide. But between one heartbeat and the next, his shoulders relaxed, his chin dropped, and Lachlan knew his plan. Knew it, because it was what Lachlan himself would do in that same situation. Knew it, because his Uncle Andrew had taught him how to fight back with a blade at his throat, and this man was prepared to do the same: lower his shoulder, kick back, and duck to the side, while grabbing and yanking the assailant.

  And he would’ve succeeded, but Lachlan knew he couldn’t allow it. He couldn’t allow any man to harm a woman.

  So before the blond stranger could step into his attack, Lachlan darted forward, his hand taking hold of the front of the man’s tunic, before slamming his fist into the other man’s jaw.

  Lachlan had tried to direct the force away from the woman, but the blond stranger’s head snapped back and knocked against her cheekbone, causing her to flinch away. Luckily, she had the presence of mind to pull the blade—a long, wicked looking dagger—away from the man’s throat, rather than spilling more blood on the filthy cobblestones.

  To Lachlan’s surprise, she only released a hiss of pain from the blow. The blond stranger was knocked cold before he could utter a sound.

  The entire encounter took less than a few seconds, and was almost completely silent.

  Allowing the dead weight of the man to slip from his hand and slump senseless on the ground, Lachlan stepped toward his unlikely savior. The woman, who was currently staring, horrified, at the body on the ground, also looked familiar.

  What in damnation was wrong with him, that he kept seeing familiar faces everywhere he turned today?

  As he stepped forward, she stumbled back, the blade gripped tightly in her hand, and and her wide eyes locked onto him. Recognition finally slammed into him.

  She’d been there, just yesterday, in the throne room!

  She appeared to be some sort of servant, surely, dressed as she’d been in a too-tight kirtle and drab gown. Today, she wore dark gray, which had allowed her to blend into the shadows, but her dress was just as equally humble.

  Lachlan stretched out a hand to her, patting the air in a soothing gesture. “Shh,” he murmured. “ ’Tis aright. He cannae hurt ye now.”

  “Hurt me?” The woman shook her head. “He’s unconscious! Do ye have any idea how much force it takes to knock a man out cold like that? He’ll likely have brain damage or— God above, I’m rambling.”

  ‘Tis likely hysteria.

  Lachlan tried a charming grin. “And do ye care? If he’s damaged?”

  The woman blew out a breath, which caused her breasts to do all sorts of interesting things, and shook her head. “ ’Twould’ve been nice to question him about the Red Hand, but ye’re safe, and that’s what matters.”

  “I’m safe?” Lachlan asked incredulously.

  “Aye, and ye’re welcome for saving ye.”

  Was it possible the woman wasn’t having hysterics?

  God Above knew, between Simone’s tantrums and Mother’s antics, he was used to womanly theatrics. But this particular woman didn’t seem at all concerned about the violence she’d just witnessed…and had a part in.

  On the contrary, as he watched, she bent over and yanked up her skirts, revealing a pair of boots and smooth stockings—the silk at odds with the course wool of her gown—and a leather sheath. With a smooth, practiced motion, she tucked the long dagger back into the leather, fluffed her skirts back over it, then straightened so quickly, Lachlan wondered if he’d imagined it all.

  But nay, there she stood, without a dagger, her hands folded in front of her and smiling up at him in a sort of patronizing way.

  “Aye,” she said slowly, as if he were hard of understanding. “Ye are safe. Now, be about yer business.” She unclasped her hands long enough to make a little shooing motion. “Forget ye saw me.”

  Forget…?

  Lachlan snorted, his lips curving upward.

  Forget this angel in front of him?

  If anything, he’d likely store this vision in his memory and pull it out when he was alone with only his hand for company. Now that he could see her clearly, and the threat of danger was past, he felt himself stir at the sight. She was exactly the sort of woman he’d always fancied, and as far from Alice’s slender form as possible.

  This woman, his savior, had thick curls—the color of spun gold, with ribbons of a light reddish color shimmering throughout—pulled back in a braid, which was fighting a losing battle against the curled tendrils loosely flowing around her forehead and ears.

  Her skin appeared to have been kissed by the sun, her luminescent eyes,
of a startling sapphire blue, were perfectly placed above a cute, pert nose and deliciously luscious full lips.

  And her body!

  Lachlan took a moment to allow his gaze to drift lower, appreciating what he saw. She was curvy in all the right places, the sort of hips a man might appreciate for hours. And her breasts—

  She cleared her throat. “My eyes are up here.”

  Chagrined, but not quite knowing why, his gaze snapped up to hers again, only to realize she was…blushing?

  God’s Blood, had he made her uncomfortable?

  “I’m sorry, lass. What were ye saying?”

  She frowned. “I was telling ye to move along, to forget this happened. Go back to the palace where ye belong, Fraser.”

  She knew him?

  “I don’ belong in that palace any more than—than—” He shook his head, unable to come up with an analogy. “I donae belong there, and I’ll be leaving as soon as possible.”

  One golden brow rose. “Ye’re leaving?”

  “Aye.” Though he couldn’t understand why he was explaining himself to a serving wench, he continued, “I’ve done what I needed to do here in Scone.”

  Before yesterday’s excitement, he’d finished his oath of loyalty to the crown, and thought the Queen had been satisfied. Now, however, he just needed to hear she thought him blameless for the fiasco yesterday, and he could return home in peace.

  “I’m only waiting on the Queen’s summons once more, to be finished.”

  “I see.”

  Although it was dark here in the alley, he saw her lips thin and her expression draw in, as if she disapproved. She stepped back, out of his reach, and when she spoke next, her tone had become icy.

  “Go on then. Finish what ye started, if ye think ye can.”

  With those baffling words, she turned and was soon embraced back into the shadows where she’d come from. He watched until she disappeared entirely, his arms folded thoughtfully across his chest and his weight on one hip, as she slipped toward the other end of the alley, moving from shadow to shadow, her steps careful and measured, as if she were used to moving about in secret.

  A bizarre skill for a serving wench.

  He was tempted to go after her, to track her back to her lair, to corner her, to demand answers. He wanted to press her against a wall, to feel those heavy breasts heaving against his chest as he used his lips to tease answers from her.

  Under his kilt, his cock stirred at the thought, and he growled in irritation. Aye, she was a fine-looking woman, but he had only to remember the sight of her with that dagger in her hand and the irritation he’d heard in her voice when she caught him staring at her body, to know she wouldn’t give up answers easily.

  Not the way he’d like, at least.

  She’d appeared like some sort of protecting angel, intent on saving him, which was both galling and intriguing.

  If she served in the palace, mayhap he’d find a reason to stay in Scone longer?

  As if to chastise him, his headache chose that moment to return with a vengeance, a heavy pounding behind his eyes which made him wince.

  Nay. Nay, there were bold, golden-haired wenches at home. Mayhap none as curvy as her, but he’d simply close his eyes and remember her.

  Besides, home meant no more headaches. Home meant peaceful evenings by his loch and moments spent curled up with Simone, and hunting in his woods.

  He didn’t belong here, but she did.

  With a sigh, he shook his head, wishing the headache away. It hadn’t bothered him during the time he’d been in danger, but now it was back with a vengeance.

  “God’s Blood,” he muttered, and turned away from the alley and the unconscious man he couldn’t recall how he knew. “This isnae for me.”

  Home was calling.

  Chapter 2

  “Tell me everything.”

  Rosa pulled Mellie into Charlotte’s private study and pushed the door shut behind them. At her command, Charlotte looked up from her papers and frowned. The pregnant woman glanced between her two remaining Angels—Rosa, whose lips were pursed determinedly, and Mellie, who looked completely exhausted—and nodded.

  “Aye, tell her everything. But do it from a chair, with a glass of wine.”

  Her mentor’s humor never failed to lighten Mellie’s heart, but today she couldn’t manage much more than a weak smile. She’d been trailing Lachlan Fraser since early that morning, and after the disastrous encounter in the alleyway, had been more than happy to pass the duty off to one of the Queen’s guards for a bit.

  She gratefully took the vessel of wine Rosa passed her. “That man has the longest legs in the history of legs.”

  Charlotte snorted. “Couldn’t keep up with him?”

  “Oh, I could.” Mellie sipped from the cup as she reached down to rub her knees with her empty hand. “But I’m no’ built for running after a man.”

  “Aye?” her mentor asked distractedly. “What are ye built for?”

  “Love.”

  Love.

  Sainte Vierge, but that sounded pitiful.

  When Rosa shot a look Mellie’s way, which told her her wistfulness had been a bit too obvious, she hastened to add a lewd wink. She wanted her teammate to believe she’d meant physical love, and nothing more.

  Six years ago, she’d had those secret yearnings crushed, when she’d learned all she was really good for.

  She’d learned she was built for love, but only the kind a man wanted temporarily. Mayhap not the kind she’d dreamed of, the kind she’d wanted when she was younger…but she’d learned to use her build to her advantage.

  And hide the part of her which still ached for a child of her own and the eternal love of a special man.

  When Charlotte tossed down her stylus and stretched with a grimace, Mellie had to look away to hide her jealousy. There’d been a point in her life when she had been lucky enough to experience the aches pregnancy brought, as well as the thrill of feeling her unborn child move.

  Sainte Vierge!

  What was wrong with her?

  Why was she being so…maudlin?

  “Aye, well”—Charlotte exhaled deeply—“as long as men are built for love as well, aye?”

  Knowing what was expected of her, Mellie pushed down her thoughts and chuckled throatily, lifting her cup to her lips.

  But Rosa was still frowning. “What does a man’s build have to do with— Oh. Ye’re talking about his penis, are ye no’?”

  This time, Charlotte was the one to burst out in surprised laughter.

  Mellie saluted her young friend with her cup. “ ’Tis the only part that matters!”

  Rosalind was brilliant, aye, but more than willing to bow to Mellie—and even Court’s—knowledge of the world. When it came to men, she was hopeless and put up with everyone’s teasing good-naturedly.

  Calming herself at last, Charlotte planted her elbows on the desk. “Well? Report.”

  Mellie took a deep breath, then began, pleased to be dealing with what mattered once more. She closed her eyes and told the pair everything the Fraser laird had done that day, from the moment he’d exited his chambers. Most of it was likely to be irrelevant, but if anyone could find something of importance, it’d be Rosa.

  It wasn’t until she spoke of her excursion into Scone, that her voice faltered. She opened her eyes to see Rosa perched on the edge of the desk, staring out the window, while Charlotte nodded encouragingly.

  “Who was he meeting?”

  Mellie shrugged. “He seemed to be just…shopping. He bought a ribbon from a seller.”

  “A ribbon?” Charlotte’s brows went up. “For a lady love?”

  “Or to defer suspicion,” Rosa murmured, not looking at them, as her mind whirled. “Continue please.”

  Apparently, nothing Fraser had done so far was enough to cause Rosa to ask for clarification, so Mellie told about the man’s encounter with the two cutpurses, and how she’d snuck around the back of the alley to help him.

  “
By the time I arrived, they were gone, but another was in their place. He was speaking to Fraser, and they appeared…equals?” She shook her head, unable to explain the sensation that the two were similar. “I thought mayhap this was a compatriot I’d never seen, but as I approached, the man was clearly uncomfortable in Fraser’s presence. He was asking about Courtney.”

  As Charlotte gasped, Rosa turned, her blue eyes piercing Mellie with their intensity. “Tell me everything.”

  Mellie did, trying her best to recount every nuance of the stranger’s presence, his conversation with Fraser, her own attack, and both men’s reaction. She told them of Fraser’s words and actions after the brief skirmish, including the appreciative gleam in his gray eyes when he’d raked her body with his gaze.

  But she left out the way his piercing regard had made her feel.

  She was no simpering virgin, new to desire. Fraser was a fine-looking man, aye, and that was all there was to it.

  “The man he was speaking to”—Rosa shook her head—“was no’ just a member of the Red Hand, but a man who obviously knows Court. When she returns…”

  Charlotte nodded. “Aye, she’ll have much to report herself, I’ll wager. But there’s naught we can do about the stranger. Fraser is our focus.”

  “He said he had done what he needed to do here in Scone, and once he saw the Queen once more, he’d be finished.”

  Rosa, bless her, cursed in Latin, as was her wont.

  Charlotte wasn’t nearly so polite.

  “By St. Ninian’s left foot!” she growled, reaching for her roster. “I’ll have Liam treble the Queen’s guard!”

  With shaking fingers, Mellie placed the cup on the desk.

  Was she really so tired?

  Or was her reaction based on fear?

  “The Queen is planning on seeing him?”

  “Aye,” Charlotte snapped, as she made notes. “She told me herself she planned on calling another audience, since their first one was so rudely interrupted. I donae ken what she’ll say to the man, but we can ensure she’s well-guarded.”