The Laird’s Angel

by Lee, Caroline

  All he’d have to do is take her in his arms, stare down at her with those too-understanding gray eyes, and say something kind and wonderful and loving.

  And she’d be doomed. She’d completely forsake her fellow Angels, her friends at court, and the very mission her Queen had given her, if it meant making Lachlan happy.

  Which is why she’d ridden so hard and so fast, ensuring she put enough distance between them.

  But by the time she reached Scone, there’d been no sign of him. So aye, mayhap she’d grown complacent.

  When she’d at last reached Scone, the crush of people—at once so familiar, and so foreign, after all the weeks at An Torr—had forced her off her horse. So instead of rushing through the city, she was carefully leading the large animal through the main streets and smaller squares, until she could see the Palace’s crenellations.

  And she hadn’t been paying as close attention as she should’ve been, because Lachlan catching up to her wasn’t the only danger.

  It was the point of a dagger in her back which had her freezing, wondering which of the crowd around her intended to rob her, even as she cursed her inattentiveness.

  “No’ a sound, lass,” growled a man’s voice in her ear, the scent of onions washing over her with the words. “Drop the reins to that fine animal.”

  The horse?

  That’s all they wanted?

  Well, she could afford to lose her mount this close to the Palace, if it kept her moving closer to her destination.

  She dropped the reins.

  But instead of withdrawing, the man behind her shoved the dagger in even further, until the tip of the blade cut through her traveling kirtle and pricked against the skin beneath, causing her to suck in a sharp breath.

  “Don’ make a sound,” the voice growled again, as the man nudged her forward. “Come with us.”

  Us?

  Mellie’s mind churned frantically as she stumbled, wishing she had some hint of Rosa’s intellect or Court’s battle ability. “Us” meant there was more than one, and wanting her to go with them meant they had other plans, rather than a mere robbery.

  “Ye can have the horse,” she hissed, knowing the longer they stood in the square, while the crowds flowed around them, the more chance there was of someone growing suspicious.

  A heavy hand came down on her shoulder, simultaneously steering her toward the shadows between two buildings, and pulling her back against his blade.

  “Aye,” Onion-Breath said, “an’ I told ye no’ to speak. We’re getting a nice purse for killing ye and making it look like a cutpurse attack, but there’s nae reason we can’ enjoy ye a bit first.”

  The last was said with a leer, as the man pushed her on. Mellie wasn’t as scared by the threat as she suspected he’d intended she be. She was an Angel, and that meant she’d gotten into—and out of, thank God—worse situations.

  It was the casual reference to someone paying these men—how many were there?—to kill her, which had given her pause.

  “Someone wants me dead?” she asked in a low voice, hoping to keep the man talking, even as she pretended to stumble.

  The man simply yanked her upright, the blade nicking her flesh again, as he huffed impatiently.

  “Shut yer mouth! At least until we’re ready to use it,” he added, with a crude chuckle.

  And that’s when Mellie knew her time was up. They were almost to the edge of the square, where there were fewer people. The shadows of an alleyway loomed ahead, and she knew she had to act. Out here, she had the advantage of the crowd, and the odds in her favor someone may step in to help, but in there…?

  Years ago, Court had taught them about fighting in close quarters. She’d also instructed Mellie and Rosa ‘twas usually better to scream and make noise and attract attention, even under threat of harm, than to allow a man to drag her away. If the man stabbed her before he ran from her rescuers, well then…at least she had a better chance of getting help right away, and a better chance of survival.

  Court’s trainings flashed through Mellie’s brain in just the short time it took for her to draw a deep breath. Before Onion-Breath knew what she was about, she threw herself forward, wrenching out of his grasp, and began to scream for all she was worth.

  Some of it was wordless, but she made sure there were also enough words of “Help! Help!” to draw attention.

  As she hit the ground, rolled, and came up in a crouch, the man cursed. She’d gotten out of his hold without further harm, and now she had to get, and stay, away from him.

  Scrambling upright, she lunged forward, but felt a hand close around her wrist and yank her sideways.

  Merde!

  She’d forgotten he had accomplices!

  And rather than coming to her rescue, her screams seemed to have induced some sort of human stampede. All around her, people fled from the square, even as Mellie struggled to get away from her captor.

  The man yanked hard, and she stumbled against a foul-smelling, dirty body. Pretending to slump in defeat, Mellie used those precious few seconds to fumble for her boot and the needle-blade dagger she kept hidden there.

  Sainte Vierge! Keep me safe!

  Thanks be to Mother Mary, her blade easily pulled free of her boot, and she slashed upward. The dagger was made for stabbing, but her awkward swipe seemed effective enough, as the man cursed and released her, dropping her to her hands and knees once more.

  Mellie scrambled forward, but someone grabbed her ankle before she could get very far. She kicked backward without looking and heard a man grunt in pain.

  All around her, people were yelling, and feet and wagons went thundering by as they moved away from the fight. Mellie did her best to reach the safety of the crowd, but it seemed to thin, even as she stumbled to her feet, praying for help.

  Suddenly, a roar filled the air, startling them all.

  Mellie wasn’t the only one to turn to the far side of the square, but she was likely the only one who ran toward the gorgeous man in Fraser plaid, sitting atop a massive horse.

  Lachlan!

  She couldn’t breathe, her lungs having become frozen from the terror of knowing she had been—still might?—be killed. But even the lack of air wouldn’t keep her from rushing toward the man she loved, especially when he was shouting her name.

  Still astride his horse, Lachlan brandished his sword, and bellowed, “Mellie!”

  And in that moment, Mellie knew she had never heard anything sweeter.

  He reached her at the same time someone else grabbed her arm from behind. Ignoring the enemy for a heartbeat, she watched as Lachlan threw himself from his horse, his blade already swinging, before she decided to turn back to the man holding her in an attempt to break free.

  But she never got the chance to move.

  Lachlan pulled her out of the other man’s grip and up against himself, tucking her face against his shoulder with his free hand, as he slashed behind her with his sword, and the pressure on her arm went slack.

  Mellie took a moment to inhale deeply of his scent—how had she ever thought she could leave him?—before the screaming penetrated her mind, and she peeked back.

  The man who had grabbed her—the same man who’d had the dagger, which had dug into her back, though now was lying useless on the ground—was now clutching at the end his shoulder, where his arm had been only moments before.

  “Are ye hurt?” Lachlan asked in a growl , as he pushed her behind him, keeping his attention on the other bandits, who had fanned out before his blade.

  Mellie had time to whisper, “Nay, thank the Virgin and ye,” before she settled her back against his and faced the men who had circled behind them.

  She held her dagger at the ready, the way Court had taught her all those years before, but inside she was shaking.

  Now it wasn’t just her own safety she was worried about, but Lachlan’s as well.

  * * *

  By all the saints in Heaven, Lachlan didn’t think he’d ever forget the terror of
seeing her running, reaching for him, only to be yanked back. He’d gone a bit mad then, but the threat was far from over.

  Now she stood at his back, while the bandits circled them, and everyone else fled. There were six of the enemy left, and each eyed him, sizing up the threat he presented.

  A threat?

  Nay, he vowed.

  He would be their end.

  They’d dared to harm the woman he loved, and blades or blows, he would see them in hell for that sin.

  He glanced over his shoulder to check on her, and when he saw Mellie’s blade gleam as she waved it low, one corner of his lips pulled up. “There’s my lass.”

  “Ye’re no’ sorry I’m no’ some refined court lady, who’ll go into hysterics and faint?”

  His attention was on the danger before him, his sword at the ready, but her sarcastic question had his grin growing ever wider.

  He’d thought her as such when he’d first met her, especially when she’d stepped into that alley to defend him, but now?

  “I think ye should ken me better than that by now, Mellie.”

  “Aye,” she murmured, “I do.”

  At that moment, one of the bandits darted forward, and Lachlan easily slapped the man’s shorter blade away with his longer sword.

  Just who in damnation were these men, and why would—

  When he recognized the great bull of a man who’d circled in front of him, one meaty fist pounding into the other palm, Lachlan cursed aloud.

  ‘Twas one of the pair of cutpurses who’d tried to rob him—God Almighty, had it been this very square?—the last time he’d been in Scone.

  And that meant his wiry little partner had to be here too…Aye, there he was.

  “Hodan, was it no’?” Lachlan growled, shifting his weight forward. “Or was it Rhys? Did yer master no’ say ye were on watching duty? Cutting purse strings wasnae lucrative enough for ye, so now ye’ve turned to attacking innocent ladies?”

  “I’m Rhys,” the wiry man snarled.

  He was the only one of the bandits holding a sword, although he didn’t look as if he quite knew what to do with it. Which was unfortunate, because an untrained swordsman is more dangerous than a trained one, Lachlan knew.

  Shifting to keep Rhys in front of him, Lachlan felt Mellie turn behind him. They were a good team, in more ways than one.

  “My apologies, Rhys,” Lachlan offered lightly. “Why are ye trying to kill my betrothed?”

  Why in damnation hadn’t these common thieves run for safety when they saw Mellie was under a warrior’s protection?

  It was Mellie who answered. “The one whose arm ye took said they were being paid to kill me and make it look like an attack by cutpurses.”

  That information sent a spike of anger through Lachlan, which he struggled to contain, knowing he’d never manage to keep her safe if he lost control and let emotions take over. He already faced near-impossible odds.

  All he allowed himself was a growled, “Who?” to Rhys, deciding to treat the wiry man as the leader.

  His enemy flicked his gaze over Lachlan’s shoulder and gave a subtle nod, just before Mellie sucked in a startled gasp behind him.

  Shite!

  Taking the risk of leaving himself exposed to Rhys’s sword, Lachlan ducked left and twisted his blade under his arm.

  Thank the saints he did, because his sword caught Hodan—the giant of a man and Rhys’s partner—in the stomach.

  Lachlan didn’t give himself time to think, but lunged even further left and dragged his blade out through the big man’s side.

  The weight of his falling enemy almost pulled Lachlan down, but he dropped to one knee and managed to get his sword up in time to block the next attack, which came from two men, who used Hodan’s death as a distraction.

  Lachlan knew how to fight; he’d been trained and had been in enough battles for the King to know he wouldn’t die today, not at the hands of this scum.

  But he’d never had to fight and worry about the woman he loved either. Each time he twisted out of the way of one blade, he’d lose a precious second or two to glance over at Mellie, ensuring she was still safe.

  There were four men in front of him now, which meant the fifth was a direct threat to Mellie, and he couldn’t allow that.

  Lachlan parried and jabbed, forcing his enemies back, as he did his best to get back to her.

  God’s Blood, but he couldn’t allow her to be hurt!

  No matter how unskilled these men were, there were still five additional blades he couldn’t juggle.

  “Forget the bastard!” one of them panted to another, half in Lachlan’s hearing. “Fraser’s only paying us to kill the girl, no’ the laird!”

  Fraser?

  Lachlan’s surprised hesitation nearly cost him his life.

  While his brain tried to make sense of what he’d heard, and still keeping half his attention on Mellie as she sparred with the fifth man, another darted in toward Lachlan’s side.

  He jerked his blade just in time, slicing into the man’s hip.

  The enemy went down screaming, but the distraction allowed Rhys to lunge forward, his sword sliding easily into Lachlan’s right shoulder.

  The pain was immediate and damn near blinding, but Lachlan’s hiss was the only indication. He threw himself backward, his flesh sliding from the inexperienced man’s blade.

  He couldn’t allow himself to look, so he shifted his sword’s weight to his left hand as the blood pouring out of him made his grip slick.

  How could he protect Mellie like this?

  Mellie!

  Suddenly, she was beside him, her shoulder under his and her arm around his middle. He stumbled sideways, desperate to keep his blade between her and the remaining danger, and caught a glimpse of her opponent from the corner of his eye.

  The man was lying on the cobblestones, her blade deep in his throat.

  It was useless to them now, and they were down one weapon, but Lachlan couldn’t hide his proud grin.

  “That’s my lass,” he whispered again, his voice hoarse from the pain.

  “Sainte Vierge!” she hissed, her grip around his middle tightening, “What are we to do, Lachlan?”

  Without answering her—not altogether sure he could—Lachlan began to retreat, trusting her to guide him as well as she could. Together, they stepped back, then back again, but Rhys and his two remaining henchman followed, the gleam of avarice in their eyes.

  “What’dya want me to do, Rhys?” one of the other remaining men asked.

  “Get around behind them. We don’ get paid if the girl don’ die, an’ now we only have to split the purse three ways!”

  Lachlan silently cursed.

  Why weren’t his legs working properly?

  In his condition, he wasn’t sure he could fight off even one enemy, no matter how untutored the man was. And if one of them got behind them—

  Just then, the help they needed came from an unexpected source.

  “What purse?”

  The growled question—low and angry—came from behind Rhys, who’s eyes flicked nervously, but he didn’t turn. The man on his right, however, did.

  “Shite!” the man groaned.

  Lachlan saw their rescuer when the man turned and revealed him; it was the blond stranger, the master of the cutpurses from the alleyway. The one who had no reason to love Lachlan, thanks to the blow he’d given him, which had knocked him unconscious.

  But the stranger was holding his sword in the ready position and glaring at Lachlan’s attackers.

  “Ye nae longer answer to me, Johnnie?” The blond stranger’s gaze flicked between the bandits as he stalked closer. “Who paid ye to kill a lass?”

  The man, Johnnie, shrugged, his eyes darting to Rhys, then back to the stranger. “One of the Frasers wants her dead, Cam. The auld adviser, Gillepatric. Offerin’ to pay us pretty to see it done.”

  The pain in Lachlan’s shoulder was nothing compared to the shock of hearing his oldest advisor—his m
other’s confidante...and mayhap more?—named as the man who’d paid to have Mellie killed.

  Is that why Gillepatric had come to Scone?

  Had the story about visiting the city with Mother simply been a ploy, an excuse to make contact with this scum for the purposes of—

  Nay. Donae think of it.

  With the bandits’ attention on the newcomer, Lachlan forced himself to just focus on breathing and staying upright.

  Ye’ll have yer chance soon enough, lad, he promised himself.

  Their blond rescuer shook his head and growled at their attackers, “Ye’re murderers-for-hire now?”

  Johnnie lifted his own blade. “We’ve always been murderers! Ye just thought we could be something different!” he yelled, then lunged toward the man he’d called Cam.

  “Nae longer!” Their savior’s sword slashed through the air as he parried and attacked. “Ye’re nae longer mine!” His sword cut into the cutpurse’s neck, and then he turned to Rhys, without even breathing hard.

  Lachlan felt his strength draining along with his blood. His sword was too heavy, but he hefted it and attempted to straighten himself, determined not to place too much weight on Mellie.

  With one more man down, only Rhys and the other remained. He’d have to kill them before he lost too much blood.

  The Fraser battle cry rose up in him.

  “I am ready,” he whispered, his voice weak, and pushed away from Mellie to stumble forward.

  The movement caught Rhys’s eye, and the wiry man turned, his sword awkwardly spinning.

  “I am ready!” Lachlan repeated, louder and more firmly, and caught the man’s blade with his own sword, tossing it to one side, his anger giving his left arm the strength of two men.

  And then he heard the cry repeated. “Je suis prest! I am ready!”

  He thought it came from Mellie’s mouth for a brief moment—she was always cursing in her mother’s French—but then realized it had been a male voice, and had come from the man named Cam. He glanced left and met the man’s gray eyes, only moments before Rhys attacked again.

  “I am ready!” Lachlan bellowed, just before sinking his sword into Rhys’s chest, and watching the man’s eyes widen with shock, before glazing over in death.