The Thief’s Angel

by Lee, Caroline

  Of course, the man had then knocked him unconscious moments later, but Cam had been elated to discover proof Court was still alive. Alive, and obviously safe among loyal friends.

  Movement at the head of the alley caught his attention, and he watched with some interest as a slight figure slipped around the corner into the shadows. When she saw him, she hesitated, then stepped closer.

  Another pickpocket?

  Nay, this lass held herself close—her arms around her middle, and her chin tucked against her chest—and was peeking up at him from beneath lowered lashes. She was skinny and dark, her gown unlaced to show too much skin, and her skirts cut high enough to catch a man’s interest.

  A whore then, and not a particularly successful one, judging by her hesitation. She looked as if she expected him to lash out at her, and he decided it was likely she had learned about a man’s temper the hard way.

  This is what Tess would grow up to be if she didn’t learn to fight back.

  The dismal thought, so soon after his other depressing musings, had Cam sighing in pity.

  “Ye’re new at this?” he asked the whore.

  She started, her chin jerking up in what might’ve been a nod, before she huddled against herself once more and shuffled closer.

  He sighed again. “Come here.”

  ‘Tis just my day for charity projects, I guess.

  When she paused, he reached out and caught her elbow, gently tugging her closer. But he’d surprised her, and she stumbled into his arms. With a grunt, Cam caught her arms and settled her into the space between his legs, propping his arse against the wall behind him once more.

  “Now then, let’s see ye,” he murmured.

  When she didn’t move, he tucked one finger under her chin and lifted her face…then sucked in a breath.

  Saints above, but she’s lovely!

  The lass had the small, delicate build of a songbird or a fragile flower. Her skin was dark, her eyes darker still, and her black hair hung long and straight in a braid down her back. She watched him with those dark eyes wide, with something showing which wasn’t quite fear in her expression.

  Uncertainty?

  Nay, she’d never attract customers like this.

  Reaching over her shoulder, he pulled her braid forward, lying it across her chest. “Men like to imagine ye in bed, lass. They’re no’ going to pay money for someone all laced up, prim and proper.” Dropping his fingertip, he traced the upper swells of her breast. “Ye’ve made a good start here, but ye must loosen yer hair if ye want to catch our attention.”

  The way she jerked at his touch, and the noise she made told him she wasn’t yet comfortable in her new profession. Mayhap he could teach her to pick pockets instead.

  Nay, ye cannae save them all.

  “What’s yer name, lass?”

  Dark eyes flicked up to his, then settled on his chin.

  “Rosa,” she whispered in a feather-light voice.

  “Rosa,” he breathed reverently, dragging his fingertip lower, at the point where her shift parted to reveal the shadows between her breasts. The name fit her; a delicate petal amid the harshness of the world. “Loosen yer hair.”

  At his command, she took a deep breath and lifted her hands to her braid; her fingers fumbling with the leather tie. She didn’t meet his eyes as she made short work of combing out her hair, then pulling it forward, as if using it to cover her breasts.

  He clucked his tongue, brushed her hands out of the way, and reached for her locks himself. They felt smooth as water as her hair cascaded against his palm and smelled faintly of roses.

  That, more than the knowledge this woman was for sale, sent a jolt of desire straight to his cock.

  “No’ many whores smell as good as ye, Rosa,” he murmured, shifting so she was further bracketed between his legs. “But ye need to learn to be bolder. Look me in the eyes.”

  Dark lashes fluttered, but she did as he commanded, lifting her gaze from his chin to his eyes. He saw indecision in her expression and offered her a quick grin. “Now tell me ye want me.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Mi—milord?”

  “Nay, donae call me that,” he commanded, with a shake of his head. It’d been many years since the title had applied to him. “But calling a man sir will make his ego swell, along with his cock. Try it.”

  Something flashed in Rosa’s dark eyes, as if his words had changed something important inside her. Her shoulders straightened, and her chin rose. “Aye, sir.”

  His lips twitched. “Excellent. Now, ye have me pressed against a wall, see? That puts ye in charge of the situation. Ye ken I have coin, because ye’ve seen my purse. Ye must make me believe ye want me. So what will ye do now?”

  Before she had a chance to answer, Cam brushed her skin with his fingertips once more, liking the little shudder she gave. Had she been more experienced, he might’ve thought it feigned, but not this rose.

  His lips curling further, he dragged his hand across her chest, his palm settling around one breast and squeezed, just slightly.

  She gasped and jerked away, before swaying back toward him. His smile grew as he brushed one thumb against the bud of her nipple, hard beneath the wool of her kirtle, and she gave a little moan. Her tits were as small as the rest of her but filled his palm nicely.

  Inside the trewes he wore, his cock jumped to attention.

  What will ye do now?

  The question hung between them, a challenge unanswered.

  Until he dragged his thumb across her nipple again, and she moaned louder, then threw her arms around his neck and dragged his lips down to hers.

  She looked like a rose, acted like a virgin, but she kissed like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

  With a groan of his own, Cam surrendered to his surge of desire and wrapped his arms around her back, pulling her flush against him. His stiff cock, pressing against the leather of his trewes, rubbed against her belly. He knew she was standing on her toes to kiss him like this, and he shifted one hand down to her arse to lift her.

  The little whimper she made against his mouth was enough to undo him, especially when her tongue tentatively probed at his lips. As he opened them and rewarded her boldness with a tender sortie of his own, he shifted so his leg supported more of her weight, allowing his hand freedom to caress her arse, then her side and tit once more.

  The fingers of one of her hands curled in the overlong hair at the back of his neck, while her other hand played with his collar, then his neck itself.

  When her tentative touch spread across his chest, he groaned against her lips and forced himself to pull away with a gasp.

  Saints above!

  He’d never kissed a whore with such enthusiasm before. And had never come so close to losing himself in his trewes either.

  While she still panted, her dark eyes glazed with desire, he grabbed her hand still splayed across his chest and pulled it lower. When he cupped her palm around his stiff and desperate cock, she sucked in a breath and met his gaze, her eyes wide with surprise.

  And somehow, he managed to get even harder.

  “How much, lass?” he croaked in a harsh whisper. “Ye feel this? I was wrong about ye no’ doing enough to entice a man; I’m damn near bursting. How much do ye want to wrap yer pretty lips around my cock? Or let me fuck ye up against the wall?”

  Her lips parted; her breasts heaving with each frantic breath. When her tongue darted out to swipe across her lower lip, he knew she was calculating in her head, trying to figure out how much he could afford.

  With the weight of gold in his hidden purse, he could meet nigh any amount she quoted him, and would, if it meant the chance to spend himself between her thighs!

  She was going to say aye; he knew it!

  But then she blinked, and that something in her eyes changed once again. She pushed against him, and only because it surprised him, he let her go so quickly, she stumbled backward.

  Still breathing heavily, she lifted her fingertips to he
r lips, her dark eyes wide as she stared at him with that unidentifiable look.

  Desire?

  Shame?

  Anger?

  He shook his head, reaching for her. “Lass—” he began, but she darted out of his reach.

  At the mouth of the alleyway, she paused in her flight and turned to glance back at him, pulling the shoulder of her gown back into place as she did.

  He opened his mouth to—

  What?

  Call her back?

  Apologize?

  But before he could decide, she ducked her head and was gone, lost in the mass of humanity passing their private little oasis.

  “Shite.”

  Cam’s head fell back against the wall behind him, and he winced at the thud it made. Or mayhap he was wincing at his idiocy. He’d been rejected by whores a time or two—usually with a regretful smile on their part—so why in damnation did this make his bollocks ache so fierce?

  With a sigh, he scrubbed his hand over his face and muttered, “Shite!” again. With his cock so hard, walking was going to be uncomfortable, and for the first time in a long while, he wished for his plaid.

  Lachlan would have a plaid to borrow. A Fraser one at that.

  The voice whispering inside his head had him frowning, even as he sank down on the crate and rested his elbows on his knees. He wanted to curse again, but wasn’t sure if he’d be cursing himself, or the fates.

  Lachlan.

  As of only this past week, he’d finally learned the name of the man who’d confronted him in that alley all those weeks ago, and the reason why he looked so familiar.

  He hadn’t thought of the Frasers in years; it was easier that way. When he’d met the stranger with the eerie gray eyes, Cam hadn’t once thought of his brother. But after the fight he’d helped win—the fight between his men, who’d been hired by another’s coin, and Lachlan—Cam had done his best not to think of his brother.

  ‘Twas the reason he was wandering through the worst parts of Scone, offering lessons and coin to pickpockets and whores alike.

  But even now, with his cock throbbing and his ego smarting, Cam couldn’t put the memory of those eyes—the same color he himself shared with his mother—behind him.

  His brother Lachlan was here in Scone…and was the new laird of the Frasers.

  And suddenly, Cam knew, if Lachlan was in Scone, he wanted to be far away from here. Just for a little while. Just until he could make sense of the jumble of emotions which had slammed back into him at hearing his brother’s name.

  Just until he knew if the Frasers were in good hands with Lachlan as their laird.

  Just until he knew his responsibility to them was truly over.

  Just until he could learn if Court needed his help.

  Dropping his forehead into his hands, Cam whispered another curse.

  Running again.

  He had always run; it was what he did. When life got hard, he simply found a new life. Here in Scone, he’d been trying to fix his wrongs. But it was clear he couldn’t manage to do that right now.

  He needed to get away from here, and there was only one place he knew he would find the answers he was seeking: An Torr.

  Home.

  God help him.

  Chapter 2

  Was it possible her lips still tingled?

  Her lips and…other areas?

  Rosa sat on the window seat in the solar of the Queen of Scotland, staring out over Scone and the sea of humanity. But it was only on one man her thoughts were consumed with.

  A man with piercing gray eyes and long blond hair and a smile which could melt steel. And when he issued his commands, his voice had done something deep inside her.

  Of course, she hadn’t spent the last five years with Mellie Lamond for naught. Simply knowing her teammate had been an education in itself, but Mellie had also given Rosa all sorts of pointers on desire and lust and words like cock and bollocks.

  So she might be innocent, aye, but not that innocent.

  And she knew exactly what she’d been feeling after allowing Cameron Fraser to kiss her senseless in the alleyway the day before.

  Of course, if she were honest with herself, she was the one who had initiated that kiss. But the way he had been fondling her breast, the way he had been looking at her, the way he’d spoken to her as if she was much more worldly than she really was…well, it had all made her feel valuable.

  Which was a problem these days.

  “What do you think, Rosa?” Queen Elizabeth asked.

  Her head jerked up, swinging around too quickly to seem innocent, and she didn’t bother hiding her wince.

  “About what?” she asked, trying to remember what they’d been speaking of.

  Her fellow Angel, Court, made a noise which sounded suspiciously like a grunt, but the Queen narrowed her eyes.

  “About the recent attempt on Robert’s life.”

  Ah, yes.

  Rosa closed her eyes, working her way back through the conversation going on while she’d been so distracted. It was a particular talent of hers—her memory—and would come in useful today.

  Thank the Virgin.

  “Is His Majesty certain the attack is related to the assassination attempt on ye?” She couldn’t recall the details, but she could pretend. “Could it have been a disgruntled subject?”

  Throwing up her hands, the Queen moved toward her desk. “Anything is possible, but who else would be behind the attempt, other than a disgruntled subject?”

  “Good point,” Court murmured.

  “But surely he’s faced threats like this afore?” Rosa shifted in her seat, irritated with herself because she still couldn’t focus. “There’s naught to say—”

  It was Court who interrupted her, with a frown, saying, “Rosa, Andrew of Lovat outright admitted before we killed him, that the Queen’s death would only be beneficial if Robert died as well. If a group of conspirators, noble or otherwise, wanted to put a Comyn back on the throne as Andrew had bragged, then they need Robert out of the way. And they need to ensure Elizabeth doesn’t bear any post-humous heirs.”

  “’Twould be inconvenient,” Queen Elizabeth muttered, with a roll of her eyes as she settled herself behind her desk.

  “Aye,” Rosa admitted with a sigh. “I suppose we need to treat each threat against Robert as connected to the threat against Elizabeth.”

  Why was that so hard for her to concede?

  Well, that was simple: she didn’t want there to be more threats against either of the monarchs. She wanted this entire thing to be a hoax, and she wanted Cameron Fraser to be innocent.

  But Cameron—or Cam, as Court had once known him as—had to be guilty. He was the only one left with any sort of connection his Uncle Andrew had spoken of, although even Rosa couldn’t reason the estranged Fraser’s motive.

  ‘Twas why she and her team had been out looking for the man yesterday.

  Only, she’d found him.

  And so much more.

  Focus!

  She turned to face the Queen fully, doing her best to forget the feel of his fingers on her bare skin. “Have there been any more attempts? Or any new evidence about the murder?”

  When Elizabeth looked to Court, the gruff Angel took over the briefing. “Naught more about Gillepatric’s death. Ross and I examined the chamber, and it seems as though he’d been knifed by someone who kenned him.”

  “Nae signs of struggle?” Rosa murmured.

  “None. Although he was dressed in a robe, as if meeting someone…intimately. He’d been dead for a while, by the time Mellie dragged Lachlan into the palace and told us Gillepatric had paid to have them killed.” Her hand tightened around her ever-present bow as she shifted away from the wall. “Seems the Red Hand nae longer takes orders from Cam. He would never have allowed murder-for-hire when he was—”

  Desperate to change the subject to anything besides they’re main suspect, Rosa blurted, “And nae one has seen aught suspicious in the palace?”

&
nbsp; Court glanced questioningly at the Queen, who sighed. “With Charlotte abed with the babe, our communication channels are in disarray, are they not?” She shook her head as she reached for a scroll on her desk. “Liam and his guard did intercept another intruder the night before the attack on Melisandre and Lachlan.”

  Court stepped forward and snatched up the scroll, then opened it and began reading. Her eyes moved slowly, having come into the skill of reading only within the last five years, at their leader Charlotte’s insistence. Finally, with a muttered curse, she tossed it to Rosa and pierced the Queen with a glare.

  “Ross mentioned naught of this, but he wouldnae have been on duty that eve. The intruder was killed too early to have been Gillepatric’s murderer.”

  The Queen folded her hands on her lap and raised a brow at Court’s accusatory tone, as if to state she wasn’t at fault. As Court muttered a curse and looked away, Rosa lifted the scroll and pretended to read it.

  “Rosa?”

  At the Queen’s prompting, the youngest Angel forced a smile and gave the judgment she knew her Monarch was looking for. “If we assume this attempt was related to the first, but not to Gillepatric’s murder, then whoever is behind the entire scheme hasn’t given up.”

  “And it could be related to the murder,” Court pointed out as she folded her arms, “but ‘twould mean another assailant. ‘Tis why Ross isn’t letting the Queen so much as bathe without a guard.”

  “Luckily, my Angels count as guards,” the Queen murmured with a wry grin.

  Rosa frowned down at the parchment she held open in her lap. The words blurred across the background, frustrating her. No matter how many times she pulled out one of her precious books, the verdict didn’t improve: her eyesight was failing her.

  And as soon as her fellow Angels—and the Queen!—discovered her decline, she’d become useless to them. Her spot on the team was guaranteed by her wits, her ability to understand the greater picture and her remarkable memory. Her entire life, she’d been able to remember things she’d read, almost perfectly.

  But now, how could she hope to have a place on the team, when she couldn’t read to remember anything?