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

by Caroline Lee

It was Elizabeth who shook them all, when she lifted her head to meet Charlotte’s eyes. “If that is the case, then this person would have plans to harm Robert as well.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened on a whispered curse, and her gaze flew to Rosa’s in question. The youngest woman shrugged once more.

  “I cannae divine the future, Charlotte, but can only guess at the likely paths. If there’s a man out there who believes he has claim to the throne, then killing Elizabeth before she bares a son, and getting rid of Robert soon after… Well, that would be a masterful strategy.”

  “ ’Getting rid of?’ ” Elizabeth repeated with a shudder.

  Mellie lifted her finger to her mouth once more, but this time to chew on a fingernail, a nervous habit leftover from childhood. When she realized she was doing it, she didn’t bother stopping; these women were her friends, and she only allowed her bad habits to show around friends.

  Charlotte reached for a new piece of vellum. “I will alert the King’s guards. I’m sure he’s heard about yesterday’s attack already, but he needs to ken about our theory as well.”

  “Wait,” Elizabeth commanded. “First, let us determine some suspects.”

  “It cannae be a coincidence the attack came during the Fraser’s audience,” Mellie offered, finally dropping her hand to her lap.

  Charlotte scoffed. “ ’Twould be foolhardy of the laird to link himself so boldly to an attack.”

  “Unless he guessed us to come to such a conclusion,” Rosa pointed out.

  “If the Fraser of Lovat guessed at any of this…” The Queen’s words trailed off as she gestured around the small room to the Angels and her spy-mistress, then shook her head. “We would be in danger indeed.”

  “I doubt he did, Yer Majesty.”

  “Aye,” Mellie agreed with Rosa. “There’s nae way a man like Lachlan Fraser would suspect us—any of us—to be more than pretty faces.”

  The Queen hummed skeptically. “Pretty faces?”

  With a lewd smile, Mellie lifted her hands to cup her breasts. “I doubt he was looking at my face, Yer Majesty.”

  But instead of chuckling at the jest, the Queen eyed Mellie thoughtfully. “You really suspect Lachlan Fraser?”

  Immediately serious once more, Mellie dropped her hands and nodded. “The Grants told us he was a traitor, just like his da. The attack came during his audience with ye. And the assassin called him by name when asked who employed him.”

  Rosa was shaking her head, ticking off points on her fingers. “The Grant warrior might’ve said whatever he thought ye wished to hear. The timing of the attack could be coincidence. And the assassin might’ve been calling out to Ross, who was kneeling beside him—we all agreed on that. De omnibus dubitandum.”

  Charlotte hummed. “So ye don’ believe the Fraser is behind the attack, Rosalind?”

  Pursing her lips, the youngest Angel tilted her head to stare upward, as she always did when she considered all possible angles of a problem. The others knew her well enough to stay silent, but finally, her shoulders slumped with a sigh.

  “Nay,” she admitted, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes in surrender. “He is still our likeliest suspect.”

  “I want him followed,” Elizabeth snapped out. “If he meets with another assassin, or has any other dealings with this Red Hand organization, I want—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Mellie’s offer surprised them all, including herself.

  She hadn’t thought through her words, and when Rosa frowned at her, Mellie couldn’t think of a single reason why she should be the one to trail the Fraser. But when Charlotte objected, Mellie felt herself bristle.

  “Absolutely no’,” the pregnant woman said, rifling through the rosters on her desk. “Murtaugh, or his brother—”

  “—will stick out like mutton in Lent.” Mellie pushed herself to her feet, the embroidery dangling forgotten from one fist. “I can do it. He’ll no’ suspect me.”

  Charlotte’s gaze turned speculative. “He is a good-looking man…is that it?”

  No matter what abilities she had, Mellie would never be as smart as Rosa, nor as brave and strong as Court. Long ago, she’d accepted her role in their team and knew she was good at it.

  She understood people.

  Aye, she enjoyed the pleasure found in a man’s arms, and aye, she knew how to capitalize on a man’s desires. It was a role she understood, and one which had saved their arses more than once.

  But there were times she wished the others might see her as more than simply a whore.

  Tears pricked at the back of Mellie’s eyes, and her other hand curled into a fist. But she had years of practice of not letting anyone see how much their casual assumptions might hurt. So she swallowed down her bitterness and lifted her chin, saying what she knew they all expected.

  “Aye. Mayhap I’ll find a way to make him confess.”

  Still, Charlotte shook her head. “ ’Tis too dangerous—”

  “Let her do it.”

  Mellie wasn’t the only one surprised by the Queen’s command—and her support. Charlotte’s scowl swung to her friend, but Elizabeth was gazing at Mellie in speculation.

  “Melisandre is a strong young woman, and I believe she can handle the Fraser.”

  Charlotte sucked in a slow breath, then made a sound suspiciously like a harrumph. But surprisingly, she didn’t make a joke about handling the Fraser.

  Had Mellie’s heart not been pounding against her ribs, her throat burning in bitterness for a situation she was responsible for, she might’ve made the joke herself.

  It was what she did, after all.

  “Fine,” the pregnant woman finally snapped, then released a heavy sigh. “But Murtaugh and Tearlach will be yer backup in case ye cannae tail the Fraser.” She lifted a stylus, but before she could make a note on her roster, she pointed the implement at Mellie. “But ye’ll take care. Swear it, Mellie. If the Fraser is responsible for this assassin, only the Devil himself kens what the man is capable of.”

  Slowly, not quite believing they had agreed—and not quite sure what had made her volunteer in the first place—Mellie swallowed and nodded. “I swear,” she managed to say, around the lump in her throat.

  Thrusting herself to her feet, Elizabeth nodded firmly. “Then it’s settled. I will send the King a missive with the news myself. Rosalind, you and Charlotte will keep your minds whirling in case there’s more suspects.”

  Rosa jumped to her feet and curtsied prettily. “And I’ll keep her seated too, Yer Majesty.”

  “Good,” Elizabeth said with a small smile, glancing at her best friend. “And as soon as that babe decides he is ready, you will call for me and the midwives.”

  “Aye, Yer Majesty” Charlotte said with a roll of her eyes and a deep sigh. “Liam will likely be useless, after all.”

  “They always are,” Elizabeth agreed. “And Melisandre?”

  Mellie straightened her shoulders, her fingers digging into the silk of her gown to hide their shaking. “Aye, my Queen?”

  The older woman held her gaze. “Good luck.”

  Chapter 1

  Scotland, 1320

  Laird Lachlan Fraser of Lovat had a headache, but that was no surprise. He always had a headache when he was forced to visit Scone.

  Was it the gossip? The incessant, meaningless chatter? The perfumes the women and courtiers drenched themselves with?

  Or was it merely yesterday’s blow to his head?

  He wasn’t sure, but the pressure had begun building behind his eyes almost the moment they’d arrived three days ago, and yesterday’s debacle had only made it worse.

  Gillepatric had spent most of the journey to Scone lecturing Lachlan about his duties as Fraser laird, and how important it was to appear at his best in front of the Queen.

  As if Lachlan were a mere lad. As if he’d never attended court before!

  I met Alice here, did I no’?

  Aye, one more reason to hate the place.


  Were all the women in the Queen’s retinue as cold and heartless as Alice Stewart had been?

  Likely not, but that didn’t stop Lachlan from disliking them.

  Sighing, he pinched at the bridge of his nose, hoping the effort would make the headache go away.

  It didn’t.

  Still, he forced himself to breath deeply as he crossed the courtyard toward the gate, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of his sword. When the guards on duty eyed him with suspicion, he lifted his hand in greeting and attempted a smile.

  Though that didn’t work either.

  The men—both wearing royal badges—fingered their own blades and glared at him, as he slipped, alone, out of the Scone fortress, which housed the royal family and all of their hangers-on.

  Honestly, he couldn’t blame them.

  If Lachlan thought court was bad, then the last day had been four times worse.

  He’d spent the hours being glared at by everyone from the servants to his own men. His old friend, Ross, had returned to the Queen’s service after Lachlan had released him, but hadn’t even bothered to come by Lachlan’s assigned chambers to update him.

  Mayhap he hadn’t been able.

  Yesterday morning, right in the middle of Lachlan’s impassioned vow of fealty to the Queen of Scotland, a man dressed as a servant had thrown down his cups and slammed Lachlan in the side of the head with a tray.

  That had only been the beginning of the pandemonium, as the man had then used Lachlan’s distraction to pull a blade and leap for the monarch. Having left his blade at the door of the throne room to show his loyalty—and his head ringing from the blow—Lachlan had been damn near useless.

  Still, he would’ve jumped without a thought to put himself between his Queen and the assassin, had Gillepatric not stopped him.

  The bearded man’s grip on his arm had been enough to swing Lachlan about, and just as he’d opened his mouth to ask his mother’s advisor what in damnation he thought he was doing, a shout went up from the crowd.

  Lachlan had pulled away in time to see the assassin go down with an arrow in his chest, and Ross—along with a strangely dressed woman, carrying a bow—racing for the attacker. The other guards had been trying to clear the throne room, but Lachlan stood firm for the time it took to hear Ross question the dying man.

  When asked who’d sent him, the man had said only, “Fraser,” as he reached for Ross and left a large bloody handprint on Lachlan’s friend’s chest.

  Cursing, Lachlan had stepped forward then, determined to assure Her Majesty his clan was innocent of these charges, but Gillepatric had tugged on him most insistently.

  “Come along, milord,” the older man had hissed in his ear. “ ’Tis enough excitement for one morn, and ye’ll have time to plead yer case when things have calmed down, and the Queen is thinking properly.”

  The suggestion had been wise, and with a sigh, Lachlan swallowed down his anger and allowed himself to be shooed out of the room.

  Mayhap there was a reason Gillepatric had been a Fraser advisor for so long. He’d stood at Lachlan’s father’s side, then at his elder brother Hamish’s side. Now that Lachlan had the role of laird—which he’d never aspired to—the older man had been spending more time with Lachlan’s mother, who claimed he was a brilliant advisor.

  But Lachlan had always preferred his own council, to that of a man so obviously stuck in the past. He was grateful Ross had obtained a group of advisors for him as well, but had chosen to only bring Gillepatric with him, not expecting this meeting to be anything more than routine.

  Still, his suggestion to retreat had had some merit, and Lachlan returned to his chambers, fully expecting a summons, which never came. Instead, he’d spent the hours being peered at and muttered about.

  Even now, away from the palace and among the commoners of Scone, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

  But I’m away from the judging eyes of court, and that’s what matters.

  He breathed deep, noting how different the scents were out here, away from the perfumes and incense and candles of the palace. The acrid smells coming from the tanner’s mixed with the tantalizing whiffs of fresh-baked bread from the baker’s a few doors down.

  Here in Scone, the buildings were packed closer together than at home, and while there was some delineation of professions and order to the city’s design, everywhere Lachlan looked, he saw chaos.

  It was certainly interesting, wasn’t it?

  In the central square, merchant apprentices were calling out their wares, while cart drivers yelled at one another over who deserved the right-of-way. Housewives haggled with clerks over the price of fish, and one portly man cursed loudly and shook his fist at an urchin, who was running away with a stolen apple.

  Chaos, indeed.

  Simone would love this.

  The thought caused his lips to twitch upwards, though just slightly

  Aye, she would indeed. She would have been standing there beside him, her hand in his, breathlessly scanning the crowds and trying to decide which direction to head to first.

  Lachlan’s eyes lit on a cart selling woven ribbons. Likely, Simone would’ve tugged him in that direction as soon as she’d seen it.

  Well, he admitted to himself, chuckling slightly, a pretty ribbon would make a fine gift.

  Mayhap then she’d forgive him for leaving her back home, while he went off “on an adventure,” as she’d accused.

  Some adventure.

  Out here in the square, his headache had lessened, despite the noise. Likely because he had no need to pretend to be someone he wasn’t.

  Likely because no one suspected him of treason.

  He reached the ribbon seller and offered the man a tight greeting as he perused his wares. A long ribbon of deep blue caught Lachlan’s eye, reminding him of his loch at sunset. He pulled it down, and when the seller told him the price, reached into the pouch at his waist for the coin.

  Their business complete, he folded the ribbon to slip into the pouch, but then froze, sure he felt eyes on him.

  Slowly he turned, scanning the crowd around him.

  He was a warrior, aye, and would fight if necessary. By His Blood, he’d had to do so often enough, even as a lad. Even when his older brother Hamish had been laird, the Frasers had been in more battles and feuds than had been healthy.

  But since the Bruce had secured Scottish independence—since Lachlan had become laird—his clan had been focused on rebuilding. On peace.

  While he’d prefer not to fight at all, he’d still defend himself. If this itchy feeling between his shoulder blades meant an attack was coming, his sword would be ready.

  But as he searched, he saw nothing suspicious. No one watched him; no one even stood still in the sea of chaos, which would attract his attention.

  Nay, everything seemed normal.

  “What ails ye?” the ribbon seller snapped.

  Lachlan shook himself. Back home, no one spoke to him that way anymore, and all would refer to him in some way, either as “Laird” or “milord” or even just plain “Fraser.”

  But he’d never wanted those titles, and it was nice, occasionally, to be snapped at like a normal man. So he shook his head, took a deep breath, and nodded to the seller.

  “Naught ails me. Thank ye.”

  The man nodded gruffly in return. “Yer lady will like it, methinks. Watch yer purse in the crowds, aye?”

  Lachlan moved on, considering the man’s words.

  He’d been to Scone and other cities more than a few times, and knew to keep a watch on his valuables. A man of his size, carrying a sword so openly, likely had little to worry about, but still…

  He ducked into the shadows between two buildings—a sort of alleyway, with a stream of refuse sluggishly crawling down the center—and adjusted his belt. He moved his pouch to his left hip, beside his sword, to make it harder for a thief to grab. Then he settled his hand atop his hilt and straightened his shoulders, intent on rejoining t
he mass of humanity in the square.

  And he would’ve done so, had he not felt a blade between his shoulders.

  Damnation.

  “Turn around slow,” came the growled command behind him.

  Lachlan cocked his head. “Nay, I don’ think so.”

  “Ye donae get to think, whoreson! Turn around, and let’s see that purse ye’re being so free with.”

  One hand on the hilt of his sword, Lachlan placed the other on his opposite hip and stared out at the people rushing by him.

  They were close enough to hear him if he called out, but would they help him?

  Internally, he shrugged, knowing he wouldn’t call out even if he needed to. He’d not put anyone else in danger, if he could help it.

  In a curious tone, he asked, “Surely ye ken all I have to do is step forward, out of yer reach? I could kill ye then.”

  When the blade pressed into his flesh, Lachlan winced. If he bled all over this shirt, Gillepatric would find out, then Mother would find out, and he’d never hear the end of it.

  “Fine,” he sighed, then stepped forward.

  But instead of hurrying away, he turned, as the thief wanted, and faced the man.

  Or rather…men.

  There were two: a small skinny one with a ratty beard, and a barrel-chested oaf, who glared as if he didn’t oft need to speak.

  He raised a brow, silently prodding for the next step in this bizarre dance between them.

  The smaller man nodded, pleased. “We could’ve just slit yer purse strings, ye ken, had ye not moved it.” He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers encouragingly. “So just untie it again and hand it over.”

  Lachlan thought of the blue ribbon in his pouch, and how much Simone would like it.

  “Nay,” he repeated, “I don’ think I will.”

  The man’s pleasant look faded into a scowl. “Then ye can die. Hodan?”

  The great bull of a man stepped forward with a growl as Lachlan’s knuckles tightened around the hilt of his sword. The blade was already half out of the scabbard when a piercing whistle echoed through the alley, and both cutpurses froze.

  From the shadows at the other end of the alley, a male figure, anger radiating with every stride, stormed toward them. “Rhys! Hodan! Ye abandon yer posts for thieving?”